Metafictional Ventilations of Times Aligned in Passions House

Celine Flux

Copyright © 2011 by Celine Flux.

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4568-9254-8 Ebook 978-1-4568-9255-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:Xlibris Corporation 0-800-644-6988www.xlibrispublishing.co.uk Orders@xlibrispublishing.co.uk 301869

Contents

And Some Men Lab Trial Fromgrammatika Challinga .......................17

Oh My God! I Bought Her Album . . . Then Her Religion!! ..............20

Yea, I Said It; No Movie Can Impressmoi Anymore!..........................25

One Rom-Com Too Many ................................................................29

If Old Ye English Evolves . . . Why Can’t Literature Yo? .....................32

“The More Petentious, The More Apprehensive The Sentence” .........34

Digest This You Noble Dolphin ........................................................37

The Day I Found Out Nicole Kidmanhad The “Hell On Earth” Lp .............................................................41

The Remains Of Pain, Needles,Or Poetry .........................................43

Obviously The One Who Disprovesthat, Blows Immortal .................45

TraUmatized By The Revelation Sheswitched To Ortow Pylit ............47

Transcendental Pastimes Overlapethistential Dilemas ........................52

Young Skinny And Wrong .................................................................55

A Variable Perspective Of Cloudcuckooland ......................................57

So What’s Pre-Natal Pleasure? (Whatever It Is, Use It Properly-Post) .........................................62

Dont Touch Me Pre-Herodotus, Or I’ll Bleed ...................................64

I Can Do It All By Myself,Coz I’m Superman (Godless?) ..................66

Streets Keep Callin’ (But Its Outlook Is Not Important!) ...................70

No One Keeps It Real, So, You’reforced Into The Fakeness Tet ..........72

Veggie Burgers Cooking OverfosSilized Fuel .....................................75

Compliments Of That Complimentary Me .......................................77

Compressed Text, Dense, Like Imported Ganges ...............................81

Caution: If U Thought Of It, So Didthe Devil! (Counter Please) ......85

Exellence . . .? Possible, Not Price Of Knowledge, Perfection Included .....................................................................87

Real Zaggingz Omnify Theories ........................................................90

Soz Mate, No Effeminacy, No Acceptance. Company Policy, Sorry ................................................................91

So Reds And Brunets Really Come Off As More Interesting . . .? ......93

“They Can Reach Our Bases In Cyprus” (Hey Remember That Sh-T?) ......................................................95

Busy Blackboard Mind-Mapping, So Only Portions Of Love ............99

What You Call Networking, I Call Giving Brain .............................101

Exploring Hologramic Aspects Of Consciously Solving Problems . . . (Huh?) .....................................................105

Saturnalia Sez It Won’t Work Without Debauchery (Or Air Cover) ..........................................................................108

Chin Up, Don’t Drown, Reach For You . . . Promise .......................112

Huh, Now Do It Sober! (Oh! & That’s Why They Want A Free Press!) ...........................115

Yea But . . . Duke Of Lancastria Digs That About Her, So All Hail ................................................................................118

Nearest William Wallace Knows To Gully/Gazaheart Iz 8-Mile .......119

Burn Who’s Books? (Cheeky Cheekea!) ...........................................122

7-Density Lightbeing Of Wuqitao Transmanifest Personally ............124

“But Ya Toast Gotta Ring If You Wanna Live Like A Young King” ...............................................127

Corperate Tennis Shoes And Shiny Tracksuits .................................131

Miss! Who Else Has Semetic Features? ............................................135

Slangmananov Stripes & The Artical Musclehead/Mini-Muscle-Ed Soundclash ..................................141

Crossfade’s Mosquito Net Where Ryu & Ken Deafen 2 Celtic Tigresses ...................................................145

Polished Assumstions Over Gorrilla Angles Of Cyclical Bogey ........149

Oi! I’ve Worked It Out . . . Infrastructure!!! .....................................152

Rudeboy, The Truth Wont Fit Your HeAd .......................................155

Why Natural Laws Punish: (Demonic Activities? . . . Armageddeon . . .? Bring It!) ..............157

Granduers Of Delusion, Dishonesty, And Raw Food Riots (I Mean Diets) ...........................................................................160

“Multiply Myself Ten Times Standing Next To Zero” ......................163

Uncultured Sophism Anyone . . .? (Socratic Method Hurts Those Nearest) ....................................164

Alone Again In Full Bloom (Finally) ...............................................168

The Supreme Service Sector (Where Every Event Is Ironic) .............171

Oh, I Mean Strings Define Chaos Where Even Inconceivable Concepts Exist ....................................................173

Dramatize, Mediasize, Then Weaponize ThoSe Bionic Yogahips ..............................................................175

Sticks And Stones, Such A Long Way To Swim ...............................177

El Binding Thread Hypothos; Lonely? . . . Or Just Subtle? ..............179

William Hobbit On Abolishion (Hood Indo-Intelligentsia, Take F##Kin’ Notes) ........................183

Tetsuya: Lose The “I” Within Everyone’s Odyssey ...........................188

Distant Alignment Of Telescopic Lunacy ........................................190

Rule2# Never Fall In Love With Folksinging Lablemates.................193

Unrecognized Nations Marketed So Well . . .! Thinkin’ A Defecting (Not) .......................................................195

Just Cool, In The Business Mr Err . . . It Was Too Easy ...................196

Listen, ThaT ***** Was Dissin’ Listen, Rewind It! ...........................200

Die Drunk ......................................................................................202

Elixir Of Invisible Virtue .................................................................204

Live From The Gated Community (Wide Of The Mark Pt1) ..........207

Stop; The Observer Changes Properties Of The Observed! ..............208

Yea, I Get It, But I Don’t Rate It! (Wide Of The Mark Pt2) ............211

Religious Upgrade For The Sexy Savage ..........................................212

This Aint For The Converted ..........................................................215

Woolf Delivering Barberous Races To The Blessings Of Civilisation ............................................................216

Hanging My Washing Out There Like Jerry Maguire ......................219

Maya (Our Teacher) Spites One’s Best Intentions! ...........................223

Apply Snowflakes To Macrominicosms ............................................224

The Sucka-Free Sucka And The Quiet Desperado Lass ....................228

Quixotic Extremities Of Existence ...................................................231

Impinging Joints, Trapped Nerves, More Pride, More Prejudging .......................................................................236

Might As Well Face It You’re Pretending To Luuuve (Eggshells Pt. 1) .........................................................................242

A Blonde Momento In Risk-Free Romances ....................................246

Genetik Trauma For The Nuclei ......................................................248

The Turtle-Sparrow Axiom ..............................................................250

Elaborate Scrollz For The Sincere Catholic ......................................252

Outnumbered In Polls, Naked In Ballots, Despite Global Majority ............................................................254

But See . . . This Was A Different Game ..........................................259

Unmodified Servants In The Habitat O-The Senses ........................264

This Is My Weedface (Devotional Servitude: Angstless?) .................266

Sucking Historical Horses**T Off Background Radiation ...............270

U Down Play It, I Go There ............................................................272

Move, Or Ill Leave No Choice But To Make You ............................274

Bitch I’m Explaining The Way To My Heart! ..................................276

“Satta Wid Ya Ball And Chain” (Tales Of The Hockley Handcuff ).............................................280

Labelled-Ego, And Dolodelf, Well . . . It’s The Plane Of Lovers? .....283

From Up Here, I Can Pinpoint D Exact Location Of Space! ...........287

Why Vote With Bills Of A Child-Grabbing Ring? (I Dont Get It) ..........................................................................289

All Dressed Up 4 A Packet Of Noodles So Engage The Core ...........291

Let’s Not Forget The Philistines Right To Water (Tea In This Case) .....................................................................294

Satin Sex Retrievals Of Erogenous Velvet Twirl ................................297

Do Jamaican Flags Installed Make Your Car Theft-Proof?................299

Don’t Know Better? Then Suffer You Don’t . . . The Mission Of Moths ..............................................................303

The Kernal-Konsept Flowed, But The Rest Was Agony ...................309

The Actual Life Of A Modern Miscivilization Critic .......................313

Iz Dat Y U Shut Me OUt, Coz U Dont Belive? ...............................315

Rains Gonna Come Lady . . . You, Cant, Duck It ...........................317

Shall We Just Accept He’s British (Plc) And Exploit The Fact? .........321

“Babies Wid Flies Around Dey Cheeks It’s Hard To Go To Sleep” ..........................................................324

Then You’ve Got The Unreachables (O.A.A.M.) .............................326

“Wait A Sec; Good Guys Don’t Kiss Like That?” “Oh Yes They F***Ing Do!” ......................................................329

The Theoretical Reality Of Atheism ................................................334

Why They Banned Kite Flying ........................................................338

Homeowner, Homeowner, Scream It From The Rooftops, Homeowner! .............................................................................341

“I Go Through All This, B4 U Wake Up” (AsK Bjork Then) ...........343

I’m Mr Universe . . . Some, Body, Murck Me ..................................346

“Murk, Me, Pillzzzz . . . No, Body, Cares, Girl, Friend” ...................348

Requiem Love Eternum; Too Careful . . . Smash, Everything ..........351

For Morpheus Trilogies And Hippies Who Didn’t Turn Back! .........353

The Distinctions Of Evolving Species..............................................357

Esteemed Poets . . .? Be Specific! ......................................................360

Scrapyards In Ascot (Plus Admin Fee; Corperate Charity Only) ......363

Cell Floorwork To Ambient Birdsong Repressing Nomadic Tendencies .................................................................366

Space-Debris Passing In The Night .................................................372

Hip-Hop HipPies Clash Gangless Gangmembers 4 Rap’s Subculture ........................................................................374

And Seattle’s Vertabre Sez ‘You Gonna Twist Me Or What?’ ............378

“Then You Sit And Rot . . . Neva Even Got A Fair Shot” ................380

Yes! . . . Can Sense Why, But, Cant Verbalize The Sensations ..........384

This Millenium Either Come With Us Or Go With Them, It’s That Simple ...............................................389

We’ve Just Received Some Breaking News! And Scientist’s Say . . . ...............................................................393

Hey, I Fed That Philosophy Girl, That Culture Ignited This One! ................................................397

O Cognative Saturation, She Is The One ........................................403

One Rap Taboo Left . . . Though Rappers Have The Biggest Egos (Bang Bang)! .............................................................................405

Familiar Fruit, Democraticly Elected, 4+ Qur’ans Ago ....................411

Def Frets Change Everything (I Guess Right?) ................................416

With No Mahatma’s To Query . . . Conduct The Yogic Experiment Yourself! ..................................418

Masta-Authors Influencing Patterns, Did I Trace? ............................423

About Sit-Ups And Supersex Then: Artistic Or Perverted Expression? .............................................429

Or Is It, Less Sex, More Affection . . .? ............................................435

A Clinical Study Of Subpassion ......................................................441

Oblongata Nerveforce Transmittion, Cheek 2 Cheek . . . At A FuneRal ............................................................................445

(Reah) Janjaweed Burners Are British (Rah)! ...................................448

Retreat, Surrender, And Silence .......................................................450

Athletic, Or . . . Bumper . . .? Buff . . . Or Fit . . .? ..........................452

Lavener Toes, Cinnammon Seedbags, B4 She Thought The Earth Was Flat .........................................456

“Doin This 2 Long 2 Not Come Strong” (Especially On Mixtapes) ..........................................................460

“We All Thaught We Made It, But Somewhere, Sh-T Backfired” ........................................................................463

Now, For My Next Trick . . . Reveal The Unblemished (Exactly Girl!) ............................................................................466

Y They’ll Never Revolt (Or Fully Join Europe) ................................468

The Art Is, Hold, Then Describe . . . That Is The Art Part Right . . .? .................................................473

Darwin On “Worms” (Now Stop Blaming Him Will Ya!) ...............478

“I’m In Big Trouble Man, And I’m Coming To Your House” ...........481

Seattle, Can’t Wait Until Im Ugly Too .............................................486

Is Bugs Bunny From Bx Or Bk? ......................................................490

It Takes A Woman Like You, To Get Though, To Deep Down In Moi..............................................................498

“Inconcistency Of The Text Makes It Complexed” ..........................503

Simon Sez Fall Back, Eat, Dare Hopelessnes (But Then, When Iz Enough . . .?) ............................................506

Cerebro-Spinal Council Between Seattle’s Conciousness & Omni’s Ego .....................................................509

Aristotle On DEmocracy (Yet The Charge Of Paedophilia Remains) ................................513

Bet Ya Monthly Tube Ticket And Ya Bottom Dolla .........................518

Pen Predator, Excetera (Yea Right) ...................................................522

You Call That Submission Challinga? (It’s There But You Go Alone) ...................................................526

Mastered That Art In 95’ Now I Am So Bored :( .............................530

This Gratification, Horny Woman, Is Avalible To The Pig And The Knob!!......................................536

“This Is What It Sounds Like When You’re Caught In A Whirlwind” ................................................540

“The Origins Of This High Culture Are A Complete Mystery” .......544

If Child’s Imunized For Mmr Then Gets Mumps what was the Injection? .............................................................548

How Many Suffragetts Wore Mosleys Blackshirts? ...........................551

Necro, Dmx & 50cent Were Originally Onyx Members . . . Consider That! .....................................................553

“Well Tonight Thank God Its Theeeem, Insteeeead Of Yooooou!” ...........................................................556

Writers Read Between The Lines . . . Rappers, Read Between The Ryhmes! .....................................................559

And You Shall Teach Them Dilligently To Your Children! ...............564

Further Trials, Funds, Errors,Research, And Development ..............568

Matadors Unlawful Assembly Of Mutual Arisings ...........................571

Punctual Cleanfreaks And Bondgirlswith Muddy ManoeUvers .......575

More Like A Fibre Ripping Addiction (Yogamat, Feel The Burn) ....578

Final O.A.A.M Jigsaw: Just Let Them Float . . . ..............................580

13

I’d like to thank: Internal research docs of Sukadeva Gosvami and Lord Sri Krsna which diluted its way into all post-Kemetic/Tantric/Vedic systems of living, Tibetsumoto and the rest of my family, the

incalculable food (most perfectly edible) decomposing under gumlines plus in the landfill amongst all those obsolete consoles, my spirillectual

opposition, musical artforms I’ve outgrown (bar intellectual artists mentioned), middle-class-guilt that made it’s way to the lower orders,

Parallel Shadowless, maya, fledgling culture vultures, and all those wasted I love you’s.

15

Yet the moral of this dream (Tet) is . . . Do not observe lifestyle lessonsof cultural newcomers . . . obviously xXx.

17

. . . AND SOME MEN LAB TRIAL

FROMGRAMMATIKA CHALLINGA

Once, enclosed within an art appreciation cycle (but trying to get out), a ten year one, there dwelt six living entities bound by laws of material nature moving as individuals inside a complete whole.

Constantly engaged in profit-minded service this handful of living beings—it should be mentioned—had read the right books, but, seen from the window of this tale, in totally the wrong order. One of these transient, presently earthbound beings was Omni and his girlfriend/ shrink was Neon Light.

Neon, working late tying up some loose ends, planned to surprise Omni and Nivja [Niv’ya] with his favourite, a triple cheese-on-triple-cheese (with extra grilled cheese and kidney beans!) on a dingy-sized pizza big enough for three of them to share. If she stayed over, then from Blackfriars it’d be easy for her to walk into Tri Kilo before customized markets opened.

Neon—(too bad . . . nice lass . . . real shame)—was at a great point in her life now after being led astray, finding her way back . . . slowly. She loved her job, loved hanging out with boyfriend and old chum at their shared flat, and, of course, doing what expendable income brackets can permit her to do in and around the pricey zone—which of the most frequent: replace bathroom cosmetics raided by Omni, wine for borderline alkie Toltec, and upgrades via some generic decree to opt into an electronic arms race. But gradually now, she was beginning to feel like the point of life where you waited for something to happen, was passing, and the best part which included her three friends, was yet to come. Only one more emotion-gate needed bolting; she hadn’t spoken to her annoying parents in ages; stalemate.

Whenever her father called to say he’d touched down holding discussions nearby, especially at his consulting house, the Analyses Of Finite Commodities Affiliates—a large consultancy house for selected fiscal members in Immortal Approachville—she always made sure she

18

Celine Flux

was out of the area, or previously engaged, getting her best friend Nivja to cover (to Niv’s half-amazement at the length of this family feud and half-presumption that it would only continue unless she had a proper one-on-one with her mother). Yes, the time had come for a truce in the parent-daughter war which she first initiated, and now, it seemed all involved were softening with age so sit down talks were fast becoming inevitable.

Their final camel’s back incident, some years ago, came about when she ducked out of Repliversity, because of pre-romanticized ideas of it being some ridged academics sanctum of literature, where one could successfully transmigrate from apprentice to master. When she got to Repli, the one in west Zone1 and supposedly rated fourth in the country, it became apparent that this was not to be the case. Reawakening, Neon returned back from family ponderings of yesteryear, refocused her eyes to turn off her CPU, and prepared to leave work.

Freakishly, at the same time Vienna was hailing a black cab, with Niv’s brother and workmate to Neon, Nick, following, watching-then-tracking behind from a safe distance. The cab’s on duty light came on as it pulled over so Nick ran back to his own car with a head full of determined spears, ready to pounce with questions just as soon as she reached her destination; a destination that Nick was unaware of; his levels of suspicion were beginning to reach a plateau. In separate vehicles and a few cars apart they entered Tri Kilo. She stopped outside the Shadowless Towers east-facing car park entrance. It was now his levels of suspicion reached its peak! Eyes up, just over sleet on the roof she paid the driver, and then at full height, cab chugging away, she arched forward, carefully from shoulder to shoulder looking around, bulky lapels high, covering her cheeks.

Since their blazing row in Blood Diamond the sky had completely darkened for the night, and the spotless streets, usually busy with brokers and traders rushing back and forth across squares were completely empty.

She left the kerb and went over to one of the large air-carrier-sized metal shutters sealing Shadowless off from the outside world. Holding her bag to the light, mumbling numbers with a pulsating key she began to tamper with the flashing digilock.

Frowning, Nick watched what he could from his parked car, battling with Mr P Actience, undecided on what step to take next. He grabbed

19

. . . AnD SOMe Men lAB TRiAl FROMGRAMMATiKA CHAllinGA

his moby balancing the two merits of: phoning her (to scream that he was fifty meters behind and practically psychotic), against what this Mr P Atience was whispering in his mind: advising that he first, wait and see why in Krsna’s paramantra was she entering his place of work when

731 Filter Systems was down the block, and, why she was using a key thought up until a heartbeat ago, impossible to be in her possession. But see now, this was a different game linked to their ongoing rows across town, and he wanted confirmation of exactly what she was playing at there as the fibre optic interface—the only light anywhere near the shutters—illuminated her steamy breath. Zenfro for a moment longer he just observed, thinking, with Vienna, trying to look as nonchalant as possible in her unwieldy dark coat and handbag, stepping under, by now, rising shutters, into the darkness of the car park.

20

OH MY GOD! I BOUGHT HER ALBUM . . .

THEN HER RELIGION!!

Meanwhile half-way up, daydream fully over now, ready to go, Neon grabbed her stuff and walked through the many racks of workstations, saying goodbye to the international office cleaners and the two Upper floors reduced night security, both long bellied, stood complimenting monotony at their respective posts on the way out. As Neon high up, was making her way to call a lift, busy familiarizing herself with the hugely dimmed environment downstairs, street lights barely lighting up the wall and cars far ahead to the left, Vienna, had found signs, directing her to the same lift shaft, taking a few steps, then squinting around to look for the next sign.

Just moments later noodle-kneed and apprehensive, Nick took a deep breath at the steering wheel to calm down before stepping into the street. Neon leaving the workfloor buttoned her coat, breached the swinging double gates leading out of the work floor while Vienna, began, one after another, to carefully follow to the final wall markings pointing toward the lifts.

By this time Nick taking care not to get nabbed, had hoisted himself up out of his car and was walking over to one of the ground floor shutters. When he arrived he turned, guardedly looking around him, then, side-stepped over to the digilock with a tense, stiff stance.

Neon cuddled her bag, swinging it round in front so she could unzip it, thinking of rekindled friendship and food. Vienna on the other hand slowly approached the lift, as Nick, way over at the other end of the parking complex was selecting from his bunch, the right key.

The lift Vienna had called arrived, doors opening, splitting in two. Neon’s tummy was growling with hunger as she walked further along the narrow walkway, entering a second door leading to the auxiliary car park lifts. Nick had by now inserted the right digikey. He looked up as the car park gate began to grind itself open. When Vienna’s shiny lift doors

21

OH MY GOD! i BOuGHT HeR AlBuM . . . THen HeR ReliGiOn!!

separated she stepped in. Excited, she pressed grade 4, suspending all movement while taken up. Nick behind, had quietly stepped under the gate and into the car park, occupied by trepidation. Neon, hungry, now tired and drowsy also, arrived at the lifts just like any other work night pressing the button, in so doing summoning the lift. Vienna approached Janitor Level 4. She got out and began to slowly walk towards a row of parked cars between cement pillars. Glad weekly corp-servitude was over at last, relishing the Friday night ahead Neon stepped into her lift thinking more, of Niv, Omni, and Toltec, over in SE1.

Nick tried to sense Vienna’s whereabouts. He walked to the first in a series of pillars on the ground floor, then scanned all around the dark scene for a distinct sound trail: Ironically by this time he and Vienna were having similar thoughts, but Neon couldn’t get to her car fast enough! She elongated a huff, lifting up her fringe, tapping her fingers in mild frustration. Vienna made her exit when both lift doors fully opened, the silence broken by heels striking the surface, reverberating like bottle-encased thunderbolts. She walked past the first pillar, then the second, then the third.

Still on the ground floor, looking around, Nick noticed the line of elevator display screens glowing in the mid-distance. He got nearer, stopping at the resource room which was strangely active, its door slightly open—Now, while trying to work out what level of peculiarity this had, his attention was drawn back; two lights, he sensed them, flashing, above two of the doors. He marched over and pressed both lift door buttons, urged on by his own currents of disbelief!

Neon rummaged around in her bag, looking hard for her car keys, as Vienna, led by her eyes, walked passed a few more pillars. She noticed the car she was meant to read off her Shadowless number to; its light was on—this wasn’t according to her briefing by Mr Rella the previous night . . . Still, she squinted her eyes to see if there was anybody else sitting inside. Neon, found her car keys at the point Vienna saw the shape of the Shadowless agent in the driver’s side, but no shape on the passenger side came into view. Nick edged himself out from the lift-threshold at level 1, leaning his head out, pricking up his ears, and briefly looking both ways before heading to level two.

Vienna now tried to compose herself, slowing as she approached the car, parked, not too well. Positively jarred, Nick tapped his feet on the way up to tier deuce, but as the lift reached, he sensed activity above him,

22

Celine Flux

possibly on level trey, or square? The agent’s vehicle between two other cars was a tight squeeze—Inhaling, she managed to pull the door open a couple of feet. Neon took out her phone, scrolling through rapid-dials to order pizza. Nick stood by the elevator interface waiting impatiently.

He pressed it again and again, sending the lift upwards, dimension of time, and its tempo, annoying. He stuck his head out of the lift door at level four. It was dark but he knew the layout for this particular floor. He heard some walking . . . He followed it.

Vienna entered the car sliding her body down into the small gap to sit, while Neon, just yards from her car now, was still on the phone, attention scattered. Vienna closed the car door, then looked across, telling the agent her name and the time she was expected to be present but sensed something was wrong, him, unduly agitated, wired, nostrils red. Vienna with her lifestyle, knew the signs of a man who’d been skiing in the snow. While she was analysing this, Nick, tugged that way by his sense of suspicion, followed.

Neon was finishing up now, checking the time on the phone before putting it back in her bag. Nick picked up pace. Vienna followed protocol; she took out the Shadowless folder from her bag and opened it preparing to read. So seconds later, the driver was then told she was to receive further instructions from him. As she read, looking closely for the passcode on a page further back the driver secretly locked the doors, putting the gear stick in reverse almost oblivious to what she was saying. When she realized, she turned to open the door. This happened as Neon walked into the driving line of the agent’s car.

It had only travelled a couple of meters back before they heard a deep, violent, thud under the boot. Nick heard it too. He feared it was Vienna. The driver unlocked his car. They both got out but the driver was faster. She saw him look down, under the car, pivot, then run away.

Her heart pounded, spiking in and out against her chestplate. She walked the half step to the rear wheel of the car and bent forward: Neon, unidentified for a time, was lying there, unconscious.

Obviously panicked and clumsy, the driver kept running off into the dark, dramatically, from the car, round towards Nick, at top speed—It was so dark they half collided!

Vienna was frozen stiff, stunned in her stare while Nick, after being bungst by the man, turned his attention, intrigued by some pre-atomic sense, over to a red glow of rear car lights ahead. He ran towards them

23

OH MY GOD! i BOuGHT HeR AlBuM . . . THen HeR ReliGiOn!!

fearing for Vienna’s safety. But Vienna still never noticed who it was laying there on the floor, her mind straight away on Mr Rella, and a possible set-up.

Neon was already dead when Vienna saw Nick approaching the two of them. He decreased his gallop, eyes fixed firmly on Vienna’s now definable outline. Raising his chin for more air Nick held his gaze from down his nose even harder as he finally approached, bent down onto one knee, then cut his stare off, now placing his eyes onto who he was about to realize . . . was both his little sister’s best friend, and his workmate!, down on the floor, limbs twisted, torso, badly crumpled. It only dawned on Vienna when Nick yelled Neon’s name, even then, the realization rose up slow-like.

He took off his coat, gently placing it under her head then checking for a pulse—but there was nothing there. Vienna was still, astonishingly, at arm’s length. Nick yelled at Vienna, ‘Call an ambulance Vee!’ noticing her unusual distance, also her reluctance to participate in the resuscitation attempt. Even more bizarre was the two car doors swung open behind her. His mind flashed back to the man who came running and bungst into him as he approached the set.

Suddenly, the car park lights began to power-up on one by one; they should have been on since dusk; an irregularity Nick remembered but failed again to notice up until that moment. Vienna still hadn’t called the ambulance. So Nick repeated himself; he wanted to know why she was standing so far back?—From Vienna’s point of view, for now, she refused to get involved, unsure if she was being framed or not, so off base-instinct, she lied. ‘I . . . I haven’t got my phone’. He dipped behind into his back pocket for his own moby and began to dial while Vienna was thinking about the little she knew of forensics.

He closed his phone and looked down at young Neon, noticing Vienna in his periphery inching back further. Wrongly, his next unfortunate thought was of postponing any interrogation until later. Vienna took a few steps back, checking inside the car. She did this knowing deep down there were two galactic prices to be paid for meeting up with Mr Rella, sleeping with him, and taking up his challenge—these were the unwanted fruits born of her passion. Nick wiped away tears and lifted Neon’s small face in his large hands half thinking about his sister, Nivja.

Hearing footsteps outside tap rapidly along the floor, he ran over to the wall and looked down. Swift, pinpoint amid the moon above, he saw

24

Celine Flux

a man, stripping off from a boiler suit to reveal a three-piece, running as fast as he could, crossing the amber-lit street to the other side and off into the night. But when Nick turned back around puzzled, focus dissolved, Vienna had gone.

25

YEA, I SAID IT; NO MOVIE

CAN IMPRESSMOI ANYMORE!

Now, years previous—while casually pondering who facilitated amalgam reality—adjacent to that same part of town, Omni (think black Maverick droppin’ ill lectures) was making his way from the Political Triangular Kilometres out to the sticks but had to pick up a package in Kennington along the way. It was a damp, autumnal Sunday afternoon. The roads were unusually quiet leaving Omni to, take in the scenery, ponder the police car, nature’s observable passing, and thus, ease up off the throttle now.

Ever since childhood up in the post-industrial city of Metroaux he would always associate Sundays with boredom; all those church members at the lunch table while other boys in the local hood scaled disused factories along the canal, looking for lead and copper, or raiding scrap yards till sunset, or, until frostbite set in.

Slipping from that deep zone on his motorbike, still daydreaming on higher light codes of cosmological elegance and downshifting to the red light, the lane on his right, had just turned green. The car in front of a gold Mercedes proceeded to take the right turn back in the direction of SE1—as for the middle and left lanes? Well, they were heading west to Brixton, then on to Clapham, Balham, Tooting and out to Zonelimits.

The mediocre Mercedes with dark tints detailed an outline of a petite, probably female driver jazzing a large, outdated perm. It indicated to the left as the other two lane lights went green. This so-called luxurious, slightly smog-dusted car began to hop into the middle track—(nothing too bizarre, lane-hopping happens all the time, right?)

But Omni didn’t have enough space and time to make a successful evasive manoeuvre from the middle lane to swing his bike left around the Merc. Unfortunately for Omni, levels of conceit reserved for highbrow mic-mutilators only, he lost control. Truth told, from this, transitory perspective of the pen, both motorists were at fault. Oui, they both made that hara-deflecting key miscalculation, causing the front left

26

Celine Flux

wing of the car to clip the tail-end of the bike as it was completing its left tilt, acceleration, then intended straighten-up trick. The momentum took Omni and his bike skidding along the raspy pebble-encrusted floor diagonally towards the curb, which Omni then, unable to reflex or avoid, mounted.

He continued flying, skimming-then-flying again like a shot, towards the looming lamppost. Grasping its distance and approximating final outcome, then in an instant forming the foetal position, timing almost perfectly in advance those projected, auxiliary, but increasingly imminent events, plus while at the same time bouncing and twirling around, desperately adjusting to this unfortunate and unwanted form of ballistic travel, he now had in front of him, an unusual flock of jagged little pills to swallow, with regards to which parts of the body he would use to progressively reduce his motion. Watching that gravel move from like . . . four inches—looking out for the least abrasive bits—was eye blistering enough given his velocity, but sacrifices had to be made: First his palms, then elbows, then his left hip and corresponding butt-cheek, one after the other, began grinding themselves against the pavement. Omni was running out of options and worst still, his traffic accident hadn’t actually finished yet—It would seem, Mr K Arma hadn’t finished with slicing himself a thick wedge of inevitable action packed nanodrama!

With complete immersion in his no-shorts-taking survival-mode-plus, he instinctively used all those unrecorded, now mythological BMX mangles he’d witnessed his friends get into as kids—notwithstanding the ones in which he’d also been involved; life lessons; early rough and tumble techniques that as a young juvenile peddling off makeshift ramps at high speed, landing and buckling into limestone chippings, would have a crash-prone Omni back then manoeuvring and shifting, attempting to engineer his destination across summer-parched, arid bike tracks, while desperately praying for alternatives, but ultimately, only to wind up in a heap further along, slowly emerging tearful from a cloud of dust over at the camel hump section of the track like some unpaid stunt double, having ripped his hand-me-down clothes and learned a little something about the earth’s gravity, not to mention losing his hard-stolen 10p meant for an Icepole or Videogame on the way back down the steep Dudley Road.

But now in full bloom and presently in a little spot of bother, Omni (always known amongst his big sisters for an uncanny ability to slip out of life’s tightest headlocks) could no longer employ anymore BMX-style

27

YeA, i SAiD iT; nO MOVie CAn iMPReSSMOi AnYMORe!

evasive measures, for this menacing lamppost was advancing ever-closer towards him. So he ended up making his decision right then, in bullet-time, ensuring his shins took the impact of the collision and not his ribcage. The initial, anti-climatic-contact preceding the following few moments of the crash, just felt more like two extremely dead legs that in no time, maybe, could be walked off, before a quick look for feds and a swift hop on the bike making a discreet exit from the crash scene drawing as little heat as possible—(how wide of the mark was he, eh?)—because, as his lower legs actually hit the lamppost, deflecting off in what felt like a vortex of vivic slow-motion, the dust settled while a deep bellowing rumble that was Omni’s not-so-innocent Sunday ride to Gadgets house in Balham, thudded away into the mushy twirling distance leaving the muffled quiet and still oculus of a storm spinning further out—Permitted by warptime it now started to move along its path bringing Omni into a new whirl (or world) of chaos.

Helmet still on, he began to scream in anticipation of the next stage of pain, subconsciously knowing it must get worse any second now!

He screamed for roughly twenty seconds, and intended then to scream at the female driver running towards him. She was also screaming, hands waving about frantically to passers-by begging them to stop and help, which some of the more compassionate folk did. The assistance they provided was instinctive. Travelling from the opposite way, first to border the situation was a burly builder-type who seemed to epitomise the country. Carriageways now a landing strip he launched from his truck, opened-backed, to throw silent orders at four of the six lanes, halting almost all traffic with his purposeful appearance.

The visor of his black and red crash helmet was steamed-up, and all the voices inquiring into his injuries, led by that stocky builder, sounded indistinguishable from each other among all the initial commotion.

Passionate imploring by the powerless observers to “stay still”, to forget about who was at fault and “keep calm”, “don’t move” and to “breathe”, seemed barely audible, although most of them were close enough doing all they could under the circumstance—which was to quickly find out if there were any doctors present or surgery’s in sight. Their urgent decrees just sounded stifled, low in volume, muffled. But an extremely furious and irate Omni would have none of it, and even tried to get up (until the builder along with other motorists’ finally, just about, persuaded him to prioritize and to firstly, again “keep still!”) His body went into the first stages of shock previous to removing his

28

Celine Flux

helmet. He raised it just past his eyebrows, barking at this other short Persian-looking driver involved in the collision—who just so decided to change her mind at the wrong time and jump lanes, apparently without looking! But the other uneasy pedestrians, nearby onlookers, and drivers who came trying to help in some way could see some ugly things which Omni couldn’t, not from under that only slightly-raised, mist-filled helmet.

They were practically holding him down while confirming who’d finally gotten through to the emergency switchboard and requested an ambulance.

All this took time, giving Omni a moment to remember the package, plus the lack of insurance on his matching black and red racing bike, which obviously was near, because it could equally be heard and sensed around the crash-site but curiously, could not be seen. He fondled his pockets momentarily (of which there were many) checking for a bulge.

Beforehand, two ambulances had arrived, associate sound, and light proceeding them, with lanky-looking Bluecoats pulling up ahead.

Both groups began correspondence, though the Illuminous Yellow- and-Greencoats were already administering disorientating vapours to Omni through a face mask—Progress on getting him onto the ambulance had halted as a decision couldn’t be made whether or not to move the spine, reason being, there was a possibility of additional backbone fractures which Omni fiercely protested (and demonstrated by propping onto one side) wasn’t the actual case.

29

ONE ROM-COM TOO MANY

Layered in olive-green army fatigues from thermal dungarees to a XXXL military style field jacket and combat boots, Omni tried to look around for an A-alike within hand-gesturing distance who he could wink or nod to, and hopefully hand this tiny package over to be disposed of in guile, low-budget roadsweeper method. He spotted then proceeded to pre-judge and profile this guy, long braids, wearing a baseball cap hanging around the periphery, but duke never came close enough to all the swarming paramedics, still crouching down like Amerindian football defensive-line backers.

Omni looked around for his motorbike. It was still nowhere to be seen but oddly, felt as though it was still on, revving away between his legs just under his right shin, vibrations and all, which was strange, but, this aforementioned right limb was also out of sight. ‘Huh? Eh?’ he thought, trying to crunch the math, plus locate the bike. He tried to relax and think about it but couldn’t, the pain was too much, legs now in that physiological “don’t touch me” mode.

The youngest ambulance woman did her utmost to occupy Omni while the decision was made to drive to Queen’s College, but police-overseers wanted a time-slice too, choosing now to embark upon ill-timed institutional protocol. Slightly offended on Omni’s behalf, one hand guiding the stretcher, the other clearing the way, a deal was brokered by this ambulance woman (who secretly, maybe, as a medic, didn’t feel the Bluecoat tactics either, plus, obviously concerned for the immediate welfare of her road casualty in this case, held out her invisible righteousness card high, making an even better deal born of this particular urgency). So the overseers fell back on the issue, for now, ending up saying they’d meet Omni at the trauma room to answer a few more questions south instead.

All birdcrap thus established, stretcher wheels now extended, lifting him up a couple of yards, still puzzled as to its whereabouts Omni asked exactly where his bike was (to rahtid!) At this point one of the other medics on site stepped in to interject, taking control of one corner of

30

Celine Flux

the stretcher. He was younger still, whispering in detail that it had hit a metal fence and laid in better condition than he did, about twenty meters behind the crowd; Black, with classic Victorian-plantation-sweat design, this fence ran hundreds of meters down to the Oval cricket ground.

The latest paramedic, more talkative, of similar age, without even asking verbalized on Omni’s behalf that genetically-inherited, all-consuming fury at overseers, distracting cleverly (for Omni’s own good actually, busy snarling at Bluecoats when he should listen to those trying to help him), explaining further how the bike was near the police car, visible between the legs of bystanders being given the usual textbook suspicious scrutiny, and a much closer inspection.

This thought silently amped Omni further, along with the received realization that his two legs were in fact broken, and furthermore, his brain was thinking that his leg was still on his bike!—Which by extension meant that some bones, somewhere under those trousers of his were definitely fractured because of their weird sensation, and position—As the highly probable notion swirled around Omni’s foggy head his legs began to hurt intensely.

Omni was carefully positioned inside one of the two ambulances and told to prepare to have trousers sliced open and his now-confirmed fractures re-aligned. After that was done, (stopping all that bloody growling), and when the medic removed the pen from between Omni’s teeth, he quietly grabbed the attention of the younger of the two paramedics from the other team, this time half propping-up on one shoulder, calling out some improvised slang, right as they were about to step off the ambulance back into the road, after just assisting in holding him down while his right shin-bone and left thigh-bone were being re-straightened.

‘Psssst!’ squeezed Omni from the tongue, alerting the eyebrow-pierced but extremely efficient ambulance guy who then turned around. And there for about a Zone1 minute, Omni pleaded with the him, accounting that since, as an emergency procedure they’d cut through his combat dungarees which now rendered them useless, they could, maybe, make the situation less unfortunate for him? This medic, who’d probably heard it all before, had a poker face but Omni sensed he was amused somewhat, all this dozy yip-yap coming through an uncomfortable facemask, not to mention, predicament.

Fearful and admirably he persisted, drawing this battle-hardened quick-thinking medic’s attention down to where he had a large

31

ONE ROM-COM TOO MANY

Velcro-tipped side pocket. It contained an object to be disposed of at an opportunity which Omni didn’t think would present itself for a long time yet, besides, it had to be out of his pocket and off his person before the police met up with him at Trauma. He ended his entertaining, impassioned explanation, with that hopefully persuasive phrase ‘D’ynah mean?’ Luckily, the medic did understand, and was surprisingly prepared to go beyond the call of duty; He took the small package when handed to him, disguised in the form of a most grateful yet deceptive handshake.

* * *

The journey down the overly congested vein of SE1 called Walworth Road was pure agony, excruciating and acutely painful, by far the most pain ever felt during his forcespan-orbits of life round the sun. As sleep-deprived doctors of various specialities buzzed about in preparation for surgery, one, clutching a disposable pen and clipboard, approached warning Omni that the Bluecoats were outside the trauma room wanting to speak with him. He was now unsure of what card to play but, this observant, extra helpful doctor although obviously overworked, let Omni know he didn’t have to accept their request if he didn’t want to; of course so, instinct ordered he decline.

This was obeyed while a beguilingly demure anaesthetist wearing petal-shaped Indian gold earrings, with apparently religious engravings, swiftly put a syringe into his wrist. Omniversals’ sense of apprehension was being subjugated with some effort until then, but, perhaps for the better, it was now replaced by a sense of intrigue relating to that tiny material object almost welded onto her ear, the unusual reverse side, apparent, whenever she turned her head down towards his feet. She leaned over, looked at the label on his opposing arm while continuing inquiry into the nature of his all-too-common accident.

Giddy drowsiness descending, and puzzled by the nature, and possible origin of her jewellery he slipped away, off, into closing stages of final moments before being put to sleep and rushed through to theatre.

32

IF OLD YE ENGLISH EVOLVES . . .

WHY CAN’T LITERATURE YO?

From what must have been at least twenty four hours, being caught up in synthesising drug-induced dreams, cogent ones, about pre-empting disaffected Tories, with swarms of cyborg data analysts all around him, the ward Omni eventually awoke to was noisy, quite unfamiliar, as this was the first time he’d been a hospital patient, not to mention the first time going through post-surgical recovery. Sky-blue, thin, poorly decorated curtains had been pulled completely around his bed. The only things in sight were a small well-used chair, a cabinet, with a jug of water placed on top, and a slim eating table down by his feet. Slowly, he painfully exhaled, straining his eyeballs up towards the old-looking, dust-covered, creamy ceiling where photon waves/particles were being emitted, semi-directionally, down from a long series of narrow plastic light shades.

The ceiling had knobbly iron beam supports, portraying that familiar old city bridge look, (you know, that lumpy bird-dropping-stained appearance of being painted over once too many)?

He hadn’t the strength, or the pain threshold, to do anything else but use his sense of hearing to work out which voice came from where, and which of the four or five blobs of human animated colour, seen through those drapes—(symbolizing a new temporary jurisdiction border now in occupation)—he could assign these, assorted, varied accents toward.

One voice he managed to filter out sounded like a local ageing cockney, real local, most likely Zone2, spitting out Second World War stories about Amerindian-patented Nazi bombs levelling north Camberwell, which preceded construction of that massive Aylesbury Estate just off Elephant Junction—(an eyesore now, seen as the biggest social shackle in town but the acid test is . . . could just anybody blend in there)?

Another voice was a husky West-African accent, presenting a more resilient, upbeat outlook, seemingly inspired by Yeshua The Anointed

33

iF OlD Ye enGliSH eVOlVeS . . . WHY CAn’T liTeRATuRe YO?

One, frequently name-checked by many—including that chirpy voice talking—as Hesus Ben Yosef. Omni lay for a while, concerning himself with the fate of all those proto-religions, rapidly disappearing from mineral-rich tropic-regions of clement zones that this, energetic tone of voice, obviously was born in.

Killing the onslaught of leg pain through frustratingly slow transgressions of time, he wondered considerations off even more, into concern for a, self created, personally inconsequential topic, like . . . erm . . . Cultural Adoption and Acquisition, which happened every time he heard this old but zestful man evangelize to patients or staff members who he came into contact with.

Another unavoidable sound on the ward was from the mouth of a boisterous, over-compensating “Jafaican” who turned out, of all places, to be of Sardinian background! Unimpressed, Omni again pondered off somewhere else, tugged by a mental soundtrack, but this time, into what it was that made West Indians so ultra-magnetic, and while scanning choice lyrics, endeavoured to find a gap of difference between the lyrics of Bob Dylan and Bob Marley: In this stairway search, cross-referencing early songs for a clue, or a lead of some kind, he was defeated.

Omni started his recovery off by re-hydrating; slowly building-up to government institution food, once the urge to vomit and the feeling of nausea had passed. Focused for now entirely on pain management, he spent most of the following two days shut off in his cubicle, either compulsively replaying the crash (and every moment that led up to it) until his brain began to fizz, or lay bored, trying to perform spirit-ops; that’s to say, attempting to make a suitable spiritual evaluation of the many people he was unintentionally eavesdropping on, after all, it’d be only a matter of time before the curtains would be all-of-a-sudden yanked open by some super-busy nurse in top gear struck hard with a serious case of time-famine, and then he’d finally get to meet all of them.

34

“THE MORE PETENTIOUS, THE MORE

APPREHENSIVE THE SENTENCE”

Time slowly marched forward in unison, with the return of his memory and the diminishing groggy side-effects of that toxic-but-useful anaesthetic—him, an impatient patient; it was a feeling he could well do without. As time passed, and the sense of ‘what the heck have I done?’ continued, more earnest, solicitous feelings started to take hold, pushing up a short succession of wrinkles, deep and fleshy between his brows. That furrowed crevice feature, crumpled, traversing his forehead like the Caucus Mountains, was permanently establishing itself when he noticed two consultants, and a female Indo-European surgeon purposefully skating his way. Typically well-ish-spoken the surgeons opened the exchange, briefing a super-tentative and troubled Omni on what procedures had been done to him. ‘How are your legs doing?’ one doctor asked. Omni thought about it, then an answer, then questioned if the answer was truthful and worth telling, then lied and said ‘Oh they’re fine’. After that Omni sat back, as the motorcycle crash, like a plague, besieged his mind and the consultants spoke on; the mistakes, plus all that surrounded it, the reason, the compulsion, the regret, the . . . if only.

One of the them told Omni, laying there, all bandaged and tangled-up in his dressings, what one could come to expect in a worst case recovery scenario, and after that, the other consultant told him he should prepare himself to spend at least another six weeks bed bound, alone, with those tubes and wires (Omni was pointing to which he could actually see), exiting his body. He asked if it was normal to be able to feel those rigid, and synthetic, external-artery-looking things, rago coming out of him.

They replied with an affirmative before making the return journey back to the more swanky quarters of hospital, explaining it was ‘. . . all a matter of probability at the moment’. A huge multi-coloured butterfly (just like the one that landed on Kenshiro’s meditating shoulder during Fist of the South Star) appeared right in the pit of Omni’s stomach as

35

“THe MORe PeTenTiOuS, THe MORe APPReHenSiVe THe SenTenCe”

he considered this “probability” while they then walked away, pledging to return in about 48hrs but, because Omni had already began quietly buggin’ out at more easily-imaginable prospects, he hardly even heard—Omni was already at the mercy of his thoughts:

Anything associated with motorcycles, crashes and the like, for the rest of his years would return him to that crunchtime continuosa, worst still, he could share this with whom? Profound enzyme-inducing sentences bounced around the walls of his cranium, each hour, frozen in “estimative analyses” of these shifting odds regarding possible amputation. The more he compulsively thought about it over the course of those dreadful days, the more he began to crap himself!

Still locked in the ramifications of being footless his under-rated food was brought round to him, intended to tie him over until later, and which he forced down without any of the usual toffee-nosed complaints.

Nights became understandably long as that sexy arch-nemesis from the bottom of his childhood garden—ever-young Miss Fairysomnia—came round for an antagonizing and unwelcome visit, keeping him, up, and his dreams, wet.

One needle attached to his arm was connected to a diamorphine dispensing machine which gave Omni the most horrid thoughts whenever he’d slip into a long-overdue powernap. It took a while to make a connection between the drug and the partial recall but as soon as he was certain of which machine was doing what, he separated the tubing from the needle and ripped the needle from his arm.

The nurses found this out of course, and documented it amongst all the other su-su surrounding the incident. It created quite a storm, as to their dismay Omni wasn’t accepting advice to re-connect the machine. This little rebellion was also noted in the comments section of his clipboard down at the base of his bed frame, so now all consultants and physiotherapists could read about Omni’s unorthodox antics—only six days in and already Maverick (the street name he tried sometimes to introduce himself as) was a marked man on the ward, known to staff as “hazardous”, although that was another thing Omni was kept in the dark about until he formed friendships with a few nurses of similar age.

One of these upon whom he disclosed his aka to was a predictably, flirtatious-only-on-duty type nurse named Seattle who wore hypnotic Nag Champa fragrances to keep the patients spirits—and conjugal weaponry—up, and on-swolle. Her shift pattern was one week on one

36

Celine Flux

week off so, when she came like a whirlwind of entertainment onto the ward, initially unaware of Omni’s unfrolicsome warface being practised inside his cubicle, innocently she pulled the curtains back, revealing the injured Omni to outer patient beds primarily, in all his moody glory.

37

DIGEST THIS YOU NOBLE DOLPHIN

The swelling prevented surgery on the second leg and pressure of the fluid was cutting off blood supply to the foot. The first operating surgeon had told him he’d come to make daily assessments “to keep tabs on progress” but, time was against him and if things continued a preventative amputation would definitely have to be performed. This part was overheard: word bounced around, and in due course Seattle came to see if she could reassure a worried, anxious Omni.

Before she came he considered all he could grasp, which constantly enlarged itself. He rubbed his oriental-sized beard, determined somehow to try and figure this whole thing out, spending hours drawn into an attempt of trying to imagine life without a foot, wondering how he would manage . . .? How he would compete in Sincity . . .? The girls lost, along with his moby . . .? Would he turn into a blubbering smackhead like those war vets who slept in the graveyard . . .?—Like a pestilence these scenarios dogged the remainder of Omni’s hospital admission.

On day nine luckily, the swelling began to reduce in the second leg and the decision was made to drive a pin down the length of the bone, held in place by four screws that would protrude the flesh and be seen just under the skin. This was a pretty common procedure, taken over the trickier option; employ some sort of ecto-frame, holding the three separated pieces of bone together.

That operation went well enough and Omni awoke in his cubicle to see his right leg now bandaged-up alongside his plaster-casted opposite leg. ‘Maybe the order to keep the foot raised wasn’t such an inconvenient suggestion after all?’ he thought to himself, beginning another period of extreme nausea from the surgery and long spells of ceiling-staring because of freshly weeping stitches compelling him not to move a muscle!

Noticing Omni had no visitors like the rest of the ward, some of the younger nurses with frequent shifts made extra investigations into Omni’s likes and dislikes, this included Seattle. He and she had more than romanticizing their existence in common, though that was the main object at the trunk of their photon-thirsty tree. Another “Supposed

38

Celine Flux

Infatuation Junkie” (nah, Under Rug Swept album—could I have said it better myself?) he met was Nivja Edison from radiography. They’d spoken at least four times now, and with nothing but redtop glossmags to read, being transported across the other end of the hospital to see this classmate-pale nostalgia-inducing, part-time Goth, was the highlight of his day. She really did remind him of some straight-A-Bellhemian-Forest- type student who got swallowed up inside thrash metal and puked back out again, Indication? That giveaway spooky bracelet dangling on her arm: four rows of links, and metal bar welded on one end, a hollowed circle of similar thickness on the other.

The bar went into the circle to link around her wrist and didn’t seem to fit her current style at all but Nivja, as he would find out, was one girl who genuinely did have the artistic licensed to rock almost anything her heart could reach for—What’s more, because of this whole, sterile empty room situation, (lest for that starwars equipment bearing down on them from the ceiling) there seemed to be hardly any ice for them to brake. On two occasions while having his leg X-rayed, a problem with the said cyclops technology gave them an opportunity to embark on a courtship quite inappropriate (depending on the observer’s perspective mind you) but enjoyable still, and afterwards, Niv became by far his most frequent visitor.

With mostly hidden adoration, he thanked her like a ‘real lifesaver’ should be thanked, for bringing him over food and personal music-analysing equipment—(Omniversal does not listen to music, only observes like he’s in the industry and produced it himself . . . go figure!)—She even, mercifully, raided her disposable-income-wasting big brother’s kitchen for other useful gadgets.

‘Poor Omni’ she thought, rummaging around Nick’s drawer, swiping one of his redundant cellphones with just enough talktime for Omni to keep family members one-hundred miles north informed of his being attacked by a Mercedes Benz!

* * *

Now, Niv used to wet the bed as a kid, too much, more than all her friends and relations, and got, understandably one would say, more melancholic about it than the few cousins who got a drenching whenever they stayed over. It only just stopped short of a debilitating

39

DiGeST THiS YOu nOBle DOlPHin

throwback from a past life or something. Her mother Aubrey, in a vain bid to squash this bad habit utilized motivational fear tactic’s which worked for the most part but unfortunately for Nivja, it did have its own particular side effects and bonus emotions that when sophisticated enough, she scrutinized for relevance to all-round human evolutionary survival purpose. Of course, she was too young to isolate-then-appraise such threshold technicalities in primary school but, did notice one constant as she grew up into an apparently typical, whining and winging teenager—it was this secret, sharpedged, inwardly imprisoning her from all sides, nailed in the periodical fear she felt, eclipsing a virtue not yet greeted or acknowledged at that young time of life.

Sadly she lost her father at four but couldn’t remember a thing about it. Frustrated by lack of reliable data on the episode, nonetheless that made her measure how much of a significant effect those events had on her nowadays. ‘If only I could recall’ she sometimes would zoneout at the X-ray machine and say to herself, ‘. . . then, I could gauge what it was that could have been so traumatic as to cause care homes, bed wetting and child psychologists . . .’?

She applied memories of herself she had from when she’d just turned fifteen; where at school-required work experience she spent two months as a trainee nursery nurse. ‘So how would a four year old comprehend and process death, hmmm . . .’? She marvelled at the ramifications, toyed with queries, but had no answers, and doubted anyone else in her classroom era was speaking to referral shrinks at that early age.

‘Apparently’, she solidified to herself, ‘youths either complain, till they cry . . .? Those a bit older, over-dramatise, with words like “Oh he’s crazy”, “She’s crazy”, transferring blame, failing to pin it in one place while, the elderly, in due time, space, perspective, accept personal responsibility . . . seems to be the rule . . . right’?

Older, and conscious of paraphysical concoctions of the cerebrum looking for its designer, addressing them as such, Niv inspired herself a touch by thoughts of all those pre-historic parents, of the ancient parents, of her own parents, all obviously no longer with her but stretched out in an imagined line, right back to the original, going back through the cosmos which looked, and which she knew to be, pregnant with life, reaching back further still to the supreme parental impregnator himself, hoping this long line ascending backward was locked on to her, so, in time, she could imagine herself, a link, just like the others before her.

40

Celine Flux

Returning from that mental drift-environ alone at work, filing bone-fracture printouts, lost in ancestral adoration for a moment she sent a silent prayer of goodwill and smiled, her bodily-craft, travelling through its own short lifespan to a town, of which she couldn’t quite make out the name, presently.

41

THE DAY I FOUND OUT NICOLE

KIDMANHAD THE “HELL ON EARTH” LP

As Nivja grew around from fifteen, expanding further into maturity, she worked out—(in that old snorting-Sigmund sense)—why this shackle was still probably upon her, though, those once clear images stored up top had since then deteriorated awfully, on the whole considered now unreliable evidence, in the cortal lobe of intellect and intuition. Nature intended her childhood to be like most, a life of curiosity, wonder, and recreational fun. Not even Aubrey’s tactics of . . .’ I’m going to hang your soggy bed sheets out for all your school friends to see!’ could stop that youthful, resilient and executive happiness which dominated her innocent years of experiencing being . . . just being, to be, or born, or born to be (huh?)—Nah, that was Nivja before birth, in her pre-natal state, before she was slowly contaminated by descending earthbound wishes to experience matter, or material life, and before having that wish granted by the complete whole unborn entity, therefore allowing her particle spark to bind itself to molecules like air, water and carbon.

Anyway all that unbeknown to Nivja (but plagiarised for you the reader) set aside, her failings in the “piss-a-bed” department (yep, in that illusory Freudian-hallway sense) again became—because of family taunts mainly—just one more layer, of her many so-called cages of the human species that no materialist or mystic is actually spared from, although, over the choice of timeless prescribed methods of glorifying, and spiritual training, against the unrestricted sense of desire, one she thought, would obviously use that sense to aim in the right direction instead of suffering via passion, and generally being too Egon Spengler—Egon meaning bypassing intelligence, ignoring the “soulspike” and foolishly electing for suffering (Oi, secular libertine, Oh well tho eh?)

Because of this Nivja as a child couldn’t wait, just like all kids, to grow up where she hoped her supposed weakness would stop, and when it finally did, her dark music, and even darker attitude towards family and friends was a signature sign just short of what her shrink would

42

Celine Flux

most likely pigeon-hole as Bi-Polar. He explained to her how, direct, and indirect traumatic childhood experiences, repeated, can cause a type of fear that reconstitutes into guilt, shame etc. Now independent and older, induced by the early music scene Nivja remembered . . .

The Darkside (oh spooky)! She remembered the innocent dreams, the beautiful sensation of relief . . . the initial warmth of urine on the mattress while in dreamland . . . sitting on the toilet . . . all is fine, then, the waking nightmare when she pulled back the sheets.

It held her back, altered neuroplascity, her growth in certain aspects, made her lie, diminishing Ullah’s life-force within, without and beyond, and, most of all, as she remembered all too well, it made her scared to sleep, facilitating the worst of habits, and as that rebellious and ever-increasing expert in self pity she came to be during college got smashed with other students, it, and the trauma of a void father she had no memory of, took her to borderline musical morbidity—Actually, looking from the exterior, it seemed she went over to the hideous Gothicide! (Uuugh)

Today though, still in the X-ray room stopping for a brief rest, mind near Midpoint Rock, looking back at life, listening to ancestral echoes and now turning her head forwards, over suh, way in the distance, on the horizon, she now could make out that small town, ghost town, that sacred town, a town called, Acceptance.

* * *

43

THE REMAINS OF PAIN,

NEEDLES,OR POETRY

Night came . . . something was stirring up inside Omni. He thought about the crash: the call that diverted his trip to Balham, and how, and why he even bothered with that detour to the Dreadspot, behind the park in Kennington: he couldn’t get it out of his mind, the sequence of events, the little argument he got into when he got there, the way he was shouting at that skinny yardie runner-boy as he mounted his bike and haphazardly put on his helmet, and the police car that pulled onto the road behind him, who turned the opposite way when he turned onto the main road from the park, Did crimestoppers call them . . .? Was it a regular patrol . . .? He remembered how he freaked out, remembered the way he sped up trying to get into Vauxhall. Omni’s heart began racing, mood, tearing bleak gaps like mayoral pre-shakedown accounts. He was beginning to feel faint in his cubicle, but he couldn’t stop himself seeing out the notion, the damp post-rain slippery surface, questioning himself why he pressed out the gears so quickly, loudly, in such a situation?

Cognithoughts in retrospect, shuffling pictures, unusually sparse Sunday traffic, but usually pretty chock-a-block seven days a week, especially coming off the two large roundabouts at Elephant; he just laid there, portions of hours dragging their heels, full of regrets in bed.

He remembered the traffic lights approaching in the distance, wheels spinning, the super-tall lampposts whizzing past, pressing the brake lever starting his slow down, chunks of stationary cars gathered together at the lights, the lights turning green well over a hundred yards in front of him.

Omni felt like he was about to vomit when he thought about the moment he decided to stay in the middle lane, taking his hand off the brake lever, revs coming down, approaching the cars, in first, maybe second gear, noticing they, one after the other, slowly picking up speed from their stationary spots. The apprehension of the thoughts were eating him up like nano-bacteria, his chest felt tighter than Lord

44

Celine Flux

Buddha’s chinybumbs, and the rueful faux pas, ever-growing, was getting the upper hand. Having an interest in non-general knowledge meant he knew a few principles of Post-Traumatic War-Lab Disorder, and also aware of the compulsion he was feeling, resisting, yielding to it. He tried to think of footage he’d seen that day of Angelina Jolie without make up on Al-Jezeera, doing charity fieldwork in Africasia, remembering how he was blown away by her facial assets, but right now it wasn’t working, tears, slipping from his eyes, struggling to breath—he wanted his Mommy, straight up and down, for the first time since he was a kid. The pain he was receiving from entanglement was unique, unimaginable, unrelenting—he wanted his sisters, cousins, friends. Mr P Atience was nowhere to be seen. He wanted holding down. He wanted, help.

45

OBVIOUSLY THE ONE WHO

DISPROVESTHAT, BLOWS IMMORTAL

Understandably, that was a long and emotional cul-de-sac night for Omniversal. Tears were already on his cheeks as porters pushed him over to the radiography department the following morning. He stifled his cries and wiped his welling eyes, but it was all too obvious when he tried to put on that old brave face in front of Nivja, who immediately offered to come and see him back on his ward just as soon as she possibly could.

Until then Omni chose to revert back to his post-classical “soldier state” (used by most of Britain’s unemployable frustrated males with drug convictions)—only difference here was that—(Omni being Omni)—he had this Koranic flying teacup with unidentified saucer twirling past his memoir-box suggesting . . . “Nay, rather what they’ve earned remains as rust upon their hearts”.

Yes, this was a time of personal crisis, but it took twenty-five years to admit that there were internal sushi-conundrums. You see, Omni was from the era of weed-fuelled Rasta-speculative philosophy and Mafia flicks, so owning up to these sorts of problems, like emotional bankruptcy, were out of the question, unless you wanted to be seen as weak or unappreciative of your chance at life, whatever that life, once seized, (applicable direction left open-ended . . .), maybe used for.

Now, this is not a good move according to all them mainstream self-help books on the high street. Perhaps boo-hooing and passionately wailing through the small hours just enter the ear like it did that elderly compassionate conservatavo a few ranks of beds behind him. She could be heard right across the department loud and clear the following afternoon, and maybe she had the right idea? She’d wrestle with nurses before being practically force-fed, refusing to co-operate with what she labelled, ‘the great un-british’, even though they were fully legal and paid taxes to That Majesty’s Government. (Grrrr)

46

Celine Flux

‘Perhaps she and I have different more subtle similarities’, he wandered while everyone on his ward, and no doubt all wards within earshot, cringed-out, listening to her unbearably harrowed groans. The su-su-entertainment “lowdown” coming round from the adjoining ward, was that she fell at home, and was slowly losing her faculties due to an impressive stretch of age.

Having had no exposure to, (but through knowing a whole lot of nothing except how the world really works), and vaguely grasping the useless category—dementia—Omni figured it wouldn’t be long before she’d be transferred to the psycho ward in no time and if Omni held his tears in any longer he would end up there too!

But just in the nick of time Nivja as promised came to see him, carrying a paper bag of fruit from the on-site store. His sore eyes bulged.

Omni bit his lip, but couldn’t resist toying with wonderful questions on jumprope in his head . . .’ A nice natured being like Nivja bearing assorted fruits? Working on the premises, but coming to see me, just when I’m at my weakest? Huh . . . sh-t . . .’ . Omni was grateful, and the affiliated sensations clapped him up just as she approached his half-open cubicle. Nivja’s welcome smile was one hell of a sight to behold but, all those howls of resistance from that elderly lady back there seemed to all, to pang on the empathy-chest, having everyone feeling pretty disturbed, and as the whole orthopaedic department slowed their activity due to this Thatcherite with disagreeable shrieks of dissension, unfortunately for Nivja when she arrived, everyone, (I mean everyone), looked severely affected.

47

TRAUMATIZED BY THE REVELATION

SHESWITCHED TO ORTOW PYLIT

It’s all special-relativity (in general) but Nivja like Omni had read a lot of stuff, so much non-general knowledge that when amongst friends of her youth, she just sounded sooo different. When she spoke, her expression, being influenced by her books, had become quite markedly different to all her old peoples. Nowadays when she talked with them, or even looked at them, although she tried regardless, before long seemed as if the space between her and the other individual she spoke to was so irredeemably vast, that there weren’t even any point trying to reach out.

Some slippery manic-depression residue perhaps . . .? Who knew but, it did come as quite a surprise at what great ease Niv and Omni got along at—It was his invalid-desperado mode, and her recognition of a deeper sadness, tentatively saluting that sadness from her own defensive foxhole within the first sentence of their meeting which had something to do with it (me thinks).

‘Jeez, what a racket!’ she whispered stepping through the drapes moderately aghast. ‘Mmm I know, sounds deep ennit’? She placed her bag on the floor and the paper bag bursting with fruit on the side cabinet before stepping up to the bed, ‘How you doing Omni’? He felt pretty stupid but firmed it ‘I’m cool, I’m cool . . . Bed bound and bored, but cool. Hey . . . sorry about this morning’ ‘What . . .’? Disgusted by his quite understandable actions while heading over to X-ray, Omni, now trying to come off all rugged, like some centurion-Bolshevik, plucked from battle with Nivja playing selfless medic, felt the need to apologise for wiping away tears earlier. ‘Tut-tut . . .’ for six Omni’s apology got batted, ‘. . . Don’t be so common’. She acted it out in jovial voice-over, stretching out, adding to, and animating her already kinda suave voice, which Omni found, surprisingly, unobjectionable.

Hanging out from the gap lower down in the cabinet, only just, Niv noticed her brother’s old moby and gave it a curious look.

‘Working properly then . . .’?

48

Celine Flux

‘Oh yea, that, it’s fine. Thanks for blessing me with it anyway, it came in useful stabill’ ‘No problem’ she said with continued affection, which Omni, outstandingly cynical, had already begun screening for signs of middle-caste-pity.

Late afternoon, feeling shattered, Niv had been working a long shift before coming over to visit. Dragging up the chair to sit down she nevertheless spent herself a good couple of hours talking (and talking) about nothing much in particular, at first, till she really got started.

When Seattle passed, seeing this vaguely familiar woman in green scrubs, as opposed to her white uniform on the orthopaedic ward, she played her distance, but doing her job: in and out, dealing with other patients, passing by, smiling at everyone and looking over to Omni’s small cubicle opening. He on the other hand, found all this semi-arcane behaviour from a nearly married woman strangely exciting.

Totally oblivious to the surveillance operation though, Nivja, and Omni trying his best to remain so, got themselves bound into some far-flung discourse. So sunk deep into lumpy pillows that felt so warm they could’ve merged into extensions of his own body, he rested his head, and looked, and listened, getting carried away by her Repliversity revivals and his woolgathering’s which, as she spoke, kinda worried him, and from past experiences he knew why:

His acquiring this pricey liking for Nivja merely because, he leveraged, though ultimately wasted on hygienic flesh-mortals of the opposite sex, he wasn’t sure but, it might’ve been a re-arousal of sorts, of an old sentimentalist disability within him . . . an . . . impairment, which for some reason wouldn’t stay limp at the barracks beneath his ill-fitting hospital gown. Now marching for the frontline dying for a kiss, wandering if it would be as gentle as she looked, he renewed his attempts to out-wit this sentimentality, or at least try, and if not, then pivot over its deployment, to leap-in later, hopefully overcoming passions mode, obstructive as it is, constantly vying with other modes for influence over the I-dren, yet, plus not forgetting that all this suppression business would take considerable effort—Charmed by her tales and accordingly absorbed, this was Omni now trying to relegate Nivja, embroiled while she spoke for the time being, in the subtle arts of strategic adjustment and counter-adjustment against flushing infatuation hormones, produced by his own balls!

49

TRAuMATiZeD BY THe ReVelATiOn SHeSWiTCHeD TO ORTOW PYliT

‘I call it The Rockstar Traits’ Nivja unfurled, observantly tailing-off a discussion about music and then creating a related subject ‘. . . Because like, see your favourite rockstar he has those genes: He’s arrogant. He’s a bubblehead . . . way past the average joeplumber anyway’. Nivja swirled onwards, out into a verbal dissertation-angle called “Young People Imitating Unqualified Hero’s”, while apparently having pleasurable flashbacks, legs crossed to one side, her soft knee propping-up, pushing out the arc of the upper calf, balancing a cup of tap water being fingered just inches above.

‘. . . He’s typically reckless, and not just when on stage snapping guitars in two’! Omni grinned, picturing this previously unrecited qualities list as it grew in length and in humour. ‘He’s a womaniser . . . grouchy when questioned by jurno’s, and hugely demanding, especially when at the top of his game? . . . does all those drugs with his band, in the studio, hoping to increase artistic leverage, usually supplied Mr Tour Manager, or soundtec, who morph into sycophantic adoring fan No1 when your typical egocentric frontman takes credit for blowing the band up big time! And can’t forget my favourite . . . all that binge drinking, till you’ve got ya TV licence to chuck the box out the window’!

Omni, (who by the way doesn’t do rock music either, but culturally ever-absorbent salutes any whiteboy with a guitar screaming . . . “Ahh go on give’em a state, you gave the Mormons one?”) struggled, conjuring up a few questions of his own, saving them all until after, unwilling to tamper with the lucidity he was hearing at the time.

‘. . . Well don’t look so surprised Omni, coz I had my summer of groupie madness and it was, just, like, well like that: I had all the posters and I wore the style, took all of it on, plus shrouded myself in the attitude thinking it would change something, anything. I wined and winged, got ski’d up in the clubs and went spazzoletti down the high street wearing no more than studs, sequins, and goosebumps! And you know what? . . . if memory serves me correct? I quite enjoyed being one of those punks, however short lived: My hero’s endorsed it . . . parents unwittingly sponsored it, well, until they clamped down on me during freshyear but anyway . . . Ah . . . what a crazy summer it was . . . Don’t look at me like that’! Niv mock-prodded Omni, by now trying to not chuckle at the thought of grungy Nivja as a young hungover student in a Repliversity dorm room, him thoroughly surprised by the revelation—(Oh not traumatized then ay)?

50

Celine Flux

‘Sozz Niv’ he said chuckling, ‘. . . It’s just, well, you know . . . You, apart from the nail colour of course, seem, so model-citizen-like’n that.

To breeze pass you pon road, the primitive part of my wig, it wouldn’t exactly scan and come up with “Now here comes possible ex-hellraising wildminx” . . . you know what I mean? . . . Nah you’re more like what I’d point to friends and call ‘The C.C.C.’ Classy Cinema Curvature . . . But longscreen . . . not widescreen, you know, like all them black and white movies with ladies stepping over belching manholes, cocktail in one hand, mahogany-buffed cigarette holder in the other . . . Now, that’s more how I picture you out of uniform’.

As he spoke Nivja stretched her eyes, shocked, puzzled, but nevertheless appreciative of the comment. ‘Not quite how you see yourself though huh’?

‘Well now you mention it . . .’ she zoned, measured, then confessed, ‘I’d go for that, over the Bubblegum and “My Shetland Ponyclub Look” any time’!

‘Mmm I know what you mean’; Omni didn’t feel the whole pale pink n’white thing either.

‘That popular candy floss style? Just like my old school-look began to bore me immensely. So I gave away my CD’s, plus the posters by then had gotten all tatty and died. Still got the nail polish as you can see, and when I’m feeling particularly anarchic on comes the lip liner too! But then, I realize I’m leaving myself open for Greasemonkey Biker Angels who love to hit on that sort of girl, and unfortunately for them I don’t like that sort of guy, so . . . I mean . . . Well maybe I do like a “bit of ruff “, or a bit of that instigative orientation type, but, I’d say that’s taking it a touch too far for my liking’!

Omni giggled about it for a bit trying to sit up, fiddling with the pillows piled and now sinking uncomfortably behind his back.

‘Here, let me’. He leaned forward allowing Niv to rearrange the pillows, but then as he reclined, saying ‘Thanks’ she, still talking, reached over him, right over to the other side, already knowing Omni who just verbalised his satisfaction with the effort, comfy now (in bed and in convo) still listening to her speak on in vivid description about her non-static lines of likeability between good, bad, and sweet boys, kept on messing with the pillows!—It was having a tantrippy-like effect on the body and mind. To complete the job, she now sat right next to him, fluffy bum pressed on his bony hip (the only one that worked) and

51

TRAuMATiZeD BY THe ReVelATiOn SHeSWiTCHeD TO ORTOW PYliT

her top half twisted right round, overly plumping up one corner, then the other—He felt like she was practically on top of him.

‘Aha!’ he thought shaking off the trance, giving her the slight eyeball over thick hips, raised ribs, bequeathing appraisal on those gestures of arms reaching around his neck, ‘Think ya slick?’—: Now this was cynical Omni again, putting any ideas of sex-lobe tactics in check by mental accusation—‘Yea slick but, that slick? Nah you ain’t!’ His thoughts got as dismissive as possible, the warm smell of unfamiliar fabric softener and girly deodorant all up in his nosebridge, ‘Huh, tryin’a trick me into arousal? Hmm, Yo this girl’s guilty as charged!’ Omni looked up first at her cleavage, then her neck, then eyes (wandering how his own eyebrows were looking) convinced she knew exactly what she was doing and why it was being done, while at the same time she elongated her neck, drawing-out this correcting-of-pillows-thing, speaking, staring down at his tattoos for a sec, seeming curious but saying nothing about them.

When she finally finished pressing up against him (and pushing her chest almost into his face!) she sat back down still talking, but by now Omni wasn’t listening—too busy trying to hammer-out and confirm he hadn’t gotten it all twisted back at X-ray and that she fancied him for sure, and if he could, reasonably judge the cadence of these increasing odds. He tried to ponder something imaginatively distracting for his lustful impulse, strangely, ending up at some mental picture of a random half-rotten log, infested with creepy-crawly’s and lifeless oak leaves, somewhere deep in an eighteenth century corner of a country estate garden. But although he struggled with it, mind zooming into fallen leaves neglected by lost summer, decomposing, transcendental organization of tiny ants fully operational and milling about under the log, ultimately, the distraction was no use. It came, and went, leaving Omni to wonder the directional meaning—if any—of her spinal-rotation action his way! ‘She must do’, he thought, ‘If so, how much?’ inwardly adding, determined not to take the plunge and end up fancying her more than she did he, Well . . . Not more than any wounded young man trapped on a ward would fancy any pretty female hospital staffmember.

So, there Omni was, puzzled, stunned by a stunner, and lost in nightingale lust, looking at her lovingly while thinking to himself . . .’ Here I am Nivja, Here we are . . . but me with Kirsten Scott Thomas documenting angel-insect migration in the back of my bloody head’!

52

TRANSCENDENTAL PASTIMES

OVERLAPETHISTENTIAL DILEMAS

So this friend Omni was on his way to see in Wandsworth just before the accident? He finally dropped in with his wife one night after work.

His name was Maurallah Bianco aka Gadget, and was an unrelenting enthusiast of fashion design, starting out down at the foothills of his would-be chosen industry. They met whilst sleeping rough with some Ottoman-Serb immigrants on Edgware Road, where differing combinations of either, police, cold nights, or local Turkish wise-guys (packing pokers which they stupidly were not) would come and force them further down, away from their shops to go play stowaway somewhere else—nearest shelter from freezing elements being the subways of Marble Arch.

At the time Mauro spoke just enough English via U.S. sitcoms and the World Service, to convey to Omni at the mobile food kitchen every other night, that he’d brought a wealth of ideas from the staunchly racist part of Italyasia, and had studied the London rag culture well enough to take that gamble and catch a coach here with the hope of being recruited by one of the many Camden-based Needle & Thread Houses. He had folders, cuttings from newspapers, and a whole gang of other things he’d been involved in from back home in Italyasia—All he had to do now was get to Camden!

Gadget and Maverick (aliases they used after emergency-hostel initiation) found themselves coming up together through the same YMCA in Marylebone and would steal to eat (out of boredom also). Any billboards they came across depicting a model in a skimpy dress would be all Mauro needed to ignite the creativity of his untrackable inner-spark, enthusiasm brightening-up his bloodshot eyes, coming out with all types of fly ideas, adamant he’d burst onto the scene someday . . . if not soon then, within a few choice gatecrashes with rentboys he sold marching powder to via his hostel window; the classic jailhouse

53

TRAnSCenDenTAl PASTiMeS OVeRlAPeTHiSTenTiAl DileMAS

technique; an intricate pulley system: ripped sheets tied to roll-ons for secure weight, with the money, or the “food” hidden neatly inside.

When kickin’ it to Omni about current market leaders and the particular chinks in their armour, the “no fixed abode” status they were all in and the cold winds of their predicament would melt away, as the pair often broke off main group conversations and mentally drew-up plans for their differing industry climb-overs.

On the back of a suspension-worn nightbus they’d gambit stratagem, like two mouldy street foxes with special club o’zion membership, and Mauro in particular would speak with great amounts of zeal about the qualities of one type of fabric, and the inferiority of another—Not Omni’s cup of tea but, a respected and inspiring slice of edutainment nonetheless. Nah, Videogames were Omni’s thing as a kid, and him—(never being exposed)—considered this world of high-priced fashion, straight fenké-fenké business.

But he and the rest of that loosely tied crew of chancers hailing from all 4 corners of planet Azya, all, over time, grew used to Mauro’s well investigated, broad-chested, chin-stroking proclamations of world domination, and faithfully trusted his word on what clothes were certified as officially “hot” or “not” (as the Garmzcase may be), even learning little bits about the worldwide fashion-game along the way, which at least for Omni, heightened his appreciation of that sphere of commerce even down to the manufacture of the sweatshop gear he was wearing on his back!

You see Gadget and Omni? Their friendship lasted due to an ability to not bicker like most clansmen, and as they both settled into their adopted city at the same time, they’d spend many a sherry-enhanced evening defending similar political sympathies and crudely attempting to, if only a bit, admit to their weaknesses which could be done drunk, stoned, or sober, if the other topics of conversation had been sufficiently exhausted.

They were both cool, connected by broken English, but, Omni in particular, adapted more to persons he interacted with—(that’s whenever the mood to dabble in politique, concept-manipulation, or animalism surged up, then yea, he’s all for it)! Like others in his country he now saw the advantage of being in a multi-cultural society and having a group of associates that would reflect this. Omni had issues but this was not one of them, any more, not since progressively turning his back on the

54

Celine Flux

BNP-sounding genocidal philosophy that hijacked the chosen art form he’d been fanatical about ever since he was a teen—effectively turning him into young Adolf with The Blues—:(Beastie Boys, Vinnie P, Eminem, Apathy, Esoteric, Ra-Rugged, Non-Fiction etc, made being politically black but factually brown, kind of impossible for him) although, whenever he encountered a large glass ceiling, which he would from time to time, if ever he couldn’t bluff his way through the membrane, then nine times out of ten he’d still wrongly put it down to high levels of melatonated magic and not to his lack of finance or contacts (which is more likely to be the case): If you’re reading this you should know that no-one—(absolutely no-one)—can pre-judge people accurately enough to anticipate and avoid the occasional mishap and folly . . . Welcome to the passion realm . . . ha ha haaaaa.

55

YOUNG SKINNY AND WRONG

Feeling just like Julia Roberts holding that art exhibition in Closer (yea “The Cat that got The Cream” scene) like there was a conspiracy against him by the mainly Filipino, Austral-Asiatic and South-Afro-Asian staff to ensure he’d never get his hands on a wheelchair, Omni re-doubled his efforts not to go flipazoid during his stay at the hospital. Besides, it had been twelve blustery days spent in, so by now, he’d worked out the daily drill and had more or less settled.

Over this period he’d seen patients recover, leave, only to be replaced by people who upon admission, contacted the outside world via bedside phones looking awfully drowsy and off colour, then after some time their reason for being in there (and desire to return home), would become the ultimate ice-breaker, the glue, that could hold any hospital ward of immobile inmates reasonably close together. The ritual trading of old war stories during such a time became a sort of help through the circumstance.

By day ten the five bed patients (two each side of Omni, and three opposite) that had been there the longest, together formed the strongest bond. Hours of idle chit-chat, and at times some uncompromising bigoted opinions, criss-crossed their section of the large tinderbox-feeling hall turned broken bone department each day.

Retired but energetic and looking much younger than that, nearer middle-age, the expressive West-Africasian accent always talking and coughing belonged to a man named Kemite, short, cheerful, and with a perfectly rounded pot belly. He had browning teeth with a few missing, but that didn’t stop the evangelizing which everybody accepted, and clearly, it worked well for him, but although Omni respected principle-apps, and the yoga systems of all iconic Judo-Christian monks, he had unearthed way too many depraved atrocities; paedophilic debaucheries which he’d not yet disproved were particular, (in volume only), to professional followers of that organisation—Optionless, Omni took his quasiacademic approach and wandered if Kemite in his youth felt the same way.

56

Celine Flux

His aura and ambient-extension felt naturally agreeable upon contact, and his wife, also a born-again Christian, with an angelic smile, which could only be given by “the energy of the supreme enjoyer” (who must’ve really been enjoying it!), decided to designate herself a type of pseudo-mother to Omni after learning his mother lived in Jamaicasia, bringing him meals along with her husband’s large plastic containers of food. Omni was grateful to be off the NHS’s, appreciated but primary school-tasting sustenance, if only till Kemite and his wife’s superior cooking left the building.

On the day of that leaving, Kemite invited all present to his church, proudly declaring how it would be part of “a life-changing experience” for anyone who turned up and open-mindedly took part. He reminded Omni in particular, of all those examples and descriptions of miracle-working,

‘. . . And all from the power of prayer!’ Kemite explained, then later left the ward, leaving a bed which didn’t stay empty for very long.

When everyone’s usual early-morning bed change, wash, commode, and breakfast had been completed the re-familiarizing would begin, after all, only huge slices of wasteable TV-watching-time lay piled up on their side—(Licence exemption anyone?)

57

A VARIABLE PERSPECTIVE OF

CLOUDCUCKOOLAND

For thirteen days now Omni had been bed bound. The promise of a wheelchair from when the Physio first came to see him with some initial exercises never came true—(These exercises, for the record, were meant to “promote blood cells near the fusing fracture”). He went on to give Omni false hope, verbalizing a flashback he had, back whenever, of an old patient from early in his career with similar injuries. So using that recovery time as a guide, this rugby-playing physiotherapist nicknamed by the nurses “Phizzie Pop” told Omni, if he practised his sub-prescribed duties he’d be running again within three months. (How wide of the mark was he . . . eh?); Omni neglected his exercises and never ran over a few steps again for the next five years! But the upside was though, that he kept his right foot, along with all his hopes and commitments to seize the next opportunity that arose. I mean, for all he knew, he could presently be an amputee in a parallel-membrane-world somewhere out there even as you read this now . . . right?

On this same thirteenth night Seattle was working the late shift. Omni was in his cubicle curtained-off watching his small idiot box, cursing the heavens because too many on the ward were annoyingly snoring away.

A lot of effort went into keeping his needle-point of attention on the generic junk spewing out of the TV and not, yet again, on contemplating the crash and addressing other recent performance issues continually dogging him. Meanwhile though, the Midnight Marauders night was on Seattle’s mind. Bored, with mischievous nerves in need of relief, she came and sat again for a while as she’d done an hour or so before, but on this occasion slipping under the drapes more discreetly, to see what Omni was up to and maybe, burn another twenty minutes. The climate was extraordinary, irresistible, exciting, and for Seattle risky. But both, barely keeping their sense of near-relish in check, pivoting on the cusp of

58

Celine Flux

something, none knowing quite what they approached the breach, and let each other in, dancing expertly together, around each other, while, as massive moments between them peaked, she, fidgeted, only just, timing almost perfect, a revelation of that slender engagement ring on her finger (which Omni had somehow confused with any old ring a few times before), selecting morsels of history from her life, most poignant of all that she lived on an emotional roller-coaster at present, not having much fun in the slightest living with Adam, the father of her delightful little post-toddler.

She swiftly changed the subject having packed her verbal bags, taking it to where she didn’t want to go in the first place, choosing afterwards to talk about something else; more inspired, topical questions, such as . . .’ Ah . . . But can you leave, if say . . . they continually interrupt your train of thought with snide comments under their breath . . .’? Or even higher queries like . . .’ OK then . . . Your biggest mistakes?’ where Omni, (who stated he’d rather be called Maverick), also already in a vulnerable state, uploaded guilt of teenage abortion-decrees to a girl he knew over a decennium ago.

‘Ever so often’, sunk into the stack of pillows he recalled, ‘I’d feel a tingle in my eye; I always wished the best, not the worst.

So I’d tell myself, it ain’t good to feel special, if I’m special then everyone’s special, you know what I mean, but I can’t help it . . . Just hope it ain’t only megalomaniacs coming to this egonarsiss-conclusion’.

Seattle, like a lot of people who opted for discretion of hope, knew a little something of where he was coming from. She tightened up her chin, understating a flash signal meant to affirm something supportive, like ‘Yep, I’m with you’ as Omni himself sat elaborating, spreading out narrative on retained experiences, propped-up by the four pillows and sat under cotton sheets boiled stainless to institution-wide standard.

He continued reflecting. ‘. . . It’s just a feeling I get, it’s like a kind of nagging or something, like one of those northward tribes of Isra-el sensing they’re unique compared to the other eleven but not so Quranical, if you get my drift uh’? Intensifying the grin Seattle listened, sitting up on the bed as Omni spoke, bassing down his tone.

‘But on the real side of things? That can also make a person feel as if they’re not engaged in their actual mission; they’re personal, uppermost objective. And I have a feeling this applies to you too, as well as me, us being interested in such similar things?’ Seattle nodded, soaking it up

59

A VARiABle PeRSPeCTiVe OF ClOuDCuCKOOlAnD

attentively, but also checking for noise on the ward in case some other staff member crept up on them.

‘If I’m not engaging in it then I tend to be real hard on myself. I’d snap out of it, straighten my hand, slap my face and focus on how to set about embarking on it, this mission. I tried to tell my girlfriend about this “issue” of mine, this wig-ache, when she came to see me one morning. I was close to tears as I tried to break it down. And she was, surprisingly, pretty dismissive of this, my observable observation, plus holding back the fact she just found out she was pregnant. But as she was being all unsympathetic that tingle returned to my eye. Anyway I was resentful of her lack of compassion and we descended into a row, to the point where she took my heart, that I gave her, and she threw it against the wall! . . . it was smashed’, Omni whispered in conclusion, ‘. . . Hmmn, and you know what, I’ve been heartless and on ortow-pylit ever since’. Seattle was (almost) completely, utterly miffed, (like I said, almost), except, being able to imagine a scenario vaguely like that, with its endless figure-8’s of emotional violence, happening between her and Adam.

As one ticking slab of time knocked over another, questions aimed at Seattle, one divined as . . .’ OK OK . . . Your dearest treasure?’ had her actuating lavish language upon her young son, Othellenius, who was of nursery age, taken over there each morning and entertained by The Overbearer, a mock-title, used only with friends, and now, in Omni’s cubicle; It was a nickname given for Adams mega-inquisitive, almost robotic mother whose heart was in the right place, but if need be, just like her quick-tempered-when-things-don’t-go-their-way son, she had the capacity to rip heads clean off!

Unforcing a sporty, dark red-like, ginger, almost corporate-styled look under blue headband, with a shift uniform worked as best she could (given latest restrictions from rule-making trustee’s in fly offices on upper floors), Seattle struggled hard, unlike her man, to exercise restraint and, for better or for worse, generally tried to remain characteristically philosophical with all her, pretty well thought out speculative theories.

Always pausing to think before she spoke in order to appear as diplomatic as possible (because people who don’t talk this way and who are overly scathing unfortunately bore her immensely) she cooled the heat of her frustrations with Adam by taking more of the blame when kickin’ it to Omni about short fuses on their once perfect circuit

60

Celine Flux

board of compatibility, but by then Omni had already gathered his own opinion based on her answers, answers which floated just above the real, much more brutal facts. Omni of course empathized, and was more than attracted to this woman of similar substance.

Once he found out that her engagement was to a Bluecoat of all people, ‘But I’d never dream of doing a job like that myself ‘ she always added, well . . . Omni just couldn’t let it go! And earlier in their “curiosity may kill” type flirtship, when she first reluctantly mentioned this, Seattle always came back to defend her fiancé as best she could, after all, she was most lightly going to marry this dude with a name both Punic-war sides include in their respective holy books as the first prophet.

Her overall defence of Adam she secretly knew though, was not good enough. Back at home, it was in the steezo of ambiguous, cryptic revelation, that she transmitted these knots in the rope to closer family members, which then subsequently oriental-whispered its way over to the almost-in-laws back in their own close-knit side of town.

All being many generations deep in Satelliteton meant that for the most part both edges of the family lived and worked near, and for this reason they stayed in each other’s business (to Seattle’s ongoing annoyance)—Which was noticeable, because most of them, whenever hearing fragments of incidents they didn’t actually witness, usually ended up bias towards Adam by way of either one-sided hearsay, or by way of blood (Rampage Last Boy Scout of course).

Adam was becoming to Seattle of-late a depressingly unlovable uncultured couch-potato that somehow, to a slow, progressively lesser extent, complemented (not) her fitness fanaticism and holistic hobbies.

At work, great effort went into not focusing too much on his negative change in physique and increasingly disagreeable attitude, and being away from Omni, up and down wards so much, there seemed never enough time, leaving her unable to download extensively to him all the homelife problems, not least because her and fiancé Adam, to the outside world, appeared so durable and successful in their engagement.

Whenever they did get into one-on-ones alone in the cubicle at night, Omni would often seek advice on how to create apparent equilibrium and harmony with such a long-term partner, in so-doing, she became his sort of ‘special amateur relationship counsellor’; a temporary job, that she had a wealth of knowledge of, plus, she rather did enjoy marching-up to

61

A VARiABle PeRSPeCTiVe OF ClOuDCuCKOOlAnD

invade grafted scenario’s then popping-off a clutch of aspects on his, or her individual dilemmas fabricated or not, knocking them all down like cut-out targets at gun-clapping range.

Getting ever-deeper together, before the two of them realized it that old professional/patient line had been crossed, syrup attracted hornets, unseen by most, decipherable in each other though, so, when apart, in the hope it would end but, dependent on circumstance, unnecessarily long and aching moments would be spent in trance, head skyward, considering all those little secrets they let slip to each other, along with all them heartfelt insights provided on this, their virgin, roulette-styled form of trust. For sure, somehow, now helpless, they were both emotionally involved.

She appeared in his cubicle from then on brandishing small useful edible gifts, or with a cup of coffee quickly handed back and forth while speaking. Whenever they looked into each other’s eyes hoping these moments constituted a novel, infrequent experience, like something above the average, they both wished and hoped in vain that some kind of stretched, or at least controlled time could be put on these sensations, by some way delaying the pleasure (an aloof pastime employed by the emotionally bored) which they both agreed from brief talks about life experiences, was pretty much reserved for the sub-elite but predictably, would always be a point of dispute to spiritual opposition:

Understood by mahatmas practicing subtle states of consciousness to be low on The Ladder, to f—knutz like us, through relative poverty now infatuated by material things, this be a lofty place, the closest one gets to true silence, where a certain kind of person (who resonates with this class of manimal) accepts that pleasure-delaying is a compulsion, a predetermined direction for the inquisitive and tameable god-given mind (with thorny tentacles of senses attached) designed to be curious and to search for what’s interesting. The hardest trick to perform and practise for these types, would be to reign-in this desire, or at least find a way of momentarily resisting its reflex to submit to any particular thing of instinctive, sensory interest, be it visible, audible, or otherwise (only for example but). A by-product of this resistance has been reported back to us fools in the 4% matter of our universe—(the other 96% dark and anti, undetectable but with observable influence on mass)—as something called invisible gain (Feel me Tibet, But if you can’t? Oh well whatever, nevermind).

62

SO WHAT’S PRE-NATAL PLEASURE?

(WHATEVER IT IS, USE IT PROPERLY-POST)

Seattle moved herself up on the bed for a while just before leaving to look at, and comment on, what Omni was only pretending to watch.

At that instant, held captive by intrigue, they took a chance, stealing a dangerous kiss, enticed over from an absorbing paradigm in full sprint, to the form plane, where the finest of skins, lubricated by the fusion, obeyed, then separated. (The reader should be bearing in mind here that)—The only detectable sounds were: the sacred syllable OM-notes constantly pulsating from industrial strength air-con fans, gnawing away like background radiation way over from the catering block, and this sound was in turn behind the humming of patient equipment, and the slow creek-stop-creek of the medicine dispensing trolley making rounds somewhere near them.

Of course because of this precise movement each day like clockwork, they had to time any future convergences flawlessly, remembering also to be mindful of what they said to each other. But make no mistake, frontiers were now being established by them just being there, quietly swiping exciting slithers of time together, out there, on Bothman’s Land.

They confused eavesdroppers, mixing-in progress reports on injuries with formal small-talk, but, whenever she felt safe enough to, or during breaks, she spoke with great satisfaction about things that raised her 8.5 out of 10 eyebrows, stretched her bi-coastal ribs, and moved her expressive hands, especially when breaking down how she kept her devastatingly distracting but interesting-to-the-senses figure in shape.

Animating her upper body while yapping she described once, how she was first introduced to body-boarding, and often travelled out to practice with a permanently-based surfing community on the Isle of Wight for protracted periods of her holidays—Great fun, harder to do, and only a cheap boat ride away.

63

SO WHAT’S PRE-NATAL PLEASURE? (WHATEVER IT IS, USE IT PROPERLY-POST)

Actually, an invitation was extended for Omni to participate any time he was willing to travel and meet them up in the area, passionately evangelizing about it being her gateway drug into all aquatic sports and all things to do with keeping fit.

64

DONT TOUCH ME PRE-HERODOTUS,

OR I’LL BLEED

Now day fourteen was the day when enough was really enough. Having a wheelchair (social mobility scooter hehehe) stolen from another ward by a Glaswegian kidney-damaged, yellow and greying junkie with muscle mass removed from his arm due to abuse, only to have it borrowed again never to return, left a lingering bitter taste in Omni’s mouth. As if that broken promise of a wheelchair in a few days from an under-resourced and outdated health service wasn’t enough, the bed to his right was occupied by the same over-compensating “Jafaican” who for no other reason than proximity thought he identified with Omni. The nurses called him Ishma-el, and he falsely assumed they could both “relate” because of their (not very probable unless omnified) shared cultural identity.

Disaffected and irked-off, like he was missing something out on the streets or something, Omni had already let Niv over at radiography know he was thinking about discharging himself, and her reply was ‘Just do what you think is right’. But she did let him know she didn’t think his decision was right.

How he explained it; he’d rather spend some time on the south coast until the flesh underneath the stitching and staples had sufficiently healed, then finally he would call the rest of his friends and family up north to let them know about the crash—It’d probably/hopefully have spread like wildfire up there and someone would no doubt be willing to come collect him. This way, if he went up to Metroaux he could alternate between his mother’s house and his hundreds of first, second and third cousins etc, sisters and uncles—most of them being near the hospital close to where he grew up. Logistically it made more sense for Omni to go back to those old sentimental streets to recover. To his thinking, better to be an out-patient at the local hospital—the area he rode his battered BMX back in those irredeemable days of yore.

65

DONT TOUCH ME PRE-HERODOTUS, OR I’LL BLEED

When Seattle showed up and he told her of his intentions—to escape the ward and its much feared superbugs—she also made loud but failed attempts to persuade him otherwise, but the bonus, as they secretly discussed days earlier was that she, incidentally, commuted from the large neighbouring town of Satelliteton on the south coast, and that town was near to where Omni had this “scholarly bredgrin”—(as he put it)—and ‘ghetto-guru’ living, so, decided to neglect his boring hospital admission and stay with him instead. Before giving warnings about the risk of other infections born of departing so early, the two of them made plans for her to drive over and see him, to check scars for any signs of corruption, thereby—both grateful for this option—inevitably spending some more discovery time together.

So after putting in the relevant phone call which included ordering a wheelchair jack-move (coz no one had provided him one) all Omni had to do was endure a few more hours of bullabread from the, close . . . but no cigar Jafaican, who considered it his job to be the life and soul of the whole ward. From the first moment Ishma-el was heard cracking jokes, making demands down the corridor with his scrawny girlfriend screeching in-toe, Omni just turned over to face the window, defensive as ever, resisting till he had no option but respond to the first barrage of questions.

Naïve, (in the oldboy duality-chambers of invasion and conquest, honour and dishonour), it was almost like Ishma-el had an invisible label around his neck saying, “I’m just one of those people”, and only Omni and a few others could see it. One of those who also saw this label, looking over at Omni and rolling his eyes whenever Ishma-el began to speak, was this young Anglicasian-Cockney dude who shared a similar crash story to his, except he was riding a moped at walking speed, so you wouldn’t think he’d be laid-up on an orthopaedic ward for a whole six months with ruptured whatever’s, and spinal injuries? (Well Omni didn’t anyhow).

66

I CAN DO IT ALL BY MYSELF,COZ I’M

SUPERMAN (GODLESS?)

Adjustable layers of glass near the ceiling in a Venetian style partitioned each and every isle. Dusty and hard to reach, placed high up above everyone’s head, this was from where the whole orthopaedic wards audible activities would bounce through, then down into Omni’s own central ward.

Each afternoon they were opened using a long wooden contraption by an MP3 listening, basketball playing juvenile mercenary cleaner, who tried shooting-clean the tiles underneath all beds and furniture with his acrid anti-bacterial spray gun but, bless him, more than often, he missed.

Now this guy Jayden aka Coptic, who truly sounded more like a yardie, was in his late teens, sporting vain-bulgingly long defined arms with mock-jailhouse tattoos.

Coptic told Ishma-el in bed (next to an already aware of the fact Omniversal) and dwindling number of original-now-veteran patients that he, unlike this over-eager Ishma-el, who’s parents, although Sudanic in complexion, and Semitic in features, probably descended more from the Pre-historic settlers of the Aegean and Mediterranean, rather than any sunny west-Indian island he claimed his already previously-patented slang from.

Well Coptic actually was Jamaicasian, but had grown up in Newark New Jersey where Omni also had family, most kids with parents from Yard do, no big thing, but this connection was established when Coptic first came on the ward a couple weeks earlier, way before newcomer Ishma-el’s arrival, and after that disclosure unfortunately for Ishma-el, he began to feel a bit left out of the loop (poor Ishma-el)!

This group conversation, taking place near the daylight-enriched-half of the isle, was interrupted by the sound of astonished voices approaching from the desk, rows of wards away and out of sight. Seattle and nearly all of the other nurses could be heard advising some particular visitor not

67

I CAN DO IT ALL BY MYSELF,COZ I’M SUPERMAN (GODLESS?)

to assist in any body’s discharging of themselves. That person was none other than Omni’s unofficial, auxiliary super-metaphysical advisor Mr Ebullient Sanchoz.

Now mister Sanchoz was an extremely busy man trying to keep his web design business afloat, chasing commissions while juggling fatherhood plus still forced to meet deadlines nationwide and because of that, Omni never expected him of all people to show when he requested—through another friend—that someone come scoop him up. As he approached, Seattle following, she, already knowing the inescapable rolling sequence thereby giving up, telling newer staff to go back to their parallel wards then herself wandering about, slowly fiddling with Englo-Cockney’s sheets while she watched proceedings, Mr Sanchoz, dressed in a crispy solar-yellow Brasilia top, cut an empty wheelchair straight through the small-talk of patients, all sitting up astonished, quietly rebounding their whispers of investigatory sentences, wandering to each other what was happening.

And he hadn’t even reach the bed when Omni started early with explaining the need to go south to their mutual friend and get back upon his feet ‘so I can tear sh-t up’ (thanx DMX), without the help of this appreciated but to Omni’s calculations a-better-used-less-often-type organization. Actually Mr Sanchoz never said a single word while on location, he just emptied Omni’s plastic bag of belongings along with the crash helmet, into his massive tennis bag, and ear-piercingly bungst-away the chair designated to Omni’s cubicle, the sharp sound cutting as the chair, turned, and ground to a halt—doing all this while still holding the wheelchair with his ankle, bracing it for Omni’s upper-body shuffle.

Mr Sanchoz has an aura that silences and perplexes, so as he first came into Omni’s sight and made his way down the ward with Seattle behind, pretending to dissuade them from doing the inevitable, which was futile after him travelling all that way, all the patients who bore witness to the two of them leaving were pretty shocked to hear confirmation of Omni’s departing so early.

Omni had a serious, determined look on his face by now, communicated mostly through his eyebrows, the way he’d been taught by his hippie-esque ex-ex-ex-girlfriend. Whenever she had a sentimental or poetic moment she would never try and explain it, rather awake from that distant muse and respond to questions asking if she was all right with a somehow reassuring, yet unique, simultaneous frown and Mona Lisa smile. It was one of the many tricks of being in a “subtle person’s

68

Celine Flux

trade” she said, where the English language seemed “just not ethereal enough”, and Omni being an only slightly educated Brummie, with an insufficient vocabulary (well compared to those institutionalized boffins, or, err . . . The Gay Mafia!), subtlety and the communication of inner feelings seem to be that much harder still. But triple-ex-rated Nina, the guerrilla-romantic who finds “lungfulls of explanations woefully inadequate”, always told Omni that when all else fails then, ‘Talk with your eyebrows, that’s how we first spoke, remember? xXx’.

After booting away the chair, thereby clearing the coast Mr Sanchoz began to push Omni along the long range of corridors towards the car park in a wheelchair, (which was not by the way meant to be put in the boot and taken off to a village ten miles along the south coast, but hey, who’s counting). This villa mentioned, was just outside its big sister Satelliteton, known for its habitation of ageing and motivated bi-sexual hippies.

One minute growling 2niftycc on ninja-back from the Dreadspot heading to Balham, and the next waking up bandaged from hip-to-toe . . .?

It stayed perplexing on the cipher for sure, and many castrated nights were spent pining after this new wheelchair-turned-getaway-vehicle he now found himself vacating the spot in.

Anyway, as it turned out the hospital security couldn’t attend the now petty-crime scene quick enough to take the wheelchair back (so there)! By this time he was being pushed past reception, so, he left his discharge papers on the desk, then, jokingly proceeded to blame the theft of the wheelchair on Ebullient Sanchoz who called it compensation for the unsatisfactory treatment of his student.

And that was that, the end; Omni, skinnier than ever, was pushed into the future by a monstrous fourteen day experience, stuck in a sort of bored hyper-sleep for evermore. From now on, new world events were just a repetition before his eyes, feint understated subtlety especially outside Zone1, was vivid, common knowledge, not worth knowing, and manmade things hailed as highly sophisticated, mere virtual illusory impediments. Trapped, Omni was unable to return to life pre-culmination.

Omni and Ebu headed out onto the car park still grilled-up like ‘. . . And the chairs coming with us, yea that’s right, you heard . . . w-wha’!

69

I CAN DO IT ALL BY MYSELF,COZ I’M SUPERMAN (GODLESS?)

Nearly at the car, he turned in the chair and took another look behind him. Through the tall glass entrance to the orthopaedic department he could make out Seattle, short cute hairstyle, on tip-toe waving franticly.

She promised to call, and after looking back at her, still animated, checking he was in the car properly, large black hair grip and wonderful yoga limbs, and it seemed, with a new found concern for each other, both were determined as ever to meet up again.

Painfully Omni sat in the backseat, one side in caste, the other mummified with bandages, safety pins and plasters, to news from Ebu (finally speaking) that, through negotiations at his previous job, the old company in The Den wanted to mass produce some products Omni co-conceived in Northern Germanya. Ebu started up the car running through the details, to Omni’s huge delight. And then, they both dipped-out like . . . like a light bulb.

* * *

70

STREETS KEEP CALLIN’

(BUT ITS OUTLOOK IS NOT IMPORTANT!)

So yea, off Omni went, driven to spend a slow and uncomfortable autumn recovering and planning for the following year down south, with his, primary scroll-stashing operative and allied trench-digger, Mr Alpha Prime. This new spot was in chilly Harbourton, an old, constantly windswept fishing village just outside Satelliteton. Its beach was sharp, zenchan, sensually stunning to a man who somehow blossomed out of a world where dudes never left they’re claimed city, and never ever had any sort of “two weeks in the sun”, (Nah, them holidays seem to be more the reserve of . . . let’s just say, a different demographic shall we).

The whole stretch of harbour front was faithfully manned, by well sponsored artistic Eco-volunteers collecting dodgy plastic each morning, harnessing the gravel strewn lengthways like salad dressing round strips of exposed sand shaded like strong tea. Seeing those voluntary workers, raking small dark stones into abstract design, etching strange shapes in the sand, had Omni stuck in a far-eastern zone of query.

Wrapped in a blanket one cold morning Mr Prime parked Omni’s wheelchair at the top of a shallow ramp near the breezy scowl-mouthed beach just yards below. As they approached, both tried to interpret what the day’s particular low tide markings could mean, and watched how those independently-funded surf servants, all dressed in light-reflective suits, masterfully rearranged the rocks into sublime patterns, their rakes and narrow shovels swirling beautifully over the terrain. Omni asked Mr Prime, shouting as he went back to the car to drop the kids off at nursery, ‘Eyo Prime, ever heard of The OCD-Zen Gardener . . .’? Prime never even needed to answer, he just left Omni to max-out and view his new surroundings, where most would affirm, it looked picturesque in all directions.

Thoughts moving—from the self-indulgent monk taking a toothbrush to a snappy beach—turning now to stare into those immense

71

STREETS KEEP CALLIN’ (BUT ITS OUTLOOK IS NOT IMPORTANT!)

unforgiving seas, as far as he possibly could, Omni realized he was watching the scenery from a point where he could sense the coast of France way out across the water on the faint misty horizon. A realization wafted up, pushed by the wind. ‘Huh, in a perfect world I could walk . . . from . . . over there, through to the mid-Eastern orient . . . right down to South Africa’!

He joked to himself quietly, ‘Or maybe . . . just follow the coast till I got to North Korea . . .? I believe I have anthropological ties there . . . hehehe’; Political hot potatoes causing reoccurring grins—grins now busy loading up on indulgent possibilities—Omni continued cerebral reasoning, toying about with the spreadsheet speculation, coastal mind-mapping, careful to scan over current administrative centres, especially the geography around Korea, polishing always, these random access proxies of his;

Typically, they were just like fragmental constitutions of future histories, concoctions extending themselves out, far-reaching, by now, bouncing back at the speed of shadowlessness to within his glance down at the oscillating surf, caressing perfect the smooth appearance of the sand.

Chairbound, that stare, remained on his face, shaped by a sublime mood moment, slumped, completely enchanted, appreciating mere atomic-based interomniversal conundrums of chemical exchange, quite beautiful, but not yet spiritual activity.

Although hard, hard like denying the tongue, the entire nanoidea was making him laugh inside a little bit so he sat and composed himself, wind bashing his face, but still charmed, shrugging off as usual the failed concept coming back round again, striking a pose at completion, it, poking fingers at him, acting—as always—as though it couldn’t be caught, the frustrating gap between isolated dreams, this one, baptized as . . . Mr Malleable Membrane, guaranteed to show, tantalizing from a distance where Omni’s broken line of philosafoolishness was not present:

Separation slender enough to satisfyingly degrade any recovering man way too proud anyhow, with ambitions stopping just short of Albert or Disraeli one step from Bad Teeth on the throne, it, halted itself, then, smugly drifted wayward, middle finger up and flipping the triumphant bird—What else could Omni do but smile back wishing his life be the final scene in Minority Report?

72

NO ONE KEEPS IT REAL, SO,

YOU’REFORCED INTO THE FAKENESS TET

Time itself, instead, flew by, like a bird, wind flicking off from underneath feathers, curving while Omni was in other parts of prospectville, wandering if a civilian/soldier marriage could possibly work, eyes on white spotless wings, high up as they cut through the blustery air, screaming, bickering out at sea, creating a mid-morning narayana soundtrack. One flew overhead from a hotel roof inland, touching down on the metal railings separating beach from the road running parallel. The seagull said his name was Jonathan before squawking away to join the rest of his dogfighting mob, swooping around, increasingly choosing man’s waste over the mercury-saturated fish. Omni’s (donated) phone went off, bringing him down to a smaller shaped cognizance than the big fish of metamarriage—and its condensed meaning—he was sat attempting to fry, looking at birds, sea, and wobbly randomness, of this long margin of sand running around the rocks and clear out of sight. Taking it from his pocket the LCD font flashed and on came to his lips an excited smile.

Adrenaline surged as he realized who was calling.Clearing his throat, he answered ‘Bonjour?’—(On some pretentious

bulla-bread)—Seattle responded, catching him out in jest, ‘Hi Omni, know French do ya’?

‘Oh nah’ coming back quickly he replied ‘. . . just good day good evening and goodbye, that’s it’. Omni changed the subject, not the first time caught tryin’a don continental-sounding trousers which don’t fit properly.

‘How you doing anyway Seattle, you OK’?‘I should be asking you really Omni’ ‘Guess so . . .’ he replied, ‘I’m

glad you called, Hoped you weren’t . . . well . . . you know . . .’ ‘Uh uh I said I would! My house is so close; it really is like, just twenty minutes away. Strange that. Don’t you think’? ‘Helpful more like . . . I’m here questioning who’s helping though, or, teaching me a lesson’? ‘Or helping you to learn . . .’? ‘Mmm, that too’!

73

nO One KeePS iT ReAl, SO, YOu’ReFORCeD inTO THe FAKeneSS TeT

Omni heard some strange clanging in the background, ‘What’s that noise? Where are ya? You on the ward . . .?’ ‘Oh, that, its lunch trolleys passing’ ‘OK . . . Hey listen, err, before I forget, can you get my number to that cleaner guy’? ‘Who . . . Jayden . . .’? ‘Yea I call him Coptic’ ‘Sure . . . I won’t see him till tomorrow; and by the way, Phzzie came yesterday, and the surgeon, there gonna page your GP for more medic-records, then your next of kin’! ‘I don’t care . . .’ Omni proclaimed,

‘But why anyway . . .? It don’t sound like hospital procedure’?‘Well neither is me having your number is it, besides what you

said about the staff they liked you on the ward Omni, you should have stayed’

‘Yea maybe your right’‘I am, everyone’s pretty miffed, you were all getting on so well and

Trevor . . . opposite’?‘Ahh Trevor how is he’?‘He’s fine, cruise-control. I heard him tell the others you’ve probably

gone to stay with your cousins in Wembley. I didn’t know you told him . . .? I bet they don’t even know where you are yet’?

‘They don’t. But as soon as I’m a bit better, you know how it goes’‘Sure. I mean I don’t mean to pry. I’m only asking coz, you said

they’re practically like sisters up there’‘Yea exactly, they are, so they’ll tell Aunty Puncy, who’d have to tell

my mom something like this, so . . . she don’t need the details if she’s in Jamaicasia . . .’

‘OK, as long as you know what you’re doing’.Omni was both grateful and puzzled at the same time, still kind of

struck by this whole nurse/patient thing Seattle even now was extending, him so many miles away from the spittle. ‘Anyway Omni, I’m calling coz I’ve got some things for you, dressings and stuff. You are staying in Harbourton right, like you said’?

‘Yep, I’m on the beach right now. It’s windy but, so realworld, timeless, like eternal home or something’

‘Yea I know what you mean, I grew up down there remember, my post-natal posture classes were held just a few miles west’, Omni looked about, and just then, struck upon an idea.

‘Hey! Drive down with your son sometime? My mate here has two young godlings. The kids can hang. Build sandcastles or something. And we can talk. Maybe meet Prime’s wife after? She safe as houses, and wait till you see their bookshelf! Maan talk about repressed topics’!!

74

Celine Flux

‘Sure, I’ll try. Adam’s a quick-to-flip kinda guy so I’ll need to plan it.

Maybe next week . . .?’‘Oh, whenever you can’‘OK so tomorrow though, I’ll try to leave a couple hours early so I

can see you . . . Need to check for signs of infection. Also, I think you should book yourself in as an out-patient at Harbourton Med? I’ll make arrangements after I’ve seen you . . . if you’d like’?

‘Cool, OK’, Omni checked the face of his phone, planning for later.

‘Right’ he said ‘so, call me whenever; Prime—that other creative catalyst of mine with the spare room?—He’ll be back soon with food . . . Guess we’ll chill for a bit then head home’

‘I think I should eat myself now too, I’m on my break, so . . . Call you tomorrow then’?

‘No problem, speak to you later, bye’‘Bye Omni’.Pocketing his phone Omni sighed for a bit, lifting up to the clouds

squinting. Then, he checked both ends of the wobbling coastline, leisurely, mind upon those restless nights broken by extortionately priced long-life gingercake and hot chocolate from ever-helpful Seattle—And now, looking out in the other direction, eyes taking it all in, more rugged, with a steep climb. ‘Seattle grew up here’? He found it impossible to imagine such views as a backdrop to any body’s childhood, or this landscape filling anybody’s growing, travelling, empty vessel, ‘Lucky girl’ he inwardly joked, ‘Grass sure does look greener’!

75

VEGGIE BURGERS COOKING

OVERFOSSILIZED FUEL

A long gust swished by, ringing and howling past the ears rim, ‘Oi’ yelled Prime right on schedule leaping over the rail planting one arm, holding a course hemp bag in the other, meanwhile, noise of the sea splashing, still on its manifest dance picked up in received volume. Omni had been juxing there on the beach for a good few hours now, noticing these audible intermissions, exact and distinct, and how they formed timely patterns; optical-sound to He with interchangeable senses. Omni was grateful for the call he’d just received, and so decided to throw Prime a compound-breakdown-heads-up, ‘Hey squire’, giving Prime no chance to speak, ‘Listen, I just came off the phone to a friend, Seattle. She’s coming through tomorrow, that cool’? ‘From where, Allzones . . .’?

‘Yeah but she lives in Satelliteton. On the way home she’s gonna check my legs’—Prime looked like the penny of fancying some unattainable nurse hadn’t properly dropped yet. He lifted the bag, ‘I brought food . . . Here take this . . .’ Momentarily unconcerned, putting the bag down beside the wheelchair, he crouched down and dipped into it. ‘You know I go back for the kids in half an hour . . . That’s each day?’ then Prime pulled out for Omni some hi-protein vegetable-based flyness in an airtight container ‘. . . So we won’t be getting home till after four . . .’? ‘Cool. She’ll be texting later for directions anyway’. Omni placed the plastic lid on the sand.

‘So what’s this then’?‘Dunno Ujayi hooked it up . . . I just microwaved it’‘So what . . . you got the same’? Omni noticed the containers were

different. ‘Nope, just went and got a sloppy-arsed veggie burger on the way’. Prime stood beside the wheelchair happily munching away on his food, and as they both tucked-in he asked some more questions about Seattle.

‘This nurse from hospital; so you just got talking, and she took some kinda liking to ya . . .’?

76

Celine Flux

‘Yep, more or less . . . Met this other radiographer girl too . . . after my X-ray. She even borrowed me a phone when I told her how I lost mine! Her names Niv’

‘Did you tell Ebu about all this’?‘Nah, forgot’‘Did Ebu see this nurse’?‘Why’?‘Coz I’m gonna ask his claaht when I speak to him next’! Mouth still

half full Omni coughed up a laugh.

77

COMPLIMENTS OF THAT

COMPLIMENTARY ME

‘So oi . . . let me guess . . . You fancy her . . .’?‘Course man, she’s sharpedged, a definite sharp one, that“complementary me type”, with the right sympathies, and if you’re

not using the Roman ruler then she measures up as a straight yes’‘Hold up blood rewind a minuet’. Prime stopped chewing his food.

‘Start from the top for me, from day one. Tell me everything’.Slightly coy, dampening excitement, eyes on seagulls still air-surfing by

Govintel-design, Omni edged out another grin before recollecting, painting a hospital picture and placing Seattle and Niv right in the middle.

‘It was like, day six after the crash. Loads of temp staff were from overseas with poor English so she was the loudest, like, everyone’s favourite wren, and through that, I didn’t even like her much at the start . . . you know me’. Prime, cautious not to get spotted in such a small town as some sort of litter bug (plus him being moderately bearded, with a massive after-fro) got distracted by an oily serviette blown loose from the others. He chased it down, pocketing it to discard later, returning from his little beach dash with the wind urging Omni to carry on with the story, which he did, gladly.

‘So there I was, all warfaced-off, only my helmet to look at, and remember, by then, I’d been there enduring for almost a full week of pain, staples over mince meat, scabby stitches, some long nights boy I’ll tell ya! . . . And she, Seattle, came past and just pulled my curtain back, practically forced me into build-and-destroy mode with the other guys.

But glad she did it though’.Omni, flooded now, unfolded another clasp of clear thought-darts

for Prime over the breeze, setting forth descriptions of different patients all ego-clashing through boredom back on his ward. ‘It was OK for a while: There was this genius/retard dude near the walkway, guitar-string comb-over, hauled in coz he poured hot water over himself, this black oriental guy too, converting everyone. He had his supporters you

78

Celine Flux

know . . . colonial Christians—Yeshua’s chosen people. And this other man, cockney-ish, Costa del tan . . . think he said he was a retired fireman, constantly going on about the war. And a later admission to the ward . . . this freelance ballet dancer guy heading to the Royal Festival Hall . . . came off his moped’.

Between mouthfuls of ital Omni upheld the story; fallout from an experience barley a few days old, embellishing for Prime incidents he had with doctors, surgeons, and different department staff coming onto the ward to visit various ailed-out patients. By the time they finished the food, now polishing off drinks, he’d near enough given Prime an update on the whole fortnight spent in Queens’ College, Southzone2’s poor man’s hospital—an, ageing, eerie institution Prime had heard of too, and had passed once or twice making his way in and out of the city.

‘So all of us were together, overcrowded, bed bound, fractures and heart conditions, pre-op and post op, but Seattle obviously wasn’t bed bound so she was like, the active ingredient, getting to know everyone.

She was just safe like that’!‘Does she know what you do’?‘Nope’‘Why not . . .’?‘No reason . . . just ain’t brought it up . . . I’ll tell her this evening’‘just tell her you’re just inches from being industry fodder and see

what she says’?‘Maan forget that, she won’t know what I’m on about . . . I’m more

thrilled to see her without that nurse’s headband she’s always rinsing’.As yet untouched by Omni’s excitations over invisible yats Prime

echoed his verdict on what’d been heard so far: He’d steered a lustful Omni out of what they call “inappropriate-girl danger” on occasions before, plus witnessed a few times off stage that when it came to fancying girls, Omni rarely paced himself, therefore from Omni’s perspective, the verdict of Prime’s had to be accepted and understood.

Omni had already put away his phone and brought himself to these, his principle paradoxes of infatuation; delicately tickling Niv or Seattle with the verbal paintbrush of oral illustration, ending now—just as him and Prime were finishing up the drinks. ‘Sounds like another proximity-eroz if you ask me squire . . . . What, you trying a society span or something Omni . . .’?

79

COMPliMenTS OF THAT COMPliMenTARY Me

‘What’s that supposed to mean . . .’? Prime urged caution ‘. . . I mean, stick to what you know. Ill-activities get people shunned remember?

You know what happened last time . . . witty but useless . . . Unless she’s a looker . . .’? ‘Yea she is, course, and not that predictable variety either, she said she’s been getting into that “Courtesy within Convo Movement”-thing too’ ‘Courtesy within convo . . .’? ‘Yea, you know . . . no crying, no lying etc . . . When things get heated on the ward she navigates the whole thing so well. That’s the feature right there.

You’ll see what I mean . . .! She’s the only female I know who could sit in our circle, talk about type-spit, contribute, absorb then navigate back to default settings, and still leave us with a feeling like her sh-t was worth spitting. Not to mention—from listening to her speak about her boyfriend—she can lose an argument too, with grace. Has any man met any woman that can lose an argument with grace’?—(Except on Lecture Radio?)

‘Hold up, boyfriend’?‘Well fiancé actually, she ain’t really feeling him too hard’‘OK, right . . . Tell me what else, exactly what you told Ebu, coz I

know you and your bulla’.Omni sat up, shuffling into a more comfortable posture, then he

filled his lungs to volume-clash with the incoming surf, tummy filled, telling Prime (happily married, constantly urging Omni to do the same) everything else of value he could recall, explaining his reasons for falling somewhat for a woman already in a relationship, a fact Omni tried to downplay, also asking if his wife, Ujayi, if she had any friends she could hook him up with—which she did.

By the time he finished with all his particularizing of cherished aspects, especially disputes of loss, and grace, they’d cleaned up behind themselves, Prime, considering if this time he should push Omni the long way back to the car.

‘And so she’s coming to check you wounds? Nah . . . Not having it’‘Look, I ain’t expecting anything really. Guess she flirts with patients

all the time, and I’m not exactly in a position to knock back offers of help, present company included’. Prime fell quiet and started the car checking his rear view mirror, revving while Omni in the back seat, sideways, propped himself upright next to the baby chair.

80

Celine Flux

‘Well . . .’ said Prime, ‘Bwoy . . . Disputing with grace huh . . .? I must say, it does sound pretty extraordinary. But you always pull this kind of crap’!

Gripped in thought for a moment about graceful loss, in a debate, or even more emotional—a lovers tiff—what Omni claimed to be the lynchpin of his admiration for not just Seattle but anyone (and another moral of his life story!)—Prime drove off from the parking bay in the direction of the mini pier out in the foggy distance—Regulative rules to such bickering systems, as ones shared by people, apparently possessed by The Ghost of Bickerland, he, Omni, and Ebu, as three struggling men of invisible virtue (noticeable to no others), also adhered to—(unless there’s jouro’s aiming mic’s in faces . . . hehehe).

Prime headed down the road leading from the ageless, sacred, beach front to the nursery, off to collect his kids, ‘Huh, at least this time your sober Omni! My god, remember that last time . . . Oh how about that other time with that single mama gone wild, and her unruly young bloods? Yikes’!! Cruising, for the whole journey, between him regulating his pretty well-behaved kids they both laughed, and reminisced on previous headless chicken eras.

81

COMPRESSED TEXT, DENSE,

LIKE IMPORTED GANGES

Whilst both at the beach before, taking-in the perennial view, appreciating the compositional origin of a pebble, they’d speak, clipping bits off the fourth dimension, for hours in fact, speculating on many things which gave Omni during that—and the following days—lots to stare at those trance-enticing rhythmical waves and think about. And again, on another more tolerable weekend, they, as they often did regardless of location, stretched moments out, kicking back and forth inquiries into the supreme interest. Few people were on the beach that kinder but still, harsh day, past mere pleasantries and other blended-smooth flasks of small talk. It was midweek then, and the topic held up for discussion was called “Inner Ascension”.

Talking under naked bluster for a while, unshielded from the elements, (bar unsatisfactory jackets), afterwards Mr Prime went to get drinks from the same veggie burger kiosk a few hundred meters down, then came back talking while kicking some seaweed about, ‘Yo, we’ve influenced each other, relayed the essence of our own personal influences a lot over the years, and I’d say for the positive too’ ‘Thanks blood’ Omni replied, dropping another pebble on the floor, which reminded him of something worth spitting, rather loudly over the breeze and foamy surf.

‘I’m gonna turn it up on them when I go back up north. I swear.Word’ll get round. Spoke to cuz on the phone’ ‘Yea . . .’? ‘Mmm.

Says I sound different, deeper, like I’ve bumped my f##king head and went crazy. Maybe I do but if memory serves me correct, I was always dropping jewels, even before I read invinciworks of Nubophilosfo Kings, or came off that flippin’ bike’! Omni looked out on his newly adopted Zen garden beach for a second.

‘Just been trying to do what those Mahayana’s on Sunday morning TV kept spitting, you know, that . . . “look for it—the socket—inwards”-thing’. Aiming his finger he looked up past it, ‘I don’t think it’s back there, plus I always wondered what it was all about . . .

82

Celine Flux

focusing on the complete in the heart’. He placed his hand back on his lap after pointing inland . . . there . . . where he supposed it all to be happening at.

‘I already picked up on the grapevine you gotta create; find yourself some sacred place undisturbed. I ain’t got that far yet but when by myself, I do try set to this . . . how’d ya say . . . this wholly uncompromising task?, and blood, it don’t compromise on my back sitting like that for

20 minutes, let alone 20 months. But well . . .’ Omni continued with a sigh, ‘. . . anyway with an open of an eyelid I’m surrounded by concrete.

So its effects only last until once again I’m engaged in hitting some inner target of mine, or going downstairs to hear about Wifey’s problems, while I fix some overpriced food, which then has me worrying about all those famine-stricken, while I run my shiny tap throwing last night’s leftovers in the bin, which in turn has me desiring to be king and have the wasteful against the wall first’! Prime stopped kicking at the seaweed for a moment while the seas lip, in turn, stopped lapping the tongue of the beach, both quietening their swing to pay attention, listening-in also, to Omni, cite political-network plateshifts alongside detanglment techniques, in wait for the catchline, majestic water system and gloomy sky together, each domain owning half of the elemental scenery, with Prime, eying up smaller stones over his shoulder, but ears open, ready for Omni to throw his polemical darts.

‘Yo, registered voters aside for a minute Prime—cah we know how valued them lot are—but apart from them and ‘The Accepting Taoist’ though blood, Tell me a human being alive immune from sympathy for less the fortunate’? Thinking to say ‘demons’, Mr Prime answered not. Instead, he raised-and-measured a pebble-pelt with his eyes before slinging it, ears just concerned with Omni’s words, electing to bypass verbalizing any agreement. ‘Exactly Prime I’m with you . . . I think I’ve had enough of the city—Cottage off coastal Croatia where the decapitated crown quadruples . . .’?

‘Sounds good to me’, Prime turned and finished off the sentence with a laugh and another throw. ‘Hey Omni’ he shouted spinning round again, alerting Omni, mind, still in the Aegean wandering if Socrates really did bum Plato as a young prefect, ‘Listen . . . Dismiss or indulge this theory for a moment, firstworld, although its veins stretch here into the third, It goes back to when Madagascar glued Asia to Eritrean seaboards, way before records began, just before India was an island and

83

COMPReSSeD TexT, DenSe, liKe iMPORTeD GAnGeS

Antarcticans were Atlantian too (it’s all there for the thawing, right beside another submerged continent?), Lots of meditating time I think you’d agree. It’s beyond Rastafari, 120-lesson-god-degrees . . . Actually when we get home I’ll show you the protomanuscript copies’. Mr Prime—the qualified super-scientifical teacher—unrecognized by spiritual foreigners (and the waves behind him after that introduction!)—began to speak.

‘I want you to look for sustenance of overview within this story I’m gonna throw at ya’. He took a deep breath, a paused before he started, spitting from the voice his multi-coloured firework-flame, smelting alloys, for Omni to then fashion into jewels and rock any time he needed in the future. ‘I remember talking to Ujayi once’ he opened, ‘We were driving back from Mertoquattro near the Upper Shires . . . Notts to be exact . . . I was pressing out the engine haaarrrd, know what I mean . . .’? Omni nodded rapidly, knowing little about Mr Prime’s classic sports car except for its shaking loudness at UK illegal speeds.

‘Anyway, nimbus clouds were gathering in the sky over in the distance, and Portishead Renditions under Regular Joe Budden was playing in the stereo, accompanying the scenery n’all that. Though the day was cold and breezy, it was memorable, cloudy light and shade’, Prime continued to reflect on rear-view verbal memoirs, as Omni, contemplated all these detailed descriptions laid out in the image-lobe for conversion.

‘So yea, I was going on about something or another, I think it was about untraceable fine mists or something, and then adding on, and on, you know what it’s like’? Omni looked up, ‘Yea, so much to say right’? Shouting, Prime climbed, precariously, up a large slippery series of sea-sculpted rocks, smelly at the crevices, lined outwards from the sand, chopping the sea when it, beyond mankind’s will, swung fourth, and then back again. It looked dangerous, him being thrown off balance, splashed by bits of bubbly water, each fragmental droplet, the quality of all seven seas but still, he spoke on.

‘Yea, I was killing time droppin’ a gem or two while Wifey killed her time looking through magazines brought at the last petrol stop. She was as bored as hell, and knowing how I get when I’m behind the wheel, especially on long journeys, she finished with one magazine, gazing out the window no doubt thinking to herself “Please dear, please do shut that back2asia sh-t up?” So I checked the mirror to change lanes. But then I caught my reflection, and as I saw my reflection, all animated in freestyle-championship-trophy-mode, I did then decide to shut up, realizing I was going on a bit . . . only a bit’! Omni laughed.

84

Celine Flux

‘I paused, and thought about what I’d just spent what felt like the last twenty minutes, almost rappin’, apparently to myself, about. You see, those words I was spitting, practically at the windscreen years back, on that journey, it had me thinking, then, and now periodically about all these different vice-versa’s, the dualities in experience. I mean, we coined the phrase together “observable observations” remember? When we were talking about The Dianetic Axioms, trying to deconstruct numbers 8-9 remember’?

‘Uh . . .’?‘It said; “If something’s not agreed upon it’s not reality’. Omni,

considering quantum physics assault upon unanimous reality, cognisized as best he could. ‘And we were endorsing axiom 113, both agreeing; nice try, but, 2 ice ages late?—(Sacred mounds, 40,000 yrs+ N.Europe . . . And the moral is . . .? Counter-theorise no more)—Remember . . .’?

‘Yea, I think’‘Then tell me what you think of this one; it’s my personal paradigm

shift . . . Check this superlogical fly shit out’! Prime adjusted on the slippery moss, in preponderation, regaining his footing on a massive black boulder, arms spread wide for balance, holding his bottle of H2o. From Omni’s distance Prime looked a bit like that injustice statue thrusting up a liberty torch, doing some innate-god-body research, and what he was about to deduce in the name of inner-mathematics, came off as such!

85

CAUTION: IF U THOUGHT OF IT,

SO DIDTHE DEVIL! (COUNTER PLEASE)

‘OK Youngrey, it’s like this, not like Voltaire’, Prime popped loudly,’ . . . The first right of a person, fresh out of the childhood safety gate is to play the hand they’re dealt, Walk the path so to speak, Wide enough for one’. ‘True . . . true . . . I feel that . . .’ Omni nodded and conceded with total ease, ‘Yea I feelz dat’ ‘Good, coz I’ma extend it out to this then: a man’s birth right is to then play that same dealt hand in order to teach oneself, at all times, all opportunities, coz every moment has a pearl ready for the savouring, right’? Omni added to it, placing a brick on Prime’s foundation. ‘Yo when my uncle was a Rasta back in the eighties, he’d call that observation, erm, what’s that phrase again . . .? Yea . . . Jahworks, that’s it, ahaaaa’ Omni thigh-slapped the armrest of his wheelchair, giggling after old memories of his Uncle Peacemaker and all those pearls of wisdom, most of which had stuck in the nucleus like intended, as some kind of guidance for his aimless and fatherless nephew. Trapping yet another synaptic flash in a jar illuminating Omni’s path, Mr Prime continued construction on his megamasonry, bottle still in hand.

‘But when it comes to relaying, receiving or passing down information, down through disciplic succession n’stuff, always, when it comes to aural reception I think, expectancy, beyond just moral, decadent type behaviour, should precede the speaker’. Omni listened and zoned while Prime took his turn painting pictures (like he does, but for spiritually intelligent listeners only). ‘Like . . . expectancy on a certain tone, of deferring and offering all personal esteem to . . . you know . . . The God, that’s if you can see, if you can use ya senses for that reason primarily, before that secondary group of all those other trillion ting-and-tingz in life you describe as . . . distractionous, that always seem to fill up your to-do list. But this is only if you’re able to perceive that there’s no god complete, but The God Complete. If two people can see that, or peep that pearl, then, even that ability’s like, an interdependent power within

86

Celine Flux

itself. Not “Totally farout dude” or whatever, but closer than zagginz ever thought possible’!

‘Yeah mate no doubt’ said Omni, ‘. . . Subtle sight, I agree with ya. It’s not like it appears to be, or really like them films portray. Like . . . Consider outer space for example, Maan, it ain’t really “outer” space at all is it? I mean if you really think about it, I mean really really think about it, you don’t need no zoot to realize “space is the planet, live there, eat there, wash there, bathe there, that’s hooomme”’ (thanx Dr Octagon).

Mr Prime added on further, pointing to chops and curves up in the grey skies, gathering inspiration as he nailed words synthesised from lands far off, and opinionated—but unfortunately in the wrong language for those firstly concerned with the theme . . . spiritual-themed elaboration.

‘You know cosmology . . . don’t necessarily start at our atmosphere, the organism bulb we apparently live in’. Until then, just then, Omni somehow neglected this scientifically valid fact, but he now, after a little re-establishing, once again remembered, reoccurring to replenish like a dawns breech, ‘It’s an easy enough thing to forget but, I guess were in space even as we speak’ he said, ‘It’s just when a person sets their sights on a goal, and before you know it you’re in, like, head first, outputting more than you really should, you know, all zoomed-in, committed to ultimate irrelevance, well, when comparing your goals to eternity anyways. You just get busier and busier, upping the game, the stakes, smelling that prize money. It’s easy to lose sight of those, what I like to call The Superglue Factors’. Mr Prime polished of his aqua bottle before speaking on Omni’s proposed “Superglue Factors”. ‘Now that’s some orbital-circular talk right there, divine spit, coming to ya live from the spinning particle-planet created by . . .’ Omni jumped in to answer in jest, ‘. . . By the creator—The Omniple Resonance Dynamic of Complete Expansion!—Which, by the way may be different from the next man’s idea but speaking for moi, when I meet my creator, I’m expecting to hear the words, ‘Hello Omni’, or the words . . .’ Welcome home’, from a voice box, and a mouth, or . . .’ Here, take my hand for guidance’, from the hand from a supreme person—a person therefore with foldable limbs desiring to sit and fold them—That’s how I personally comprehend the incomprehensible unapparent dynamo, who can facilitate any reality, you know what I’m saying padner’?

87

EXELLENCE . . .? POSSIBLE, NOT PRICE OF

KNOWLEDGE, PERFECTION INCLUDED

Moist salt-laced winds began to calm briefly as clouds broke open over iodized seas ahead of them. Omni followed his flowstreams of thought while his heart chased a white stallion across the beach, to what a hundred wise men would unanimously agree in favour was, topics of possible excellence (It’s coming up Tet so you can judge for yourself :)

‘Yo the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard? Is this disc of a Jamaican-Indiasian playing the Arawakflute in my mom’s fishing village; I think it’s the most calming, enjoyable, and probably one of the oldest musical sounds ever . . . If not that . . .? Then the harp . . . Or maybe the Japanasian drums . . .? Well anytao, I bet God enjoys stretching his ribs out while listening to those instruments too. So that’s why I’m expecting to see a person, with a personality, that’s all I’m trying to say (Reader of this scribe, please ponder your verdict . . . err . . . here).

‘Maan’ Omni continued, ‘I ain’t expecting to see no formless void with no meaningless warp hole on top you know what I’m saying . . . Nowhere’s void. Even the void ain’t void! Or no withered old man with a walking staff looking like death warmed up, Or some deep voice coming from behind a burning bush apparently speaking! But yo that’s me, although . . . I can conceive of every desire being catered for . . . out in immensity-iternum. I mean damn, there’d be enough infinite spaces and infinite times for all of them worlds, or heavens, or hells. Yea, a heaven-planet, for everyone’s soul to bounce they ass off to: wicked ones, weed and wine ones, pious ones, and the supreme abode, the most bangin’ one, where the inconceivable lives; guess he’ll make it easy on an earthling by revealing his confidentialities as a materially born person.

If I were god like I stupidly used to call myself? Then the wisest man’s renunciation would be like food to me, personal sacrifice would for sure impress . . . huh. I’ve done a little abstinence, had a little sacrifice forced my way by situations, and it felt like “Why is this happening to me?”, like the complete whole was doing this to me for some sublime

88

Celine Flux

reason, and that’s how I noticed that, what people struggle through, is charged with a force of some kind . . . so what to speak of people who willingly accept hardship not caring that most can’t do, or fathom it’?

Omni carried on sowing up notions with his pin of slang, cutting, holding, and panning in the dome, just like his favourite big-budget music video. ‘Mate’ he said, ‘I can’t front. If I were existing within “All Unknowable” I’d be touched and stricken by that shit for real, so much so, I’d use that same charge-force to power my bullets and clap at waste-mater, secretly diggin’ the endeavour of those men, holding them down. Then I’d swing by one day, Surprise’em, Materialise only to the most severely austere and devoted no doubt. Not to people like me, with barely weekly worship, I’m talking about those constant cats yamean? I’d just part the clouds and swoop through, straight dipped in the most glorious and startling jewels and be like, all of a sudden, zzzaaappp! Looking more “fresh 2 def” than any rapstar yo! I’d bling-up all joints and creases, a vision startling a dickhead like, bbblllaaauuuwwe, just scottybeam down, already knowing peoples different levels of perception, I’d have to just vary my form accordingly that’s all, and grab a pen scribing down the deepest rhymes ever!, shit, write it like a storyteller, or nah, reveal it like an ologist, according to the person, you know, or, according to the level of that particular form of life and its consciousness’.

Omni was definitely on a lucid one he reckoned, and so ran with it, as far as he could. ‘Them self realized who endeavour regardless . . .?

Who’ve gradually purified their soul? . . . realized their actual self in relation to everything else would by then, have expanded their level of consciousness to a real high degree, even if they can’t interpret it yet.

So city life and work, food, and sleep, and worrying about today, about tomorrow, or this loved one, or that community, or this national interest, plus the other trillion illusions, ting-and-tingz, all pancakes when seen right, these distractions would be degraded, cah they ain’t god-endorsed. Yea . . . we all get zoomed-in, misplaced affection and concerns like its official and god-sanctioned, but it probably ain’t you know, all this bright lights n’stuff we back in Zone1 are so proud of; all our “modern man” shit, smashing resources so ragoly, so blindly; to expanded consciousness it must just look like, regressive, stupid attempts at self-preservation, and all the time, deep down knowing no lab-tec will ever get eternity in a test tube’.

Prime still saying nothing, liked the general topic of discussion. Now safely back on the beach from those sea boulders over suh, he threw

89

exellenCe . . .? POSSiBle, nOT PRiCe OF KnOWleDGe, PeRFeCTiOn inCluDeD

on his bag and came up to the wheelchair, nodding away to Omni’s type-spit. ‘So yo Prime . . . If I were the complete whole personified?

To some old challenging bewildered sceptic like myself I’d just be unapproachable; have my universal administration to deal with the likes of us . . . Yea . . . We’d just, pray to them—my semi-gods—put the spiritual development bar real high, only appear to those who endeavour for me reeeaaal hard. I wouldn’t expect All to be in the least affected by only some! What . . . in this tiny portion of space . . .? Where we endlessly slog for this or that? Nah . . . I wouldn’t be governed by laws of mass if I made mass plus so much more immeasurable?

The vast percentage of what Whitecoats, and those well behaved atheists call “the cosmos”; most of it ain’t even labelled matter! And that’s the same thing sages received via aural descent back in Proto-Vedic times, compiled in Trans-Africasian-Sanskrit epochs ago! So imagine the face of a shaman on the transcendental platform when you tell him the spirit world’s by-product is matter, when he already knew the vast majority of what exists is in fact unmanifested!—Now that’s what I call the difference between good and bad science squire. And that’s why no brand-newcomer can come school me without right and exact knowledge on the Whole Complete, notwithstanding puny-arsed web searches’!

Unlike an avatar in a cybahforum, Omni claimed testing the modes effect on the mortalspan to be nothing short of upper-science. But regardless of what elite Whitecoats and their golfing clients considered valid scientific experimentation, (and who actually stumbled upon this private life of plants by sheer accident), Prime knew, and taught Omni, that the day would come, soon, when even internet research would be discredited, then nullified. ‘Boils down to dissatisfied Socrates or happy pig I suppose . . .’? ‘Don’t ask me’ Prime shouted ready to leave, ‘. . . Ask Daniel Goleman’.

Without bothering to ask who Daniel Goleman was—hearing the surname and getting as anti-semitic and bigoted as his passport nationality would allow—Omni stopped to take a well earned breather. He fell back and sat low in his chair, feeling as though his Agnosis stood to lab-atheists with poor 3rd eyesight by way of metallican math-deduction.

‘You are aware Omni’ said Mr Prime pushing Omni back to the car like the redskin Neomarcus Aralias, ‘that if you kick what you just said to anyone else on this beach they’d be like . . . “You mean to say, matter, does not matter . . .”‘?

90

REAL ZAGGINGZ OMNIFY THEORIES

The two of them made their way from the coast and subaloof entrainment, right up to the present moment and for Omni, in the car, looking out the window, it was a step further back, but to the future. Twisted . . .?

Yep, but that—linetime itself laying ahead—was what overly concerned him, distracted him, so he called up his old inner friends Intention and Determination because he—like all the other subtle ones within the constantly indecipherable big zone limits—devoted only a small portion of time to being an actualized, trueself-absorbed character actually relishing his actuality. Like others, sparsely scattered worldwide, this was his greatest wish.

And, although going against his single deepest heart’s desire (which he secretly knew that old chestnut Mr K Arma aka Mr Reactionary Work would sympathetically ask him to pay a toll for), he made himself a promise, to re-double efforts once he got back to SE1, all this, while knowing escape from good and bad effects of work didn’t come from merely making plans.

By his estimations, it would take about three gruelling months to get back to his flat on Blackfriars. So, heading on through maritime Harbourton Omni determined himself to prepare and take all opportunities, execute all reasonable plans if/when he finally reached.

But until then Mr Prime and his wife held his body and soulspark together, providing a room with all he needed, including the most banginest books and elegantly noble regular meals, consisting of quality nourishment savages would call “vegan”, or “rabbit food”, served with itally-vital organic protein shakes. Actually, in a bid speed up recovery, from music right through to poetry, the whole family did their utmost to keep Omni’s spirit-force-glow as high as possible.

91

SOZ MATE, NO EFFEMINACY, NO

ACCEPTANCE. COMPANY POLICY, SORRY

In the spare room that following day, while Omni was bouncing through one of Prime’s books off the study shelf of self he received a call—a call which he sought above all others. ‘Oi Omni . . . It’s Seattle . . .’ He picked up the third phone pressing the linelatch button.

‘Hiya . . .! So you still coming yea’?‘Yep, I’m in Harbourton right now’, Doubly distracted by both

engine and radio sounds she shouted, turning down the volume, then slowed the cars speed, her neck crouched slightly, having little success with memory or looking about behind Mainstreet for useful directions.

‘Err, give us the address then . . . Can’t be far from here’?‘OK, it’s, near the mini-pier . . . hold up’. Omni suspended his giving

of directions . . . for what had just gained on him was, he’d been pushed and lifted in and out through that front door for over a week, and still, had no idea of even the door number, let alone the full address,

‘. . . Wait, you know what, speak to Prime’. Omni shouted to him from the spare room ‘Yo pah . . .’ while sending one of the young godlings playing in the passageway with the phone. Under strict orders from the day before to listen to her voice-speed—after their heated debate on the difference between what’s soothing and what’s deemed sensual—Prime took it off silence. ‘Hello . . . This is Alpha Prime’

‘Hi . . . err, Prime, heard a lot about you, I’m err, Omni’s . . .’ Prime filled in the blank, joking as he hopped to his feet walking back through the passageway to Omni, ‘His soon-to-be-married, nurse, slash friend’?

She—(and Omni who heard for that matter)—weren’t overly buoyant about the insinuation. ‘Guess you can call me that, if you want, sure’.

Bare foot on thick comfy carpets Prime came into half-lotus beside the open bedroom door. ‘Only kidding, Omni’s told us the story: discharging himself, doing the whole outpatient-thing’

‘Yeah, against everyone’s advice I might add’. He looked at Omni.

92

Celine Flux

‘Oh the poor thing’, Omni threw a pillow . . . and missed! ‘Nah, but he’s here now, and we’re all grateful someone in there was looking out for him anyways’ ‘No problem . . . Omni’s a cool guy’

‘So . . . Which way are you heading in from’?‘I’m in town already, near the mini-pier’.Seattle’s current direction now sorted and the best way to approach

being then undertaken, Prime hung up the phone leaving a gleeful Omni to say his . . . whatevers.

All this time in the kitchen Ujayi was sorting Omni’s painkillers with homemade Irish moss and eggnog smoothies—the young demigodz helped out too! Prime had been down to see his wife for a few moments and casually plodded his way back in his ecoflops, ‘Oi, Ujayi said . . . You want any clothes washed’?

‘Yep, please’‘Aaiigghht, back for them in a bit . . .’ So Omni sorted out the

few clothes Prime had bought for him, roughly folded them and put them on the wheelchair. Next, in preparation for Seattle, he put some wetwipes everywhere he could discretely reach, grabbed the book again, and then went back to his skim-reading.

93

SO REDS AND BRUNETS REALLY

COME OFF AS MORE INTERESTING . . .?

Before long Seattle rung Omni’s phone once more, saying she was outside. When she pulled up, Ujayi was eager to see what she looked like and opened the door first, child in arm. It was cold out, so was the whole season; X-mas was edging near. Seattle stepped out the car, arms folded over black knitted Cardigans (1st album only) and headed for the path. ‘Hi, you must be Seattle?’ ‘Yep, nice to meet you’

‘Come in. My name’s Ujayi’. She wiped her feet on the outside mat.‘. . . Ujayi . . . is it . . .’?‘Uh-uh’‘Is that err, that windpipe control-thing’?‘Yea it is . . . How . . .? Let me guess . . . you limb-control too

right’?‘6 postures, 5 minutes each—the only way I can tolerate The Archers

or Headlines’!Ujayi chuckled. ‘Thought you did, I can tell by your neck. You look

fantastic’‘Thanks! You do too’.Just then Prime came up to the door shouting to the young godlings,‘Forget it, Momz’ll do it in a sec’. He shook Seattle’s hand escorting

her through from the passage way, ‘Come, take a seat, I’ll tell Omni you’re here’. Engrossed, busy trading his current outlook for an even broader one, Omni was still skim-reading that uncirculated document of Prime’s, thick, and heavy, entitled “Venerated in Far Antiquity”.

Still reserving judgement regarding Seattle, (with now-universally-confirmed engagement ring apparent), Prime walked up the corridor toward Omni, casting a noticeable shadow. ‘Daym blood . . .! Yo Prime . . . yo, sh-t’:

What Omni was reading had gripped him; it had the power to expand worldviews, so needless to say, the ramifications of what he was

94

Celine Flux

merely skipping through was popping him up, this power, proving hard to control right then (Story of his bloomin’ life).

‘Oi guess who’s here . . .’?‘Yea I know’‘Shall I tell her to come through or what’?‘Hold on a minuet first blood . . .’ Omni wanted to clear something

up, quickly shuffling through the pages, ‘Yo . . . Yea . . . You see this“72-sequence gridsystem thing, found in Mexico Egypt and

Cambodia, yea, here it is’. His mind unbearably dilated by now with the clasping of, that, some pre-Pythagorean, remote, master numerological astronomers, were hiding their secrets in number, measure, and weight! He’d found the other page—invigorated Omni pointed to it, tapping the page rapidly,

‘Yo can I show it to Seattle’?—Prime had one hell of a mean book case—densely populated material. He looked at the shelves . . . So did Omni.

First pausing to consider his answer Prime spoke, picking up the clothes, then pillow, then stopping at the door, ‘Blood . . . That’s restricted data right there you know . . .’!

‘Yea I know but . . .’ ‘Well, sh-t’, he threw the pillow back at Omni, ‘. . . all right. You

said she’s one of us, so cool’. Omni then turned back to the book, pinching the thrown pillow on top of the rest which lay behind him, with realizations of man’s present cultural disconnect exciting the lid off his intellect, plugging it out from the conventional collective condition, a little more . . . forever more.

95

“THEY CAN REACH OUR BASES IN CYPRUS”

(HEY REMEMBER THAT SH-T?)

‘Just walk down and it’s the first door on the left’! ‘OK. Thank you’. Seattle made her way to Omni’s room, the shape of her outline, hair, shoulders, all preceding as she drew near, then stuck her head around the door with a heart-stopping smile; renowned and exploited on the ward for its healing properties. Omni took his eyes from the book, lighting up, raising his head to meet hers. ‘How are you’?

‘Forget about me, what about you Omni’ she replied stepping into the room, ‘How are your legs’? Omni tossed the book near his feet, looking puzzled down at his thighs and knees through the blanket. ‘They’re all right . . . They’re fusing, but still feel broken’! With the door closed now mostly, she came and kneeled down beside the bed, large plasters and bandages in her cardigan* pockets (*water&poetry).

Basically incapacitated, for convenience sake Prime had lowered the bed base, removing the support allowing Omni to shuffle around the place to get clothes, books and stuff he needed using the floor. And now it had been a long two weeks since she’d seen him, and his ailment, all frustrated on the large mattress.

‘Trevor and the guy’s on the ward send their regards’ ‘Oh yea . . .“The Vets”‘. Omni remembered all those sounds of activity on

the long corridor, teeing-off the end of each ward, and the mundane repetition of time clammy spent their doped-up, subdued and out of action—It was an eerie paradox. Recalling the beds nearest to him he sniggered at the reminders.

‘So what happened to that jafaican boy, Ishma-el’?‘Who . . .’? ‘You know . . . that dry mouth bwoy next to me’?‘Oh him . . . Oh he walked too . . . He’ll be back though . . . you can

count on it, with his junkie girl’.Omni’s eyes were all over Seattle by now, uncomfortably falling out

of his boxers, watching her talk, turn, and look around the unfamiliar room. ‘And err . . . by the way, the wheelchair, how is it’? She gave it

96

Celine Flux

a nudge with her foot. ‘Ah its cool, does the job you know’. He was glad she came, for it exhilarated, although this mood now settling had familiar undertones, sensations within them, incessant, rising up to the surface—it currently had them both fighting down childlike grins.

After an electric second or two, frozen in lusty body language, re-familiarizing together, Seattle’s presence of mind struggled to the forefront with the reason she was there in the first place. She smiled, enthusiastic as she remembered, glanced, and suggested. ‘Right . . . Shall we start’? Summoning a deep inhalation to prepare they pulled off the sheet. Omni turned to one side as Seattle begun, the fat white plaster, oversized staples underneath, exposed, above his boxers. Through his teeth he grimaced, while carefully, she pulled the shorts and sticky plaster down just enough for inspection; the metal stitches, each one regimented and neat, made it look like he had a fat zip running down his side of his buttcheeck!

‘Mmm’ she said launching quick-fire assessment, stretching her tone, sounding all a matter-of-fact-ish. As he turned back around she made her way down to his thighs, checking cuts, tears and incisions, finally ending up at his ankles, where scabs and stitching had moulded, and plastic wire caked-up underneath blooded cotton wrapping. ‘So err, what’s the prognosis . . . nurse’? Considering this to be wit Omni smiled at first, light-heartedly, but only until she sat back to one side of her ankles, using one hand for support, and then paused . . . which only escalated his kettled concern. ‘Well’ she said, examination now over, ‘It looks like these are all gonna have to be changed’ as she spoke she gave the thickest, crustiest plaster, a little tap through her gloves, ‘But apart from that everything’s fine, no reaction to anything so far, they’re not too swollen or nothing’. Omni of course felt a lot more than relived.

Just then Ujayi shouted from the kitchen, ‘You guys want a drink’?‘Nah I’m all right’‘You want something to drink Seattle’?‘I’m OK’. Omni shouted back to Ujayi, ‘No, we’re chill. Thanks’!Noticeable by reoccurring sound, a hard wind emphasized grey cold

outside the window, but bright indoor light above, shone down from high over the two of them, revealing to the opticsense each other, in the most private enclosing yet, well longed for by both parties. ‘So . . .’

Seattle moved up right beside him, feeling total femininity, reciprocal ease, just like that hospital ward a month ago.

97

“THEY CAN REACH OUR BASES IN CYPRUS” (HEY REMEMBER THAT SH-T?)

‘I trust you’re taking the meds and everything right’? ‘Yeeap, sure’, clandestine flex now convincingly gazumped, Omni stared down his nose at her lips, feeding sexual energy after being caught out, inducing her sense-organs to respond in the same way. Twisting inwards on the pillows he softened, tipsy off the moment. ‘Mmm . . . Yea . . . Ujayi sorts painkillers, anti-inflammation, sleeping pills, for this one really . . . it’s this one that gives me the most pain’. One hand behind his head he pointed to his left side. ‘It’s just in that awkward place . . . Yo I can’t even bare to look at it’! Unable to see she leaned over again but this time, eyes not on his hip, instead, in a sensual symmetry; the reflecting back of his naughty stare.

The following 60 seconds were not about his left hip, but even though, he leaned his head forward, and for the first few of them, he pretended.

They drew their faces, almost accidentally closer. As he tucked, she lifted, bringing her head up. Omni, pleasantly pinned, unsure but convinced, faintly expressed his silent condition, reminding her, like in that cubicle, remembering vulnerability, now, rarely allowing together, just like before. She didn’t protect against it either, as she witnessed, uniquely saluted, opening up, and edging close, their breath, warm, foreheads softly colliding, docking, now at the nose, stroking, him silently asking, checking ‘are you with me’. But there was no need; he knew with Seattle, he need not. So kissed deeper they did, with a joy reserved for creative art, pressed passionately, lips meshed, switching to gracious-speed, perceived sound, all in free fall, way off their circumference.

Both feeling sublime, she took her lips from his larger lower lip, kissed it, a few times more, then up, then back down, un-deferred, but nigh-bliss-effect, earthbound pleasure. Amazed, they squeezed each other’s hands as mundane awareness returned, while excited shock—and location—ordered something be said. Seattle almost wanted to tell Omni to move up so she could strip and snuggle beside him but, with more noises from down the hall returning, she settled for doing what was second nature; the toying and fixing of his bedsheet with a nurses oncoming concern.

‘Oh . . .’ soft, she practically mumbled, ‘Before I forget . . . Phizzie asked what you doing about your physio . . . You gonna sort it’? ‘Dunno yet . . . Don’t care’. She took her head off his shoulder and turned from both looking at his feet. ‘Don’t say that’!

98

Celine Flux

‘Nah for real, I’m not sure how long I’m gonna be here for’‘Oh . . . right. Anyway I got him to print these out for you’ ‘Mmm,

thanks . . . Tell him I said cheers’. She gently cleared her throat.‘So . . . What’s going to happen now . . .’?‘You mean between us . . .?’; Omni reached out, bravely, not thinking,

but when he did, he looked at her forehead on his shoulder, kissed it . . . then, got worried and backtracked, trying to be clever, putting words in her mouth, somehow claiming this to be astute self-preservation, ‘Assuming you’re not talking about us?, coz huh, unfortunately I always assume’ both looking down at the corner of the sheet, as she began twisting it and winding it between her fingers Omni sensed The Adam Factor, so changed tact and responded accordingly. ‘I reckon everyone back home knows what’s happened to me. They have to by now, I’m sure. It’s playing on my mind a bit’. Unlike him, a semi-rural upbringing thankfully made for a semi-guiless Seattle; while she replied to his intentions, bullyfoot, all-snarling and at the ready Omni battled his streetcorner pride.

‘So it should be really’, she said, ‘It’s natural’!‘You’re right, I know, so I can’t stay too long’‘Well them stitches have gotta come out soon . . . We’ll have to book

you in at the local. Or if you don’t want to, then I can do it’?‘Yea yo . . . you do it’!‘OK’. She looked back up, both touching at the nose before devising

a plan. ‘So I’ll get blades, forceps and stuff tomorrow, and I’ll need to sterilize some things though’ ‘We can ask Ujayi’?

‘Yea, sure’Staring down near at his feet again, with bits of Ujayi’s drum set

stacked against the wall ahead, they found what they were talking about almost funny—Some strange invisible momentum seemed to be pushing itself up behind them, with Omni less worried, his mind already in Metroaux, and Seattle, more so, crossing trife lines in her heart, jumping back for Omni, away from rationale, entranced by core ideological snugness, a craved alliance both extensively elaborated upon, when weaving some quite deep secrets into yearnings and pleas, expressed weeks before.

99

BUSY BLACKBOARD MIND-MAPPING,

SO ONLY PORTIONS OF LOVE

Just a few moments more to sit together, like two magnets, peaceful, enclosed, a hypnotic little sphere of theirs swiped from the fourth facet, before now, Seattle’s duties, and her need to head back home to Satelliteton.

‘So’, Omni said while she stood up, ‘I will see you tomorrow . . .’?‘Or the day after I’m not sure yet, I’ll call though’?‘All right then’. Chuffed and concerned by her gaze, checking it,

judging maybe that her thoughts were on Adam, Omni reached out his hand. ‘Can you call Prime on the way out for me please’?

‘I will . . . course’. Up against the clock each day—and always losing—Seattle gave Omni one more kiss, supple and serious, then headed down the hallway to go speak to Ujayi if she could, about sterilising a scalpel or two, plus bid her goodbyes.

Prime knocked soon after. He pushed on the door holding one of his children after brief incoherent goodbyes between himself, Seattle, and the baby. ‘Everything OK in there Omni’? Omni himself was glowing, but it didn’t matter, Prime, (old school, taught by the old school, with regulative activities endorsed by the old school), was still pretty much unimpressed, knowing Omni and his continuing “inappropriate girl danger” to be just youthful impatience—his line always being “She’s engaged but if she’s one of us?, or there about?, then cool”.

‘Food’ll be ready soon squire’‘Nice one’‘And just so you know Omni’, he stuck his head further through the

door, and mimed, ‘any bricks come through my window, I’m dashing one at you star’!

‘Nah wait’ Omni said smiling, ‘Wait . . . Don’t you want to hear all the juicy details . . .’? Prime looked confused by the question ‘Of course I don’t . . .’ He sent his kid off to her mom, opening the bathroom door

100

Celine Flux

shouting ‘. . . You know I transcend the flemwads’!—He then gargled up, spat one down the toilet, flushed it, and walked back to Omni’s room, picking up the clothes off the wrangly old wheelchair and sitting for a bit.

101

WHAT YOU CALL NETWORKING,

I CALL GIVING BRAIN

‘You’re welcome to stay for dinner’ heard Seattle as she approached, with Ujayi, vigorously clearing off a work surface. Walking on into the room she noticed the engagement ring on her finger; and barely survived the urge to mention it, fearing for someone at least, pain and abandonment somewhere down the road, and doubting it would be Omni. ‘He never gave me much of a warning you were coming or I would’ve made something different’, Ujayi walked over to the oven, jolting the conversation away from taking it there. ‘No I’m OK anyhow; I’ve gotta get back or I’ll get my head chewed off ’ ‘By whom’? ‘Oh I have a partner at home’. Ujayi looked up, feigning customary shock, ‘But I thought, you know, you liked Omni’?

‘Well to be honest, I don’t know what’s happening with me at the moment. We’re friends. Nothing more . . . But me and Omni seem to click so well though; He called me his spiritual ally . . .! That hit me in the heart . . .’!—she said it while blushing—‘. . . I must say I did quite like that one. And he told me other things . . . personal. He called them secrets and I believe him . . . I feel pretty privileged to know actually’.

Throwing plasters and some balled-up tissues in the bin near the doorframe, Seattle pointed up to copper-plated pots hung on the rack, while Ujayi handed cutlery to over her little curly-haired son. ‘Could I, use one of those pots when I come back’?

‘Yeah . . . sure . . . what for . . .’?‘I’d like to sanitize some stitching equipment clean . . . Not much;

tweezers, blades and stuff ’‘Maybe this one . . .’? Ujayi suggested. ‘Yea, any one will do, I can

provide everything else I need’‘You sure . . .? I have a first aid box in the cupboard’?‘Nah, I’ll nick some things from hospital tomorrow’. Ujayi smiled,

almost on her and Omni’s behalf; a crushed gleeform, broadened by a

102

Celine Flux

tinge of curiosity, ‘You’re really going beyond the call of duty Seattle; I see you’ve taken quite a shine to our little Omni ain’t you’?

‘Yea’! With Omni a good few meters away in the bedroom Seattle reflected the grin, and then quietly confessed. ‘I don’t know what happened; some of the nurses told me about this guy on the ward, how he didn’t want his friends to know what happened to him, and I was nominated to find out why, and we just got talking. Then after his third op he tells us about you guys and, about how he’s coming here, so . . .’

Ujayi responded surprised, like she’d been handed a piece of the puzzle withdrawn by both Omni and her mini-honour-bound husband ‘Oohh, I get it now . . . OK’—still doing the circumstantial math while returning the flour to the pantry, slowly closing door shut, but all ears.

‘When I found out he was staying near me, well, I just . . . I don’t know . . . I . . . just suggested . . .’ Ujayi continued to put away the last of the ingredients for dinner, spending a final few minutes arranging stacked crockery, placed by young godling alongside dressings, bread, and chilled fruit juice; her, as much as the situation—and time—would allow, getting to know Seattle a little better before any real sense of Britanyan tact compelled her to leave.

Both being local girls from the coast, with numerable places, experiences, and acquaintance-names to drop, plus helping Omni recover too, made the initial crust of such usual laborious efforts required for icebreaking pretty easy. In fact—to Omni’s great satisfaction a while later—and, without no formal introduction—both were getting on like a house on fire!

‘So what part of Harbourton do you live’?‘No I live in Satelliteton. I have a son too, and as I said, I live with

this . . . man. Not getting along with him at all though. I don’t know what I’m going to do about it at the moment: He’s possessive, emotionally violent . . . everything’!

‘Oh that’s terrible’ slowly Seattle’s eyes began to mist-up, redden, then well-over; just like every other time she thought too much of her predicament with Adam: And now—sparking a new friendship with Ujayi—obviously, this also, wasn’t somewhere she really wanted to go just yet. But with that Ujayi went straight over to comfort her, wiping any flour from her hands, walking round the table to give her a hug.

‘Oh, come here, it’s all right darling! What . . . He’s that bad is he . . .’?

103

WHAT YOu CAll neTWORKinG, i CAll GiVinG BRAin

Seattle nodded. ‘His names Adam, I’m not sure how I’m gonna tackle it, this, whole the thing between us’. Ujayi took the corner of the tea towel and wiped her tears. ‘Hey . . . look . . . any friend of Omni’s is a friend of ours, so, we’ll help you, in any way we can OK . . .? You’re welcome here anytime’ ‘Thanks’. With little choice—given the time—she settled herself down, wiping her nose, as she knew, and now Ujayi as well as Omni knew, a miserable existence with fiancé Adam beckoned at home, not forgetting or withstanding, taking over the reins of her son on this, and every other evening.

Omni and Prime were still in the spare room, politicking: Prime, with an ear on one kid with toys in the passageway—(who didn’t quite make her mother’s calls from the kitchen door)—and the other kid still usefully occupied, helping to prepare the front room table; he could also hear Ujayi and Seattle’s occasional venusings just behind the kitchen entrance.

‘I doubt anything will happen really’ Seattle said, ‘I mean I won’t just up and leave Adam; I just want to feel alive again . . . Nothing wrong with that is there’? Ujayi wanted to question the point of engagement then, but assuming—like most things—the answer is far from simple, she just responded with . . .’ Hey, consulting adults spending time together . . .

It’s not new on the earth’s crust is it . . .? Prime tells me that’s how Omni’s been all his life . . . Doesn’t settle anywhere . . . Not for too long’

‘I know . . . We spoke a lot on the ward’ ‘Guess as long as you both know then nobody should get hurt’? ‘Exactly . . .’!

‘So, about those stitches; when are you coming to do them again’?Once more this time with an enticing bottle of purée, Ujayi called

her little daughter from the passageway, still in her own quiet little world of luxurious carpet, absorbed in toys, siphoning untold amounts of pleasure by merely nudging them together then dribbling all over them,

‘Probably in a couple days. I said I’d call tomorrow morning anyhow, weather permitting. He told me Prime’ll take him to the beach. Err, by the way, the other patients told everyone what he does, and that Prime and Ebu do it to’?

‘Yea, they do, good for them I say, don’t you think’?

104

Celine Flux

‘Mmm . . .! It attracted more than a little attention from us younger nurses. Even his surgeons found out: After his second op patients heard him being asked during his consultations’!

‘Risky business, crazy hours; I call it the “other woman”‘. Seattle laughed ‘Huh, I started my shift, then they told me. When the police came round wanting to question him other nurses talked them out the hospital’! ‘I’m not sure what that could have been about’ said Ujayi. ‘I heard it happened at trauma too with the paramedics, but that was when he was first admitted, he’d been in for over a week by the time I met him, then one day he was like all of a sudden “I’m discharging myself ”’.

Ujayi dismissed it, drying her hands then throwing the tea towel over the cupboard door. ‘That sounds about right: Typical Omni shenanigans’.

After that she sent her son to go wash his hands too.‘Anyway I’d better go’ ‘Wait I’ll walk you to the door . . . Hey you

lot, Seattle’s going now’. Prime came and picked up with the baby.‘Tell Omni, I’ll ring in the morning’? ‘Sure’, he said, already briefed

on conditional extended courtesy. ‘OK then, bye’. Most of the family waved as Seattle strutted against the stiff evening breeze—somewhat worried—towards her car, then, left for the next, much larger town of Satelliteton.

105

EXPLORING HOLOGRAMIC ASPECTS

OF CONSCIOUSLY SOLVING PROBLEMS . . .

(HUH?)

Adhering to time limits she gave herself and Ujayi, only a couple of days; no more were let pass before they met up allowing Omni to have his stitching removed. After that, whenever she came from work they’d more often than not drive to the beach, spending time in the car, before dropping him back at Prime’s, then heading on west, home, to Satelliteton. The pulling out of metal staples on his left hip/buttcheeck required this miniature fencecutter-type-thing with removable blades, which Ujayi sterilized, slowly, thorough as directed, in that pot, offering to assist Seattle in some of the procedure also. It didn’t take long though, and with the aid of local anaesthetic swiped for that left side only, didn’t hurt too much either. Those more fishwirey, plasticy stitches held by tweezers and snipped by this hooked scalpel contraption, was minor pain of which Omni watched the extraction; quite fascinating stuff, for a first-timer, although going through the process for a second time would have been devoid of any positive interest for sure!

Seattle, with a life at home and at work was taking all the risk under the guise of duty, and friendship, which still had Omni wandering if their reachable nexus was the only qualification. She told Ujayi and Prime about his progress, also needing X-rays, and together they forced him to go see a doc at Harbourton Med, calling him back on the morrow to check he’d received official confirmation from them that “bone fusion” wasn’t slowing-up or nothing.

The entrapment she was experiencing at home with Adam had Omni thinking she was out of reach; comfortable, stable even—But, intellectual freedom was what she wanted and boy did Omni provide it. She brought her books, he brought Prime’s and on beautiful beach settings it made for some right-on type-spit. But soon enough, being in the same area

106

Celine Flux

in which she came up as a little short stump, like a don under Bluecoat siege things began to get hot, thinking she was spotted . . . worry then crept between pillars of her intention; It didn’t take no Whitecoat in no Silicon Valley Oxbridge lab-chamber, to calculate that, if it went down in Satelliteton, the price paid would be pure bloodstream hellfire.

She kept the worst of her Adam problem out of their hangtime but he could practically smell grief of heart. Adam had her on lockdown and for Seattle, getting out of the situation would take such large planning and effort she wasn’t sure if she had it in herself. Omni didn’t like the idea of what she was going through—She was a subtle one so it came out, sophisticated sentiment, downplayed, though artlessly he clocked it, and reached out on the pier, while she tried to contain upset, his, supportive flair, timed, elegantly measured like raw elements surrounding them on the coast. Often, she’d let the wave’s brush her shoes and he would stare, concerned for her future. She’d finish speaking and do the same, turn, and stare, for a little comfort, both knowing back inland lay sharp edges.

On the scale of human hearts although physical yin and yang, they stood together, and that, however brief the thought, gave off great feelings. This emotional boredom both accidentally owned up to, and reminded each other of, had them kickin’ it together for some exquisitely passion-dusted periods but now she figured it prudent to stop linking.

Omni—with his partial blessing (or course) knew it was coming and kept some of his views upon other desires in Metroaux that steady juxed around in the back of his mind during that period.

In total they spent a week together; some of the most sentimental and dreamy moments of restricted yearnings experienced in their lives to that point, before drawing so much potential heat that these increasingly troublesome scenario’s got the better of her; mere possibilities, numerous, like sandgrains, attacking like Persian raiders of lost arts.

Omni of course innerstood, and this was when they began to retract and throw up main, convenient excuses for their being together to start with, which was firstly his own personal Twin Towers, healing, but presently cold and useless wrapped under a blanket. Seattle did it but Omniversal merely cerabeld it, being in a wheelchair but still, while on their last journey from underneath that smelly mini-pier, quite a sheltered spot, the end, and it’s inevitability, sat like a top layer—Calls, and such liaisons receded; things, felt, final.

107

EXPLORING HOLOGRAMIC ASPECTS OF CONSCIOUSLY SOLVING PROBLEMS . . . (HUH?)

A telling communiqué did seem to amplify this impression, staining the twang of their body language heading to the car, then off, back for the short drive up to Prime and Ujayi’s . . . his temporary home. ‘I gotta run’ she said, deflecting tense misery the whole Adam situation inflicted from long-range. Looking at her watch she riley summarized grabbing his wheelchair, smiling through nausea just as Omni tilted his head back to see if she was OK ‘You know . . . problems’ ‘Don’t worry’ Omni replied. He sliced off his upwards stare and re-lynched it, instead looking way out into the distance as they climbed the ramp, the earth’s perspective and horizon, swinging via inconceivable grace for yet another hologramic solar dip. ‘Let’s just put it like this . . .’ he concluded

‘. . . I know what you mean’.When she looked down at him, red shift half-sun bouncing off

his cheeks he had a weak smile, reluctant, remembering a joke by a racist chink perturbing in this case to his life up north, far away, but inbound.

‘Hey, Seattle’ he turned again to put on his ching-chong-slang and jested cordially. ‘Purple people run fast, but problem, run faster, heheha’

‘What . . .! Omni . . .’!! Seattle poked him hard in the back of the neck,

‘Oi that’s not funny . . .? It’s racist’! (Yea, but she smiled though).

108

SATURNALIA SEZ IT WON’T WORK

WITHOUT DEBAUCHERY (OR AIR COVER)

One snowy evening, a couple of hours before a particularly lavish dinner she was introduced, sweeping in from the car as the kids ran up clogging the doorway underneath a massive, apparently borrowed, black and yellow climbers jacket, long human swerves like a wasp, baring on approach, long, thick legs, calling herself one of Ujayi’s old educatee friends from the University Of Pranayama, and titled here—to protect the innocent—as fluttery-flame bohomoth gypsy with airy-fairy wings . . . Ms Broadsheet. ‘Hi Bee, come on in. Here let me take that’.

Bee came in and as usual gave her feet the customary wipe on the mat.

‘Aunty Bee’!!!‘Hi kids, and Alpha, you OK’?‘Fine’ Prime replied parting the jubilant children, picking up his

daughter. ‘Boy, in one month, she’s gotten so big’.‘Yea I know; godly food, cosmic limb stretching, you know how it

go’.Bee shared in some reaffirming laughter, pinching her niece’s

tiny cheek and handing over the winter coat, peeling it off to show a loose-woven, extremely baggy beige sweater with plunging V-neck, immaculate and fresh off the rack but at least three times too big! A long coffeebean-like necklace matched her parted suede foot grip wrapped over soft toes into the base of light brown, open-backed shoes, with a strange thermal leotard—straps visible partially, keeping out any body draft. The low-slung jumper barely covered her tiny tennis shorts, while a hair grip (aka large sunglasses) transformed her from an outdoor snow-skipper from the car, into an indoor, sunny 26-degree, southwest Zone4 centrecourt finalist.

With a heart-warming genteel beauty and a laugh to match, she and Ujayi conjured up old university tales and later, although the wine was turning everyone slightly foolish they gallantly continued until quite

109

SATURNALIA SEZ IT WON’T WORK WITHOUT DEBAUCHERY (OR AIR COVER)

late with more heroic, highly efficacious rebound darts and engrossing parables.

Hours passed. Omni, playing his position on the bean-bag (typically looking for hidden jewels in the speeches still on playback under his wig), hardly noticed Ujayi and Mr Prime in the kitchen slowly washing plates, and also, that the time was now past midnight. Bee paused her voice and fell back into her seat. She in her own time began to realize the set up, and quietly shared with Omni, she sensed they were being deliberately left together in the room, to finish-off the wine, of which after the first glass, feeling accelerated and therefore hedging his bookie-slips Omni, only pretended to drink.

Later still, Prime—as usual before calling it a night—came back in to hoist the gaunt and intoxicated knobbly-kneed Omni into the spare room. Ms Broadsheet swift at the effort displayed, put down her drink, courteously assisting (to Omni’s huge embarrassment), although having his inner space invaded by a princess of Berbasia like that helped—in its own way—for them two somehow to bond. Splitting her pellet of gum in half for Omni to share by the time Prime slipped away her intention was sensed, and plus, Omni considered the whole gum-thing unmistakable ( . . . Don’t ask).

Tugging a string of jokes Prime had started from in the passageway she sat down on the floor next to the bed, struggling to focus on Omni, hugging her knees as they both clemently chuckled together, which Omni measured as a “kiss me quick . . . dare ya” laugh. Already knowing it wouldn’t be very much appreciated Prime, standing up, as an inconvenient jibe—therefore cognisized as irresistible—mushed Omni in the face after first curiously staring at him, busy, staring at her, fascinated, then, his joke having little distracting effect, stepped round Bee’s creamy feet, gave up and left them, to resume nattering, both, locked-in, acclimatizing on the platform of virgin circumstance.

Without pearls, rib contact, or engagement in twirls and close-proximity shuffles, both verbally “dancing”, she mentioned, stroking her legs, that she played a particular instrument; a small guitar was lynched to the wall toward the foot of the bed right where Omni slept so they both went on the momentum that was slowly building.

Omni paid attention, noticing that his new female friend had drunk a little too much and definitely, wasn’t now intending to drive back home. In her own time, Bee unhooked the guitar and gently, she begun a sobering, undisturbed, emerald hue woodland movement with

110

Celine Flux

an expert control of each, and every note permitted to slide from the strings beneath her polished fingernails—Folk music, of an origin with no said date; quite unexpected. Omni enthralled, charmed and absorbed now into all seriousness was completely dumbstruck by the sound he was hearing.

Bee raised her chin after returning from her musical trance and stared, just stared, omniversally dark eyes, aimed at Omni, fascinated, unable to locate the pupils, looking back puzzled, but indeed learning, as they, large and enticing, appeared to strike against her rich olive coppertone. In the back of his head the cynicism jumped around, ‘Bet this is all Ujayi’s doing. Wander if Prime got round to telling her’?—And if it was . . . neither of them particularly wanted to enhance Ujayi’s renowned—(plus previously requested)—match-making skills too much further. But before you knew it this wavy-sheen, clear-skinned creature with perfectly lazer’d veneers was being intensely nibbled on by Omni, half sitting up and pivoting on his left wrist, four-pack exposed, his illusory atomic structure, well in the need of a portion of that undedicated “ultimate distraction”.

When Omni finally awoke the following morning, Ms Broadsheet had gone home to change for work over in Satelliteton, never to be seen again, even though while holding her through the night he thought maybe this was the beginning of a possible relationship, with its familiar initial waves of endless distracting possibilities, hopefully the kind of union that could rescue a spark from the metaphorical oblivion sitting on the horizon far, far, in front of him.

Omni sat up in bed and zoned, the exclusive theatre of his mind, transported back that windy beach lining the harbour along the coast. In private now, his imagination dramatised the scape: Sharp edges, where an expanse of red cracked earth raced out below his wheelchair position, and from a fault line underneath, a high cliff face would shoot right up, rapidly dragging Omni skybound to nuclear mushroom clouds up on high, but leaving the wheelchair way down on the floor. Once miles into such shimmering heat of the atmosphere he imagined dangling his now bionic legs; a precarious, windy spot, but belonging to him only. He could sit and worry about what laid way down on the skyline, where the sulphur sky meets the crimson, sub-stratum, non-substantial nature of reality, and the void beyond that, before the light. Pondering its unrelenting march towards him like a scarlet sea, its sphere of

111

SATURNALIA SEZ IT WON’T WORK WITHOUT DEBAUCHERY (OR AIR COVER)

operation would lap against his inner-shore like a permanent feature of life, pulsating, skimming and scathing with the surf, which leaned in, and then tilted back out with precision timing, reminding Omni (and other subtle people enhancing preformns) like a teachers finger on the other side of translucent membrane, or, an invaluable omen, that, once walking again, he must find balance or surely again, he would fall!

* * *

But back on the so-called realside? Things didn’t exactly work-out like expected with Bee who it turned out already had a partner (Oh well again). But in view of everything balanced while in Harbourton, he was immeasurably helped by Mr Prime and Ujayi—effectively his current family—who tolerated him, took him in, taxied him around, stuck yogafood in his mouth, picked him up from the beach, and, when the time came, they drove him the one hundred and fifty miles up to Metroaux.

112

CHIN UP, DON’T DROWN,

REACH FOR YOU . . . PROMISE

North now, past his Zone1 flat to where admittedly, Omni had excuses, and, surrounded by original hardcore mindstates, really did sound like a bitterly twisted Maverick manoeuvring at 5-G (“Gutsiest move I ever saw maan”). Out there Omni was taken into the capable hands of his uber-extensive family and when the news of his crash/return went around, chums he was surprised to meet again came over to see him. There were old school friends like Crossfade, and Cartier from around the neighbourhood, still lounging, doing their thing, even some church elders of his mother and sisters acquaintance passed by with their children, old playmates he used to attend Sunday school alongside also, who all brought friends of their own, some reminding Omni of who he should struggle not to be. All offers of support were taken up once he was more mobile.

The neighbourhood had gone through its fair share of abandonment and change; furrows in familiar faces had gone a little deeper since he left well over a decennium earlier.

One wintry afternoon wrapped up well, Omni rolled himself from his middle sister’s house, fifty meters down the street to one of his many pseudo-cousins. Once there, he found a spot and juxed. Many people were coming in and out, some new, some old. As the day went on, nostalgic and insecure about where exactly home was for him now, Zone1 or Metroaux, Arcticasia or Tropicasia, and worrying about motorbikes (not forgetting most importantly his most aryan obligations)

Omni began a bout of what his inner-doctor would call “A personally observed, clinical diagnosis of self-pity” and it showed—and yes, alas misread, by his cousins, later by his mother and all but one of his sisters as he tried to explain to them how he was feeling lately. Since fretting about it for a fortnight in the hospital, whenever thoughts about the events surrounding his crash appeared inside he would shudder, and a huge sense of irrational fear born of attachment would befall him. It was

113

CHin uP, DOn’T DROWn, ReACH FOR YOu . . . PROMiSe

unstoppable. He thought about it at regular intervals of compulsion, and thus, became physically sweaty and agitated, his pupils dilated; he would struggle to breath, speak, and after a time . . . care.

Betrayal Omni felt when his sister—the one who always looked after him as a scruffy teenager—(when he couldn’t even look after himself ) —told him that his mother thought the weight loss and agitation, then unbeknown to her actually a long and complicated depression, was due to drugs. ‘Drugs . . .!’ Omni thought swigging some distilled drugs, ‘Huh, I’ll show them drugs’—And then came the Peacemaker.

When the Peacemaker drove over to see his temporarily disabled nephew, this awe-inspiring ex-weed-fuelled philosopher-monarch, the lone father-figure who back in those 80’s times—(when some bright spark playing rebel music turned up on sky-blue election day saying “Hey let’s have a fringe party”)—always kept a pound in a young Omni’s pocket, and the trump-card-assurance of a sawn-off drive-by, if needed, in his head like an “extra man bonus” on an ol’skool videogame. He, also felt helpless, due to Omni incorrectly accepting no help, well, beyond cliché’s and parables; (A pound for sweets or an oily burner for bullies couldn’t serve Omni out of this particular state of affairs)!

Omni’s Uncle Peacemaker had seen it all—literally—from heavy hitting co-investors, to beefy employees guarding doors and containers, even the click-clack of heavy metal frontline street action; you name it, the Peacemaker conveyor-belted past it.

Noticeable to few (and yes, exempt of the gross) whenever Peace was talking to Omni, ever since Omni was likkle picky-head bwoy, now grown and able to perceive these things, the even older and wiser Peacemaker, always spoke with the insightful subtlety of a fair and just Maharajah from the age of honouring crowned sovereigns, but obviously not when speaking to lager’d-up savages, of any race, or sex for that matter. But even he, also misinterpreted Omni’s, to quote Dylan “Now you don’t talk so loud, Now you don’t act so proud”, change in attitude from a typical young ‘Guess what, Guess what’ non-stop talking teenager, to a (to quote Dylan again) “How does it feeeel” type of young man, especially that night they spoke on Omni’s big sister Tyronda’s settee.

That was a particularly painful dusk, with nothing but the cable remote and the crossroad-ponderings of Zone1 on his mind, Omni finding it hard to speak, Tyronda, busy at her church meeting. Though

114

Celine Flux

when his uncle heard “Omni’s gone crazy” on the grapevine from his own bigger sister—Omni’s mom—and that she no-doubt told her younger brother—Peacemaker, known as Tallboy—about concerns for her druggie son, Omni, out of mere alarm at potential palm stigmata, received the message, loud and clear—it carried, like carillons at prayer time. He withdrew his heart, isolated it, sinking it low, past the inability then, to segregate privacy and family.

And after that horrible disclosure, mentally, he just fell back, began to carve himself his own little development plan for the future, to stay challenged, realizing deep down he now had to leave . . . without trying to dissuade any of them . . . just go back to Zone1 and try to call it home, maybe this time for good. But, execution monitor on pause, first, he needed to get out of his wheelchair and into some crutches, and even that concept had a while to go yet.

115

HUH, NOW DO IT SOBER! (OH! & THAT’S

WHY THEY WANT A FREE PRESS!)

Omni had a group of friends he used to hang with. Around those same times he adopted himself a stray label, accidentally placing it around his neck. This label—one of many he already had—(and would acquire more later)—was inscribed “School Drop-Out on Teachers Advice”, giving up on school months before his gang of friends who stayed on if only as a formality. Some of this gang he rolled with went to rival schools and were a year below in age, so the circle of initial mates never really developed in membership until much later.

Before the days of gang expansion efforts though, they did many different things foolishly considered in those old, curly-permed, chicken, rice and pea’s days, as good fun, and all participated without a bucket to spit in or land to place the bucket! Sadly when the group grew to unstable numbers things changed.

But this was all back when the inner Metroaux’s “one step ahead” fashion had somehow switched from posh schoolboy pillaging, to Bavarian car stereo theft, or Indian shop woman chain snatches—all this for commercial dirtweed—inner city trends then switching over again like the seasons (with the help of bootleg videos) to the more lucrative snatches of post-bulky, Swedish Amerindian or Japanese mobile phone theft, sold on to Druid publicans—(once again for wack-calibre weed).

These outside elements, combined with the pressure of older gangs from the wilder, more gully, or gaza schools, who outside of state education, would satisfy the need to top-up their “rudebwoy” reputations by getting kids from specific schools to bear witness to their charging upon each other, either at the annual fair, or at the rash of bonfire nights that all the inner-town children like themselves travelled out to. These Metroaux suburban-limit fares were pretty major events; everybody went to play counterfeit-coin-op video games and then if bored or broke (which was a guarantee) would go on to disrupt.

116

Celine Flux

More than likely, that regional-news-worthy annual disruption would be at its most spectak at the calendar highlighted Metroaux Carnival; every city had one—Omni’s gang, in different member combinations, went to all of them. It was here, at the home fixture, Omni first witnessed the wonderful delights of bottle-bashing or wooden handle gun-butting, the magnificent game of tit-for-tat muggings, and that special attraction, the wonderful crown-surging sounds of machine-gun spray. This type of savagery influenced certain individuals of Omni’s association (like Cartier and Crossfade) before they even knew who they themselves were!

Critical mass for the so-called gang and its slight over-population problem came to a head with a sleep-over; A sort of like, boy meets girl, silly spin the bottle turned rape accusation, skipping down the line to a witness testimony which surprised the connected parents mostly, and ended up with a conviction. Oh, and the cause? Well that came from a mixture of: passions consequence, and some wish-be but authorized by virtue of decent, thuggish daughter of an old school, twenty-children-having Criminaldread. This episode of subversion left the gang, incidentally comprising of members from three or four different districts, quite scattered, low-ebbing and busrides apart from each other.

Omni himself—now with metaphorical blood in his 3rd “I”—because of age envisioned the rape and its final impact early: He tried in vain to repair the rifts, leaving the once circumstantial conglomerate on life support and in crisis. Thus explained, this was when, what seemed to have descended into the holy beasthood, dramatically exploded a few years later, leaving core members fighting for their lives for a pretty long time of those short little lives, emerging victorious though but at too high-a-price.

Meanwhile years later back in the neighbourhood, while most of them were on the road to a second bird in jail, Omni and a couple of others in the crew had scraped themselves into college, of which they applied either to satisfy family, or out of sheer provincial boredom. And once there, they again, like secondary school before them, somehow

“just didn’t fit”, so without their parents knowledge they just upped and left, but not before adding more goons to the crew, all of them around seventeen years old, first year college so-called “students” who didn’t look up the meaning of the word student at all!

117

HUH, NOW DO IT SOBER! (OH! & THAT’S WHY THEY WANT A FREE PRESS!)

With enrolment at college came the need for money, and the need to impress girls, in order to get regular doses of the “ultimate distraction” that was fast becoming the “hot thing” (as conditioning and hormones dictate . . . right)?—And as for those Criminaldreadz . . .? Huh: The Criminaldreadz when Omni was younger were much different from the true, peace-loving, pious, book-reading Rasta’s of the same period. They (the Criminaldreadz) were not peace-loving or religious people at all.

In fact, they set the killing trend in the three main undesirable pubs and shady derelict frontlines of Mid-Centro Shires, where two of them would kill another two of each other every Saturday, and, if it wasn’t for them raising the drug-game stakes to middle-England’s awareness Metroaux wouldn’t have the murder rate it has now!—: Their name, Criminaldread, is a title given by the author used to describe the children of the first wave of Caribbean’s, and that word Caribbean is derived from the word “Cannibal” which the reader is asked to consider a pisstake (even if it is an etymological accident!)

118

YEA BUT . . . DUKE OF LANCASTRIA DIGS

THAT ABOUT HER, SO ALL HAIL

From leaving school to leaving home was the two years of gangster rap and Mafia flicks which the whole crew idealized, but some, rather more than others. The Criminaldreadz saw to it that if they got long stretches in jail (and most of them did) the next generation would fill the petty-hustlers vacuum, be it fighting for scraps, or fighting for the slim-shot of a nice house in the sticks: It takes decades to realize you’re making the uneducated fool’s mistake of walking in a blind man’s footprints and most realize too late—Omni convinced himself he’d realized just in the nick of time.

That said; it had been a long time since Omni had seen the Miguel, damn near eight, nine years in fact. Omni was being pushed down to the shop by some other friends when they bumped into each other again, and Miguel was in shock to see Omni all drained of vitality, looking like an invalid, plus Miggie was a natural joker as Omni remembered.

So much so that his appearance, which seemed to be all-important in Zone1, didn’t really seem to matter so much to Omni, but it did matter to those who surrounded him. Besides that though, his presence alone put a smile on Omni’s face. It felt just like old times hearing about who was dead or getting overweight from blood money, who was in jail, in the army, or laid-up with one too many baby mothers and now coronated “OG” status.

Miguel’s big bursts of laughter exposed terrible smoker’s teeth which Omni had a phobia of. Another observation, was he possessed a quaint

“just woke up in the afternoon” general look, all about him. But this particular dominion of Metroaux—virtually the Citycentre—was the British equivalent of the ghett-go, the only difference being that the freckle-nosed Irish were boxed-in too, so these ethnic groups consisting also of the mysteriously religious Bengbedengs and the soul-controlling Zaggins, found it that much harder to pull the “oppressed” rank with the ol’ “Black Card”.

119

NEAREST WILLIAM WALLACE KNOWS TO

GULLY/GAZAHEART IZ 8-MILE

Omni and Miguel decided to go see their mutual friend from way back, Cartier, presently doing well for himself off the books. The three of them easily fell back into previous positions of yesteryear, tossing the most inappropriate questions they could conceive of, like—for example—one laughable question, of which Omni secretly harboured desires of balloting the whole world population, but first polling Cartier then Miguel in turn, ‘OK then you lot, OK . . . err . . . Rikki Lake or Liv Tyler . . .? Bullion value . . .’? ‘What! You crazy . . .’ came the reply. Then Omni would really dumbfound them, therefore expecting no answer.

‘Aaiigghht den padner, if the athlete Denise Lewis, takes gold, then how about film-choice sophistication . . . silver . . . plus fitness, and remember, let’s keep class-breeding versus income-bracket out of this one, OK . . . so, erm . . . Cate Blanchett, Tilda Swinton, or Jennifer Connelly . . .?’

In this stupid fashion it was, how Omni always killed hours, happily “cetchin joke” in Cartier’s mother’s old garage, where they max’d-out as scruffy kids and did so again like old times, lounging through the night with joypads, herbs, and cheap noodles till the following morning.

‘Nah nah I don’t care maan, I want my props’ said Cartier later, pausing to turn down the bass-heavy car stereo and blow out smoke travelling through the open car doors, then out the garage and into the street, a street Cartier acted like he owned way before he and his cousin started getting analogue paper, ‘And when I come for them props?’ he ranted, ‘heads had better give’em up . . . Headless chickens too for that matter’! Now exercised sufficiently Cartier sat up, passing the soggy-tipped joint. ‘Laddish culture . . .? Huh . . . Laddish culture my foot-bottom star . . . more like leaning on my stabezzy culture, ya smellz me’? By now slouched deep into the musty settee, faded, playing Super Mario Kart, Omni laughed only half listening. ‘Maaan, I should walk around the Broad Strip and start snatching up all the multi coloured

120

Celine Flux

hundred-quid Nike air-wacks I see these lager-lout punters wearing, not knowing it was cats like me who made all that shite official! Especially the girls; you know the ones; them teenyats trying to look all gully/gaza and the like, tryin’a assume that utilitarian look, the best part of five or six years late to rahtid’!

When Cartier finished he got out the car to irritate Miguel, poking him in the hope he’d start losing interest in the games console.

He joined him on the car boot for a while and decided to question them both further. ‘Remember back when, watching TV, those ironed feathered hairstyles on rich daddies daughters, rockin’ red leather flight jackets with low-hip pedal pushers, and showing G-strings’? ‘Mmm’, said Miguel and Omni, way too lean to admit they actually had no idea of what fashions women wore then, or what Cartier was going on about. Weeded, instead they’d both lost themselves in individual whims associated with holographic-hotties. ‘Since those days it’s gone straight out of control yo! Fourteen yearolds trying-a look twenty’n that . . . Plucked brows . . . Shaved legs . . . Open toe shoes . . . That’s exactly the styles you’ll see while they’re busy pukin’-up, all laggard in the city centre, or up on the Broad Strip’!

Unbeknown to Cartier, Miggie and Omni still weren’t bothering to listen to him, well, to the level he would’ve desired anyhow. ‘Oi I gotta know something’, he continued getting himself all hyped, enjoying the sound of his own voice, convinced of its accuracy with regards to hood charges and assumed guilty pleas, ‘You think paying all that wizznong to get your punny waxed like a footballers wife makes you as fly as me . . .? Huh, Ducks back yo . . . Ducks back . . . I want my props, and when I come for them, heads had better free-up my royalties coz I had copyright on that shabizznite, and they’d better not act like they didn’t see the Jamaicasian trademark on those botty-riders either yo. I feel certain yatz need to wipe the wax out their ears and clean out the matta from their eye-carna . . . Try be more hygienic instead of tryin’a be Ms Aniston (post that “Rachel Cut”—you know, the other one, tucked behind the ear and generally more illa) off that sitcom and sh-t’.

To Cartier’s view these accusations were justified and on-point. Oui oui with Cartier—like others impressed by flair—it wasn’t what you said, but always how you said it that counted.

They howled at the roof this way till light, eating munchies and talking about music non-stop like a gilded triplet of grumpy old clergymen. ‘Hey, to them it may sound like I’m just squelching farts

121

NEAREST WILLIAM WALLACE KNOWS TO GULLY/GAZAHEART IZ 8-MILE

out my muddy caterpillars, being misunderstood’s fair enough!’ Cartier popped some more crap in closing down of his verbal stall, ‘But to me?

Dawg it makes perfect sense. I understand, you may have like, some noisy-ass kids screaming in your ear hole, maybe if you’ve got a court summons tomorrow and if that’s the case, it’ll come off like bulla-cake, but to me, it’s way vivid’!

122

BURN WHO’S BOOKS? (CHEEKY CHEEKEA!)

Dawn broke, and all three of them were proper hurt-up, eyes aching, and certainly more tired now than they would have been in and around their mid-teens. Before Cartier drove Omni to his eldest sisters and Miguel, home, a meeting for old times’ sake, celebrating Omni’s less than triumphant return was agreed so once more, the whole ‘92-era-crew could converge in that old familiar place over on the canal where they always had. Back in the day a lot of cans were drunk there, a lot of kisses with local, and out of town girls too, and during those sticky summertime’s, tall gritty-looking factories belched-over in all directions, transforming their secret spot, or den, codenamed The Optimum Rhyme Spot, into an oily adventure playground back when the world seemed just like that—a playground.

As his memory recalled, it was a few hundred meters from a junction where the pan-city high-speed train bridged over the centuries old, now hardly-used waterways. It was a place that played host to lots of first encounters with that “ultimate distraction”. The whole invited crew would join up again, now, along with outer-circle friends, to attend this fresh assemblage set just before Christmas, and all the things they as teenagers used to do for kicks would be done on this night as adults (which can be viewed from certain high spiritual plateaus as valuable time-wasting . . . I guess).

Omni was taken special care of by all who knew him, especially Miguel and another old friend who moved out of the city up to Liverpool to study. He was Cartier’s wildcat cousin called Crossfade—on account of him being the first in the gang to dismantle his mother’s front room stereo and raise the necessary capital needed to invest in some turntables and a mixer—So with those three pieces of equipment, all Crossfade had to do was get some more donated carnival-style sound equipment from houseparty-shootout-having Criminaldreadz, then before long, (back

123

BURN WHO’S BOOKS? (CHEEKY CHEEKEA!)

when they were even younger) the whole crew was being commissioned to play at street parties under their soundsystem name of Bulletproof Music Incorporated (Or was it Ruff Groove Syndicate? And anyway, who taught Kool Herc to string-up dance? Exactamundalli!)

124

7-DENSITY LIGHTBEING OF WUQITAO

TRANSMANIFEST PERSONALLY

Another core member from that formative era was Hudson. Hudson lived near Miguel down by the local shopping precinct with his girlfriend and little daughter. He called up Omni’s cellphone (actually belonging to Nivja’s older brother Nick), saying he was driving over to catch up again with his old secondary school buddy who through unfortunate circumstances was back in town. Hudson boasted, quite proud of, and just couldn’t keep to himself, that, just before he came through to the canal he was to drop off two Celticasian women at his other place; he’d met them months back in the summer clubbing-it on the main Broad Strip.

Hudson told Omni he’d unsheathed an old classic ‘mack-up line pon dem’, a reliable yarn to secure first, their number, then trophy French frillies for the parading, telling them he was a discreetly moving newly married man but was always up for some of that old “ultimate distraction” and that his friend Omniversal—just back from the Persian Conflict—had explosives shrapnel removed from his legs and needed some tender loving care specially designed and fitting for a national hero.

Pretty elaborate stuff . . . eh? But that was just regular talk for Hudson who even in Sunday school had the reputation amongst friends of being a bit of a penniless pimp.

Omni put the phone away smiling; his night all planned out now in perfect bitsize stages. So in about two hour’s time, he was supposed to go with Hudson over to the “other flat” in outer Metroaux, far away from his baby-mothers crib. ‘Nice one!’ he thought full of lusty desire, sitting in virtual pitch blackness just under the bridge.

Only for the purpose of reminding himself, he took a look along the onstretching fence bending out of sight, and then all around the old den area. The canal walkway was poorly lit, all the way outward, everywhere, from the bridge, in both directions—Hardly anything had changed.

125

7-DENSITY LIGHTBEING OF WUQITAO TRANSMANIFEST PERSONALLY

Upwards, past barbed wire on the other side of the water, were all those factories. And the only sound and activity that counted for anything was this party of theirs—(well, more like a gathering-turned Christmas reunion)—slowly but surely increasing in active members.

Meanwhile, team fundamentus-slang-familius, (aka him Crossfade Cartier and Miguel), were busy talking their funny—then aggressively serious—wine-o styled fundamentasma. Miguel rolled his eyes, shaking his head in disagreement of a well-cut jewel slung by Crossfade, surpassing the tipsy and cheeky stage, trying his best to give Omni, others, and Miguel, posing in his “I’m not having it” stance, some random headfodder at a volume louder than the music playing on the floor and hotter than the impromptu fire they had cackling beside the bridge.

‘Yea Miggie’, he syntaxed, ‘I can see ya wig going into spasm, but . . .’ Miguel was smirking at him now, old techniques, arms folded, impenetrable, for the moment at least refusing to take the bait, leading everyone else into a charge of pre-amped murmurous objections which Omni, excited with anticipation of Hudson’s wannabe high-class hookers, knew, from back when they were teenagers, was more or less inevitable once everyone was adequately tanked up.

‘. . . And make sure you stop me when you’re hearing something you don’t particularly feel too, or I’m gonna assume your feelin’ what I’m droppin’. OK listen, check it. I reckon, no, I believe, we live in the head of . . . no, the mind of god or something’

‘Stop, right, there’ said Miguel, ‘I’ve thought that already, years ago, but now I don’t believe, I’ve abandoned that dart so I’m keeping tally, and you can count that as our first disagreement of the night. You gotta pluralize that sh-t for me, there’s more than one god, so make it gods, not god’.

Remembering the “supreme god” conception, Omni now wanted in, and followed Miguel closely, then latched onto Miggie’s sentence with precision timing (only coz he wasn’t as drunk yet). ‘But I don’t think this is an, observable observation dough blood . . . Cats’ll for sure dispute that . . . Your ol’school Deutschland philosopher’s definitely gonna put his hand up and call that out as straight unverifiable’?

At this point Crossfade hopped up off his milk crate, loutishly grabbing everyone’s attention. ‘Yea yea unverifiable, creator creatoorrzzz whalleva whalleva . . . the preferred name to describe it would be Allah

126

Celine Flux

and yes before you start highlighting, I know some would rather describe it as something else. That word’s a self-educated guess, in pre-Arabic you know what I mean? A satisfactory one at that . . . And let’s not forget, my personal outlook, or at least my name for the creator, is shared by a billion other cats’!

‘If your speaking about those Taliban cats’, returned Miguel overlapping with a swift eureka face, ‘I don’t think they’re down with that at all, in fact, they’d probably decapitate ya claht in a sports stadium for straying so far from what they be deh pon, ya dig’! Every man began to burst into dentist-chair-style laughter; but that wasn’t no wipeout for Crossfade; after a while, crushing some Mersh in his cupped palm, sifting out seeds and twigs, he starter-gunned another orbit of this, amusing sift-theory he had snowballing with increased momentum.

‘But you know my mind of god guesstimate didn’t satisfy me for long anyway, you know I had to get on some ol’ discovery channel shite’.

Omni was hanging off Miguel and now Crossfade’s flowstreams, listening, looking up at them from his wheelchair, thinking many thoughts, some enchanting, yet smile-suppressing, including this parky little related number . . . “We came from the atmosphere, the physical trapped us here” Thanks Priest (with Elizabethan Offerings behind Stained Glass)!

127

“BUT YA TOAST GOTTA RING IF YOU

WANNA LIVE LIKE A YOUNG KING”

‘Seriously dough’, Crossfade felt he just had to carry on with it, ‘. . . we pivot and weave around this Sunrah, which I’m convinced which will implode in the year 2021 anyway, so were all gonna get it then regardless’. Omni and Miguel looked round at everyone, covering their mouths, pretending to be shocked, so Crossfade quickly huffed back but this time, at the surrounding spectators, in an attempt to sway them, opting to not yet laugh at this other two and their facial stretchings. ‘It’s true . . . yo I read it on the Internet, Huh . . . you’ll see’. He pointed his finger at the new Omni/Miguel tag team, two of them still looking at each other, shaking their faces from side to side. That made Crossfade pump up even more, refusing to fall back to the stationary barracks of his milk crate in the face of such audacious smirks, ‘Yea yea for real, where a black holes gonna appear and swallow up America. Yo it’s true yo’! And that was it, just enough to have Miguel and Omni up in arms, until the noise-level of all counter objections by Cartier in support of Crossfade also rose high.

So now more than a few were on their feet, drowning out the clusters of people near clocking the antics, slurping away, drawn-in from their own conversations, and some not realizing that’s just how the Criminaldreadz raised them, like thirsting wolves, even when sober, let alone when having fun once more for the road, twisted off the dry cleaners hanger!

‘But hear wah gwan now, you haven’t even heard the best part yet’! Crossfade hushed everybody, telling them all to quiet-down, like his pearl was top secret, ‘A trillion light years over in like . . . that direction (he was pointing nowhere in particular) a white hole appears and shazzaaam, America gets belched out erm, over there, you see? What you don’t believe me? Aaiigghht you’ll see, 2021. You mark my words. That’s some prophetical shabizznite right there’. ‘More like some non-fiction cult leader shite you mean blood’ blurted Miguel, blowing out a lungful

128

Celine Flux

of thick damp smoke and passing the scud on to the left. ‘Bear in mind Crossfade, we know only a fraction, a tiny piece of the jigsaw, so this interstellar shite we talking about right now, its bubbles in the bath yo . . . Just bubbles in the bath’.

Omni was straight lean-off now, like everyone else, busy sparking up another one as Miguel, heavy set and heavy bags under his now drooping eyes, put one out, dusting off the ash from his clothes while Omni, stoned and zoned-out tried in his mind to merge a satellite image of space with a mental picture of bubbles floating around in a sink.

At this point, a few more mundane moments of regular spit came flying out between Miguel and Cartier, about something on TV, but when Crossfade severed the head of another liquor bottle, filling his can (mostly devoid of beer) with more Absolute, he turned, sounding-off his mouth-bugle, apparently at everyone. ‘It’s nearly a new year’ he declared,

‘Now clock the resolution; heads are gonna roll this year star, manz are getting robbed, and if any dude starts popping shabizznite? They’re getting it stabar . . . ragu’.

A baseline crept just at that instant . . . Hudson’s car! It had finally reached, booming over the grassy hill where massive strips of football grass surrounded a children’s playpark in the middle behind the canal fence. He parked up by a few other boy-racers, shouting something to the leader of the serial-scratching Keane family way over on another piece of grass, as normal busy having themselves a kick-about. Some younger druid kids flicking swings (84’ style) begged him for a piece of cigarette and, flashy as ever, Hudson, dressed vibrant in a yellow Laker’s imported jacket, dipped into his babymothers stocking kept in the arm-sleeve of his jacket and gave them an unwashed grubby blue (a fiver) so they could go and scoop their own packet.

He made his way down the hill walking from the car, door left open, Smiff n’ Wessun’s 1st album bumping-out hard, hopping the fence in triumphant mode, returning from dropping off his classless clientèle and fobbing them off with, ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes girls I swear, ten minuets’. The first part of his full-time illegal job had already been done—bagging up goods indoors—so now he approached The Optimum Rhyme Spot, greeting his way through groups already there, some watching the kick-about, others vandalising sh-t, but, attracted

129

“BuT YA TOAST GOTTA RinG iF YOu WAnnA liVe liKe A YOunG KinG”

by the dominant-magnetic fire, and music, some had now posted themselves up near the railings with a can, or a phat 2-litre of poison to observe some sportish clan-bickering. While nearing the bridge he overheard Crossfade, spitting his almost-drunken flammable-fire and decided to pitch in.

‘No doubt pah, no doubt, wah gwabizznaan’? He asked each man, entering the huddled group and slapping everyone a high five. Hudson closed his phone and asked Omni in particular, ‘How’s your legs star?’

Omni responded quickly. ‘They got a mind of they own blood, you should speak to them directly’. Crossfade tugged on Hudson’s elbow as he settled into the clan, sickle-shaped and packed-in under the bridge.

‘Yo Hudson, tell these fools for me star, becah . . .’ Crossfade’s attention got suddenly taken by a girl behind. She wanted some papers so Omni finished his twin wise-crack, loaded for Miguel to detonate with a big laugh. ‘You hear that guys? I think my legs just said they’re getting better and thanks for asking’!

Crossfade had almost lost all his sense of hearing by now due to bottles of French brandy, overproof rum and Finnish vodka still on the floor, and he was keen to get back to the programme, consisting of him clapping out more of his pseudo-physics. ‘In an ideal world?, Cool, Follow orders on some “fall back soldier” tip, But the hungry, born along every inch of this Atlantian coast, have to let the jurno’s document the temperature of our knife and gunplay, you know what I mean, let the power manipulating heavyweights on TV rain down subliminals, their 50k per weak, ass, disses, and yin-yang remarks’. ‘What? Still offended by all that anti-terror suggestive slang from all them lost boys on TV’? Asked Hudson, chinky-eyed smile aimed at his cuz from way back printed across his face, ‘You are ain’t ya? Still scared they’d draft in Goulash simians to impede your progress? Huh, F%#* dat’

‘Maan I ain’t talking about one person. I’m on about the government of the day, who you already know work with the medium. So if the media don’t like the spit you’re spittin’ then voters, the elector-cepticonz, get somehow converted and you, if you’re on the success ladder, you’ll just get number eight shinto-balled . . . weaponised media suppression, or something. I mean they say there doing it for the kids but are they’?

Crossfade, remorseless, was cutting through party mood brought by Hudson. ‘Yea yea “The Next Generation” yea, well, that’s what they say . . . that’s a whole heap of peoples reasoning behind different beefs’.

130

Celine Flux

By now he was as high as the heavens, and determined to take Omni with him to the astrofield-dojo to spar, crudely re-emphasizing from the woozy Van Halen belt commitments to his god, his beloved Metroaux neighbourhood, and his enduring friendships.

131

CORPERATE TENNIS SHOES AND

SHINY TRACKSUITS

‘I guess the mark of a childhood, if it weren’t straight abomination . . . like . . . completely crap’, spat Crossfade, seeking cosy consensus by switching from bug-out to introspection then back to furiously buggin’-out, ‘is being able to look back on formatives and, on the whole, smile. Sure, there’s bad times but the good times should outweigh the bad, for me and people alike only, and I know this don’t apply to everyone so you don’t have to agree, but I still maintain a twenty year old in a war-torn country don’t wanna trade places or be like us in anyway, well except maybe . . . games consoles, tennis shoes and a corresponding tracksuit’?

Omni had to laugh at that one, thinking about summertime in Zone1, some party in the park or something; and thinking on further? it had him feeling a little like a pimped-out sneaker pimp—Only, on a red light stroll—(because of dressdown culture outside the workplace you see)—plus all those wasps buzzing around your can while on a sugar high (ah . . . the award-winning Zone1 wildlife channel lol).

‘Personally’ Crossfade drifted on, ‘I blame all those ugly cats, those strange looking cats, you know, those wide-skull heavy-head cats’. Omni and Miguel sensed Crossfade going off tangent, also sensing them old-school punchlines about to come up. ‘Yea stabar yooouuu know’?

Crossfade continued, looking at Omni and throwing down the gauntlet ‘Those beat-up-face dudes’? Omni remembered how they used to spend many a skint evening pulling each other’s chain like this, testing each other’s wits like random spot-checking of crude improv-skills . . . all the funnier when faded. ‘What you looking at me for blood? You da ugliest one here star, don’t trabiy it star’. Practically everyone on the canal within earshot of Crossfade, Miguel and Omni’s tirades again began to leak warm smirks and laughter, especially Cartier and Hudson who found it megafunny, but it only got a small smile from the girls who’s distracting presence—along with the drink—initiated yet another period of play and infectious slang-honing.

132

Celine Flux

According to schooldays protocol, before the laughter stopped it would more often than not, be Cartier’s turn next. ‘Yo what you smiling for Hudson?’ he said jumping in to help sink his cousin ‘What . . .?

With that funky shaped, back-buck, re-buck, split-lentil-looking bean you placed a hat on, trying to pass it off as a flippin’ head’?

‘Ha zaggin very funny . . . but hold on . . . wait a minute, Mr Overfried Dumplin’, your heads the biggest here’!

‘What? Don’t try it star . . . Who’s got a ruler yo . . .? Yo as anybody got a ruler so we can settle this shite once and for all?, coz bwoy, it looks like your cranium’s grown a lot since the last time I saw you blood . . . And that was this morning’!

While Crossfade responded with that one Hudson grabbed on to Cartier’s forehead as he tried to resist, briefly inspecting the back of it before they descended into their old brief tussle, which everyone found amusing. Alerted by the dumpling diss Omni had a spark, and comically asked Crossfade, wrongly guessing he’d be spared the verbal sword because he was in a wheelchair, ‘Yo who’s got the biggest head around at the party Crossfade’? Now with his fine balance of comic intelligence, and ruthlessness, Crossfade marched round everyone present, with his imitation rapstars strut, staring at everyone’s head, checking it for size and all-round hideousness while Hudson and Cartier, by now made-up from scrapping, dusting there expensive jackets down, looked at Miguel verbalizing the consensus, ‘Yooou blood!’ they said pointing, ‘Yea, it’s definitely you Miguel’

‘What’? said Miguel shocked, astonished by such untruthful impertinence. He defended himself.

‘P-l-ea-se, its gotzta be one of you two, and you know the ladies don’t wanna pass eggheads down to their children!! Huh, you lot must be drunk or something, you must be seeing double, or maybe momz dropped you as a baby and now you ain’t seeing straight because you two? Yo, you two were born with just too much head shape . . . “Nurse, where’s the scalpel?”‘ he shouted, ‘coz I’m gonna have to perform an operation for reeeaal’.

Crossfade and Omni were creasing-up with laughter. ‘Oi, in fact’ on full blast Miguel continued, fighting down amusement, ‘When God was creating ya’ll two, it appears by the size of your headshapes, its extended form and shit, all the extra deformed parts on the front and sh-t? He must have been just too liberal with the skull sections, damn; I mean, wow, look at all that curvature’, he called out trying to grab

133

CORPeRATe TenniS SHOeS AnD SHinY TRACKSuiTS

onto their heads ‘it’s shaped like alien nation, or the final frontier, ha, or some vase without the flowers or some sh-t like that’! Miguel went for dramatic effect now, mimicking god as a sculptor, cupping their skulls and Crossfade loved it, dying to slamdunk the assist.

He could resist no longer, by any means just having to get this one out quickly, so he grabbed the chain of anti-comedy before it swung somewhere else, or back over to Hudson and Cartier. ‘Miguel, yo maybe when Krsnallah was in heaven crafting the heads sections for them two’s bodies, something happened on earth, diverting his attention for a quick moment, and then when he realized he figured “Ahh its Cartier and Hudson, Nah they won’t mind growing up with some extra headbone will they’?

‘Alright’, Cartier retaliated assuming himself to be the best-looking one there, ‘Dead the argument star, this is how were gonna sort it out, check this’. Now everyone was eager to see and hear where Cartier, backed up with Hudson (who also kept a stable of ponies around town) standing right beside him, would take this hilarious, twenty-year-long running dispute over who had the biggest head.

‘Imagine for example, there was a diving board, one mile up in the sky, or just say we were at war, and our platoon got captured and beheaded at the prisoner camp, and for fun, they decided to drill a hole through our heads and empty the contents, our brains, into buckets, each head, a separate bucket . . . right’? All ears pricked up, listening out for the punchline ‘Well you know you two’s heads would hold the most, in like, sheer volume I mean blood’.

The crowd was lapping it up, so was the gang. Everyone was being entertained well, as the old firm joked amongst themselves with those same kind of burial ground disses that back in the day got them all suspended from school, some of them on numerous occasions. ‘Better still’ said Miguel hammering nails into the Hudson/Cartier coffin as everybody laughed on, ‘Check it. Imagine everybody here tonight died for some reason and in the morning, they lined-up our dead caucuses along the white cliffs of Dover, ready to be tipped into the French Channel, feet first, simultaneously, like some kind of Solar Order ritual, or like Karate-kid floating loads of ceremonial candles out to sea. Now . . . it’d take a good while for those bodies to hit the water right’?

‘Right’ said Hudson and Cartier, unimpressed so far. ‘But because different heads have different sizes and weights, like javelins and sh-t,

134

Celine Flux

the variations of head aerodynamics means, bodies would tilt at different rates yeah’?

‘Haaaa . . . head aerodynamics . . .? Hehehe, of the head! Haaahaha . . .’ Crossfade and Omni started to howl with loud fits of uncontrollable laughter, kind of thankful the joke wasn’t aimed at them, incapable of resistance to the thought of a person’s “head aerodynamics determining the velocity of descent through the air on the way to the sea below” and, as they and everybody else, by now, knew where this was going, the unfortunate souls—Cartier primarily—about to get singled out by Miguel’s comical Desert Storm, waited to get blasted for no other reason than simple jest.

‘I reckon out of the two of you? Err, you Cartier, would for sure hit the water head-first, big splash . . . oh, no question, but me rudeboy? Of course I’d land on my feet, ragu. I wouldn’t tilt in the air. I ain’t got no heavy-headed cat!’ Again, everyone lost track of space and time laughing.

And here, at their most uninhibited, they let loose their incredulous levels of auditory sound like only young testosterone-fuelled (so-called) men could.

Crossfade stopped laughing first, and decided to sedate everyone somewhat because he got cut off by Miguel earlier. ‘Nah nah anyway listen yo, calm down, listen, I was talking about earthlings in general, you know, people’s perceptions, you smell me’? Crossfade was now keen to get back to the original script. ‘I mean, we all know what the Athenian ideal of what fly is supposed to be right? And we all to some degree, try and strive for that look, we’ve all been sucked in, be it yatties with that weather-girl chic, or us working out, trying-a look like them paint-stripped sculptures or something’.

Hudson pulled a flat broken piece of cigarette sticking out from his Aston Villa embroidered scully, which covered all but the beak of his purple Minnesota Vikings cap, the two items of headwear together combined into a sort of winter Metroaux camouflage to help ease him through the run-down, ageing, and it has to be said, self-mutilated estate for youth with no concept of civic duty—it had its useful police-dodging rat runs to blow the chase through, and back gardens to discard certain rubbish—and that estate with its built-in shopping precinct, was actually the frontline of what was a pretty small, almost self-contained district Omni wrongly identified as proto-home.

135

MISS! WHO ELSE HAS SEMETIC FEATURES?

Hudson along with Cartier and Crossfade all had fathers who were Criminaldreadz, well, that was before they all turned into baldheadz or got murdered by the counter terrorist form of “The Man”, either that or tricking them into shortening their own lifespans (pork, beer, poisoned weed etc.) just because their tiny sunny island of birth was for them, such a tight fit, so oppositely, that way you end up committing suicide by “the man, in the mirror” (get it? No . . .? Oh well).

But back when Argentina was bussin’ caps at Britanyah PLC on mere geographic principle, these Criminaldreadz were members of tri-continental but disorganized crime families. So it seems (no no . . . time itself would tell if ) those three guys out of that original transformers-watching football-kicking crew of Omni’s, were destined for, or rather, put on the railtracks at birth to, a destination with stops at places such as “Periodical Jailtime”, and terminated at a place called . . .

“Get swallowed up by The Streets” or “Them rival Pakistanis across the park with Afghan crop connections”. Either way (or destination), for the time being at least, Cartier, Crossfade and Hudson, were all eating well and burning brightly compared to the others.

‘So do you want kid’s blood?’ a crazy-drunk Crossfade asked Omni out the blue, while blocking the wind, allowing Hudson to tip tobacco into rolling paper. ‘Well, yea . . . But she’s gotta be the type to understand that if we split up? I don’t give a hoot, the child comes with me! Fine, she can come with that “I’m the mother” talk, but hear wha’ gwan, I’m the father, that doesn’t out-weigh her role as mother, but, I’m the sunlight, The Grand Civilizer, that’s how I feel about it, my kids come with me, that has to be understood from the beginning’.

‘Not too many women gonna accept that one’ Miguel pointed out.‘True but wouldn’t you want that arrangement with your wifey’?‘Nah, they can stay with their mom, kids need their mothers more

than fathers’

136

Celine Flux

‘Huh’ dismissed Omni, ‘If you say so, every parent does their best but, there is such a thing as a lame-ass parent, right’? None of them decided to respond to that one . . . verbally anyway.

Ten minutes walk down the street, not too far from the canal where everyone was currently killing time getting twisted, staged the place where another circle of Crossfade Hudson and Cartier’s moved. Between there and the park ran a long dipping road towards the local precinct, with its unwelcoming mixture of old shops steadily losing business and derelict properties. A raggedy old fish bar with lone fruit machine, bright neon hanging behind its window, and post-war tilework held dried-out food for display through metal contraptions—this was the first shop, opposite high rises running from the corner of the mini shopping centre right down to the Jewellery Quarter.

It was warm in there, and the owner was a vet, who along with the butcher, had observed the long-reported decline in trade due to activities some meters further up, thus couldn’t keep the youngest of these, as yet, untamed heads from hanging outside his chippy like generations before them. Unfortunate for all—except for those wanting to exploit them—most of the kids came, not from chaotic households like everyone else drifting about the precinct, but the large children’s home built near the city’s old mint factory, and even older graveyard next to that, bordered by the train line which ran into the centre of town in one direction, past the hangout, through Smevik and into the next city of Wolfton a few miles the other way.

Although seemingly destined for grouphomes of some sort when out of school just like most of the Keanes, Miguel, and even Omni when he hit Zone1, these—at the time—possibly reformable kids innocently dilly-dallying until competent drug-running age, weren’t allowed too close by the passing Blueflash Patrol on the beat, pretty often, it should be said, trying to divert attention from plainclothes posing as customers, or the occasional Drugcheck Unit mostly in wait, who with surveillance teams in those high rises kept a watchful eye on everybody for a system of delivery: the slightly older runner boys, the pitchers, put to work by dealers, in turn supplied my mid-dealers, in and out of cars, trying to confuse dummy customers with marked notes—Everyone tried to manufacture manoeuvres for the next big swarm under such an air of intensity, that you needed litres of gin—neat—just to get yourself to the next inevitable badge-blitz!

137

MiSS! WHO elSe HAS SeMeTiC FeATuReS?

A decrepit tool shop with broken letter signs and old laundrette stood either side of a hideous café, videoshop, and chemist—all three vacant since the 80’s and positioned northside of the pub parking area. The main road squaring off the precinct plugged into to a big roundabout;

Redbrick Housing Projects—(an estate where everybody had a family member)—rose into misty view beyond that. Look left, the National Indoor Arena, then city centre—Telecom Tower and other smogpokers scattered around it.

The precinct complex itself, torrid redbrick also, had a tunnel running east-west from the sheltered and pillar-supported fish bar, past an empty computer store, bikeshop and florist, trough to townbound bust stops outside a post office, where plastic kids toys never purchased remained hitched between securaglass and a wide greeting card stand.

Each and every one of those long-abandoned properties looked depressing; dusted windows, smashed up and vandalized inside, all this only adding to the need for an upgrade . . . sooner rather than later—And outside the main grubby-looking pub called The Florin, often raided, was where mini-skirted peroxide-clubbers and boy-racing ravers, were by junkies and pitchers alike, provided freelance shift-work of varying services.

‘I don’t care either blood’, Hudson had egged on Crossfade and Cartier into a bit of an argument again, attempting to rally the troops gone quiet, busy rolling zoots but really, with his mind intent on luring that same girl and her friend over, standing with some other “uninviteds” behind his shoulder just within view, ‘This year rudeboy? It’s definitely about pack movements for real’. Miguel, amped off the liquor (and Omni’s long missed presence) felt obliged to respond with some counterweight. ‘Shut that shite up star, you always talking dat shizznite though’. Hudson replied quick, convincingly, barking over Crossfade’s shoulder to remind everyone. ‘Oi we ain’t in the breakdancing era no more you know Miggie, All that boppin’ alone shizznit, that’s over, yea blood, you’ve missed a good few funerals out here you know Omni’ ‘Too true’!! Cartier jumped in overlapping as Hudson went back to licking and gluing his rounder’s bat behind Crossfade, still acting as human windshield, ‘Yea, I know what you’re trying to say Miggie, the criminal line and shite, cross it at your own risk n’that, but for real doe, this year, ninety-nine? My own new year’s resolution is, I’m all about getting paid star, no birdcrap, it’s happening all over town these days, so I say either

138

Celine Flux

combine or starve, who can fail to see uppermids, with their luxury and display yelling . . .” Don’t rob me . . . just come act like me’!

Cartier came out with a fly analogy, in fact two, useful to some, total bulla bread to others—(OK reader of this scribe; consider your verdict on the following so-called “helpful dart of Cartier’s” please). ‘Yo it’s like a pool of water or something for real’ He stroked his chin, hands complimentary, expressive, drawing even more ears into what later became an intense theatrical debate ‘age eleven, you jump in, somehow you gotta swim, the competition you grow up with, and your peers at school college, university or whatever, have you eager to learn your most efficient paddling stroke, trouble is, you gotta learn this stroke before your daily habits become entrenched’. Cartier’s view got cut by Miguel, slowly walking between him and the fire, shouting one of the potheads to come get a beer.

He shoved him out the way, only for Miguel to walk back again, intent on stemming this insightful flow as payback for him doing the same thing earlier, but judging by the amount of faces on him now, it seemed unanimous, the crowd wanted to see where this imaginary dart would land. ‘If someone sticks out a stick or something’ he continued,

‘then you’ve done been guided to where you can get a grip, but if not pah, and you ain’t learned to swim, den u straight drowning blood—straight drowning. So . . . you know the deal, either learn to swim or we basically stayin’ where we is, and I ain’t having that’. ‘Huh’ said Miguel counteracting again, exposing those terrible teeth ‘as I recall, you lot were saying that same old shite in eighty-nine, ninety-one, ninety-three and last year yo’! For some reason, or possibly just devious antagonism, he wasn’t feeling the jewel, or its flicker-twinkle, ‘. . . you see, that’s the trouble with soldiers, when there ain’t no war all they do is waffle and front . . . from barracks to training field’.

‘So how we gonna get this money then yo, uh’? Cartier waited, while Hudson stopped, to look at Miguel, who looked back at Hudson and Crossfade, then around him, then at everyone else, but out of strategy said nothing already knowing, that he was speaking on behalf of his two cousins also. ‘No answer huh . . . you see . . . that’s what I’m talking about, manz stomachs are growling but ain’t nobody really wanting to eat, so, reluctantly, I suggest we break rank and violate those laws we’re leaning on right now, simplez’ ‘Alright wait, that simple huh? You know what’ Miguel’s headbulb came on, vigilante style, getting fed up with Hudson Crossfade and Cartier’s on the face of it, unstoppable reverse

139

MiSS! WHO elSe HAS SeMeTiC FeATuReS?

psychology, ‘If you want it that bad then go and get it, and stop talking about it. Why shoot degrees about it, when you can be about it (thanx Nasir Jones) uh’?

‘Nah chill, listen you two, peep the prophecy right here yo. Yo, remember that film back in the day, when the mad professor put potatoes peels and eggshells in his fluxor, think it was called . . . ahh can’t remember, anyway, and he splurted in his time machine? You see that technology? It’s gonna be popping-off, any year now, and that film was in 85’ to rahtid’. Crossfade was getting bored with Miguel’s stubborn defence; adhering to hood-operative-mode (plus weighing in at 15st) he decided on stepping to the makeshift stage; aka those few circular metres surrounding the fire.

While rightly assuming Omni would agree Miguel thought to once more urge jailhouse-dodging, doing it with a dismissive tone, daringly squeezing on Crossfade’s neck . . . in front of bystanders . . . including girls!—(a big no no)—‘You’re talking crap you lot, just cool man’ ‘Yo fizznuck dat star’ Crossfade flipped, backed up by his cousins, boxing Miguel’s hand away and spilling his drink, ‘I don’t wanna hear it, I ain’t cooling one moment blood, I want you lot to know, I’m only concerned with getting mine, I’m on some tunnel vision mode type-itch this year stizznar, fizznuck what you talking about pah, and yooouuu Omni’.

Crossfade half-extended his plastic cup out towards him. ‘Who, me?’ he thought to himself (but never said out loud, coz of everyone’s false empowerment from what the courageous Dutch needed for world expansion).

‘Yea you missed a lot while you were off in the big smog, and, well hey, I guess it’s the same down south, probably applies everywhere, nowadays it’s like, the glorious days are gone, and everybody’s doin’ bad, yo mad lives are up for grabs (thanx Wallaby Champ), so in response to that mood, I’m going straight out for the gusto, monomaniac style yamean . . .? For real blood’, He reached out his fist to connect with Cartier’s, surpassed drinking too much, looking like he wanted to ruin somebody’s, any body’s night. Miguel and Omni were among the first to sense this. Crossfade, Cartier and, especially Hudson—more often than not the smooth more laid back one—was speaking either side of rolling up again, and phone calls on his moby, saying, ‘Ten minutes mate, ten minutes, just wait’.

Uniformly they’d back each other up on the strength of them being distant cousins, but acted more like brothers, especially when they were

140

Celine Flux

growing up, gallivanting along adventure playgrounds and the like, holding each other’s truths down within their respective squares.

In this respect little had changed, so it wasn’t surprising when Hudson further supplemented Crossfade and Cartier’s bout of aimless threats born of the highly prized passion realm—and boy were the getting passionate. ‘That’s just how it’s going down out here nowadays Miggie, in case you didn’t know . . . It’s all eyes locked in on the cizznash, The sterling bedgin, all day every day, and it don’t matter what your selling at the end of your shift’—he added that in defence of his product.

Miguel, more zooted than drunk, attempted again in vain to throw some cold water on all their imprudence and highly hazardous volumes of hot air. ‘See, I know you’re talking yin-yang now coz see that sterling you going on about, that you’re so proud of coz its going so strong against the dollar and shizznit? Well, it’ll be going into meltdown real soon blood, truss, oh you didn’t know’? He continued, scornfully ‘. . .

EMU-crunch! Yea, you heard of that’? Hudson was puzzled, while Crossfade and Cartier, as expected, had no response, so Omni filled in the long pause. ‘Monetary union star, yea dat referendum shizzo’

‘Uh-huh, right’ Miguel swiftly added.

141

SLANGMANANOV STRIPES &

THE ARTICAL MUSCLEHEAD/

MINI-MUSCLE-ED SOUNDCLASH

Omni, more often than not, even years ago, usually joined in on Miguel’s side of the debating chamber, as they on this night bickered, sipping away semi-enclosed in a C-shape of wild and rowdy friends. But now hours in, he saw Crossfade getting ever-closer to his random freestyle

“drunken fist” mode, ready to growl on anyone, if not Miguel getting up his arse with counterarguments just for the sake of it, then on anybody else that pee’d him off from now, until he “broke a piece off ” for those Celtic tigresses Hudson was waving his blood money at earlier, acting like some sexy pedigree mares.

Hudson and Cartier were those pretty boy types, stallion tag poppers who played Saturday league football and changed outfits, like, twice a day. They considered it their duty to teach mares like these, discreet and disposable lessons in penetration and luckily Omni was invited—But until showtime, they just got sloshed, got wild, and yes . . . bickered.

‘Pah lau dat referendum talk right there blood, that don’t concern the gangsters and slimey’s like us’

‘First up we ain’t no gangsters’ Omni abruptly regulated, knowing deep inside that anyone standing, obviously couldn’t tell him “shut the frabick up star and sit ya claht down”, coz his legs were already smashed and he was sitting down in his social mobility scooter, (aka regular wheelchair).

Anyway he wanted to change the subject, as it was like, a three versus two argument ‘Set trippin’ . . .? . . . In Britannica . . .? I don’t think so’

‘Yes rude boy I think so’! returned Cartier immediately with Crossfade posing up on his shoulder, dreaming of being mob-tied, and Hudson, not really bothered, busy paying someone off in weed to go close his car door, now fiddling about with his phone sensing it was about to ring again. ‘Listen’! Omni grabbed both of his armrests about to feign

142

Celine Flux

getting up, only releasing to point, patronising Cartier for dramatic effect hoping to silence him (which didn’t work) ‘For your actual informational data-banks, the type of gangsters you’re talking about just wanna be in NWA, they overdosed on listening to too much 2pac, now they’re all on some west coast propaganda shabite, and Yankees on the east just use a different word to describe it’.

Right about now Omni figured the window of opportunity was ripe for “Spectator Stitch-up Time”, joking off-tangent with riddles for reasons only Alpha Prime, Ebullient Sanchoz—(as his post-rastafari paraphysical council)—and now Seattle, could even attempt guessing

‘But you can call me by my preferred, more appropriate name, Mr Street Scholar slash Ghetto Historian slash Metasicentian, if you don’t mind . . . slash, Mr Whobrought Zerotoindia?, slash The Son of Man’s Ego Must Suffer . . . Right . . .?’ Omni animated his face and hands, finishing off his muddled-up joke with an even more unrelated punchline, ‘For to not conduct the experiment yourself, is unscientific . . . younaamsayin’!

Everyone, including Crossfade on tilt and wobbly beside him, in and out of sensory-reality, began to flush dirty laughter once more at Omni’s sporadic lines of absurdity, (well, when measured against apparent convention anyway).

‘Nah nah I’m a spiritualist too, like you Omni’. He thought Cartier was joking. ‘Oh, Mmm, is that right’ Omni replied, trivializing, as one by one everybody started to listen, most of them expecting another gag of some kind—his cousins in particular seemed well shocked to hear him come through the laughter wit that one, responding so swift to Omni’s self-indulgent food for thought. ‘Yea yea, but I don’t believe in the soul though, I just believe when you’re gone, your gone, that’s it, it’s a wrap’.

(He didn’t realize the word soul and spirit had the same meaning). Easy enough blunder to make I guess, Omni thought to himself, desperately trying to make sense of Cartier’s opinion (therefore even bothering to continue with this exchange of views any longer).

He tried his best to throw Cartier another overview to play with and then discard as he saw fit, like Prime did back in Harbourton, but only after Cartier inwardly deduced, then revealed, ‘I’m not even sure if I have a soul because, one thing about me, is that I’m a very sceptical person, you know, like a scientist’

‘So am I’ Omni responded with cynical surprise. ‘Yea but . . . I need to see something before I actually believe it’ ‘OK?’ said Omni, suffering

143

SLANGMANANOV STRIPES & THE ARTICAL MUSCLEHEAD/MINI-MUSCLE-ED SOUNDCLASH

what he considered to be the foolishness of an empiricist who states the limited-obvious way too kindly.

‘But know this’, Omni said, ‘ten years ago I was in your exact position, and in all that time I’ve kept my ear to the ground in that sense, with the whole issue of, what’s visible to me and what is not, and the deceptive emptiness of space for example, a thread that binds everything in sight for another, and just like you I used to think to myself if I can’t see it then it doesn’t exist. For ages I thought that. But that’s not what I’m trying to get at right now. Cartier, here’s some principles that have to be accepted if our conversation’s gonna progress, I mean to heights that’ll dizzy you, and myself for that matter, because I’m not really even qualified to be spittin’ what I’m about to spit! You ready?

Aaiigghht, first, what exists is more than we see, second, nearly the entire universe is made up of, paradoxically, ridiculously, a thing tagged as immaterial matter? Now how fkd up is that yo? Next up is this;

Particle collision (and Rassasination) dictates that nothing is destroyed, it just changes shape, so, that which animates us till death, doesn’t just vanish when we die, it doesn’t just disappear reducing the cosmos in mass, more like it changes shape, leaving a dead person’s body instantly weighing approximately seven grams less after that point. So when what activates us leaves, dictated by physics and assumed by metaphysics as

“indestructible”, and I’ll label for you as the soul, it transmigrates, To where? Good question . . . Yo I can validate this through deduction, logic, my wobbly sub-science of the observable material world, or the Vedic super-science of the spirit, which spoke of immaterial-matter when Metroaux was still frozen under icecaps to bloodclaht!

Now ya’ll mudafidizznuckaz know, my inquiries into this supreme interest ain’t no change in a nigguh, ya get me, I’ve done been on this tip from way back, even Sunday school times, and it’s taken decades of what looks from the outside as daydreaming, but was actually highest-brow thinking, to get here, to this point, using my half-baked methods. So you Cartier, asking the question of . . . “Can I accept what I can’t see”? Just makes me smile, because I’ve been there, that question doesn’t perplex me, other questions do I’ll give you that but, not that one.

I have no spiritual practice so this particlesoul of mine, that I, am, in essence, it’s just as lost as yours, difference is, it, or me, came from somewhere, obviously, so my soulpart has a source, which we can name what we want, but for sure I want it to be right at that source, at the

144

Celine Flux

fountain-head, though I doubt I’ll make it coz, first up, it means leaving you guys and getting all up in them godly research documents . . . yamean, ni—ughz’ll think I’m on some cult leader tip for reeeaaal then!, Sh-t, they’ll get the message all twisted and bent out of shape, huh, ni—az get whacked-out or sectioned for less, from pre-Pangean times, but one thing’s for certain, you want answers to that question? Then build a platform of knowledge coz it’ll take you far, then, at some point, the time will come when you’ll have to leap off your plateau of understanding to innerstand omnified states, beyond theorem-philosophy, feel me Cartier’?

Cartier seemed to be tracing the outline, quietly; he had nothing to say in response which deep down Omni knew, he couldn’t even on the slight chance he may have wanted to, which hurt.

145

CROSSFADE’S MOSQUITO NET WHERE RYU

& KEN DEAFEN 2 CELTIC TIGRESSES

The thought of Omni’s preferred names, names related first as a joke for the crew, long names, that the stumbling Crossfade for one, hadn’t even heard of before and could barely remember let alone repeat, this Miguel knew, was typical of Omni, enchanting to Omni himself, but almost beyond Hudson or Cartier’s comprehension, the three of them quietly struck by what he may or may not have said, or implied, they weren’t even sure, and now it was too late to request repetition.

The educational ramifications of this observance were large—and it was Miguel mostly, who knew these welded words to be not much more than pretentious supplementary dance moves of the verbal variety. He knew Omni had witnessed lots of deep people talking about Jeff Buckley’s “System”, and his latest piece of insight was accelerated, regurgitated, pulverized, and plagiarized the same as it was done for him—(that’s what happens when the counter-bias historian that is Omni becomes over-attached to past evils). Sometimes, just an old Metroaux war story would be enough to have Omni on build-and-destroy land. Even to classmates and cousins he was incapable small talk and therefore, the talk, whatever the topic, nearly always had a learning curve-ball for the finding amongst the gibber gabber-:

The deep connotations that toppled out from names Omni used, drunk and lean in his wheelchair, such names as “ghetto guru”, “scholar” and “paraphysician”, aint wordplay of a simpleton, they have a complicated array of off-shoots to sit and reason over, that’s if, like Omni and sometimes Miguel, and OK Hudson, you find it amusing—(or just better than talking about usual stuff )—because such words, have many entrances to their core meaning, let alone the context, which too is multi-layered. For example, look where Omni and the crew were, look at the linetime of year: late at night and a few days before Pre-Druidian Xmas, and the location; that completely dark old den of theirs, and

146

Celine Flux

Omni’s intention? to sober everyone up a little, except for Crossfade, who was for now tired of mumbling sh-t with Omni, off slurring whatever he was saying about Premiership football stats with somebody else, while Omni stayed out to sea with his misconceived ideas—(but good try tho eh?—Not)

Since childhood when Omni made utterances, his flow was mostly appreciated by Miguel and sometimes Hudson. So when Omni got kicked out of Metroaux by a big beefy man named Mr Emotional B Oredom, Omni often wondered how them two in particular were doing, and if The Streets on The Otherside or Loony Bins had swallowed them up yet.

‘You know what’, slobbered Crossfade, feeling all sentimental later, towards the ex he wanted back, ‘I’m beginning to think maybe I’m juxing with the wrong type of chick’. Omni replied, bouncing off his analysis. ‘Yea, I think I know what you’re talking about, like me with my propinquity infatuations thing ennit, I just get restless maan . . . I’m not satisfied by that old stuff anymore’.

‘Yeah . . .’ Crossfade agreed, ‘Maybe it’s too many of Wifey’s chick flicks, coz, see like, one time yeah, I was with my other girl at my other place, she’d come through once every week, you know, to see me for a half day, she’d be saying things I didn’t really agree with but I’d tell myself, there ain’t nothing wrong with a bit of healthy debate? I can see past those silly opinions, even though I consider it animalism, I mean we can’t agree on everything right? But anyways, as I was saying . . . ch-check it’.

Omni helped him pluck out some more entertaining memories from the dome-section, listening hard; ready to assist with a boorish joke (Boers? . . . don’t even).

‘I hadn’t been seeing eye to eye with the expressions of this particular chick I had on the side, for some weird reason’

‘Why’ asked Omni . . . all excited. ‘I don’t really know why, just couldn’t see past a certain few things she’d try to kick to me, like proper rudimentary stuff, not that stuff that’s supposed to make a man and woman love each other more and more, grow closer and closer with time . . . and, to top it off, the principles of these debates between us, would rise up, like, just come to mind out the blue, even when she’d be doing some random thing like, brushing her hair or something’. The crew listened intently, straight captivated, especially Omni. ‘So like one

147

CROSSFADE’S MOSQUITO NET WHERE RYU & KEN DEAFEN 2 CELTIC TIGRESSES

Thursday, she came in and kissed me on the forehead, asked me what I was watching as she put down her bag, and straight away went for my zaboot! Can you believe that bullabread . . .? Now if that wasn’t bad enough, she finished of my scud and wanted to bill-up again . . . like straight away’!

Everyone was all ears. Omni and Miguel were positioned opposite. They urged Crossfade to hurry as the fire they were half-facing steadily consumed-then-converted a plastic cup someone had dashed, throwing up a cloudy venom—along with all the other toxins being absorbed either through the gut, lungs, or the skin, on that Christmassy-feeling night—(Holiday magic died for Omni once he found himself homeless reading prehistoric Eurasian sun-worship in Marylebone Library :(

‘Yo, this is a high maintenance girl’ slurred Crossfade some more,‘Yo I’m always giving her money . . . Maaan . . . the yat bunz more

than me; I’m constantly breaking her of a piece of something or another, and I don’t just mean The Teapot if you catch my drift’! With some drinking, others smoking, upon reception the crew chuckled at each other.

‘There was a time when you’d never notice your girl with red eyes . . . hey we were all young, it didn’t matter, but let’s just say people change, their tastes, pallets, evolve, develop, become more sophisticated. Right . . .? Anyway . . . she was talking some vehement bullcrap, veins all coming out of her neck and forehead, she was spitting and sh-t, collecting, drying up on the corners of her lips; maan it was terrible watching her talk about something that, first up, I didn’t agree with, secondly, watching that she had my ounce beside her, dipping into it like was hers, but what really freaked me out was this all round moment, this scene, I remember thinking “this ain’t right, for real, something ain’t right”. She was sitting on the corner of my bed and I was on my chair, just listening. The fact she was making no sense to me was beside the image of her looking all heavy-faced, lethargic off the green, cupping and grinding up some of my Mersh in her palm, splitting the salmon like a veteran and licking Rizla? Maan call me sexist, but I didn’t like what I was seeing yo . . . trust me.

I began thinking; girls in the hood act too masculine, too rowdy, and if you connect the scattered dots you’ll see its part of a larger problem.

She and her peoples are always getting into trouble; damn I mean once, she got thrown out of a bar for mugging her own cousin who

148

Celine Flux

she was at war with!! And that’s sums it up exactly, I mean, they’re not impressing the older generation with that behaviour? Them and the Crimewatchers Crew just shake they’re imaginary heads, like, completely dismayed’.

149

POLISHED ASSUMSTIONS OVER GORRILLA

ANGLES OF CYCLICAL BOGEY

Although drunk and fired-up helping to numb the senses, the dry Metroaux frost with its notorious cutting effect permeated the garmz of all beings present and outdoors for too long. For this gathering it had been hours, and the fire and den combined provided little protection from such sharp elements. More sober attendants instinctively fidgeted attempting to combat this process while Crossfade polished off the curved angles of his assumptions.

‘You know, in some perverted, physic way, I think it’s all for our benefit, they’re trying to impress us, the guy’s; either we showed them?

Or they’re trying to reflect our lifestyles. After all . . .’ he said, ‘. . . they’re genetically attracted to “bad boys” . . . well so the saying goes anyhow’.

Working out the likelihood of this, Crossfade started to frown at the thought. ‘But whatever which way, although it may be old news, I don’t wanna hear it, and I certainly am not liking it, and yo, if you all can recollect, I’m only reiterating what our domino-playing elders used to shout at us on the frontline when we were young, remember, back when we wouldn’t go there just to post up and defend it from the latest wave of Yardiez, but to play Bubble Bobble, 10p-a-go remember?;

The best two-player game ever invented . . . apart from Finalfight and Streetfighter’! Hudson and Cartier agreed, having disputed-then-settled that one back in their 3rd year of secondary school.

‘Anyway the elders are gone, all dead now from lack of sunshine, but still, you’ve probably heard it all before, cause this spit I’m spitting, it ain’t confidential, it ain’t special, it never was, its cyclical bogey, it comes round again, some socio-orbital shizzo, clockwork. All this “kids today” crap ain’t no isolated topic, this ain’t unique conclusions I’m terminating at, fabizznuck it, my intentions are clear, they’re spotless and shiny, like spaceprobe lenses blood, I’m reflecting old conversations like polished wine glasses at state banquets yamean’.

150

Celine Flux

Crossfade and his freestyle of assorted words were in flight yet again, slowly approaching divine spit. ‘Yo my reflections burst out of the safari park like . . . like . . . wild alpha chimps chasing a whole fleet of enemy agile gibbons through the rain forest on cannibal-ox-frenzy celebration day . . . ha . . . yo, You know what, I, I reflect speeches like . . . like astrorbital daybreak bouncing off mineral encrusted great lakes in dry season rudeboy! Damn, I merge these syllables into clusters like how we came together when we were just young kids yo! I’d go to your house, us two would go and check Miggie, before you know it, there’d be like fifteen of us playing Kick the Can, if you include the Keane family. Over the years loads of us from the three main abandoned districts around here, fell by the wayside, for some reason or another, but us, we still here, juxin’, after all of what, twenty years?

Yo, remember when we couldn’t even imagine being grown-ups, remember that sh-t? Some hedz believed in this, some in that, others held different views still, some were just seriously unlucky, like Martin, hanged himself further up the canal over some dumb sh-t, and some went out in a blaze of glory, like Gary, who people now cryogenic-speak of as street legend, that I personally would rather call a mistake, that cost dear, blowing the chase like that, the fool, driving like he can beat chopper! Around this neighbourhood? . . . I don’t think so, now look, dead at fourteen only to be now a weak-ass war story. And them lot, like The Knucklehead Twins from round the corner I went to school with, next to St Edmund’s, one shanked by a yattie, the other, no less than twenty-five years straight lockdown, so where’s all those street stripes now huh? and all the other football-kicking dudes from back then, where they all at now? . . . all drifted away, and we stayed more or less together, and it ain’t because of their distance from us, they don’t live that far, hell, I mean, the three districts put together probably comes up to only a few square miles, it’s because we don’t draw the evil cards on each other, you know what I’m f-ckin’ talking about, them cards, that go below the belt, that’s why manz fall out forever, somewhere along the line aims become so different that, some of us, just, stop hangin’ . . . straight like that, for real. Just think about all the people within say . . . three years either side of us, from this hood; a lot of us got sucked off and institutionalized, came out of jail, missing teeth ‘n that, talking all slow, poisoned with god knows what.

Yeah, lots of us got sucked into the funnel, and I ain’t speaking as no leader or anything; I may be speaking, but I know you all should

151

POliSHeD ASSuMSTiOnS OVeR GORRillA AnGleS OF CYCliCAl BOGeY

be feeling what I’m saying . . . And this, it’s all according to what I see the main populous writing about, the punters, or as they like to call themselves, “The Chatterham-Twitteratti Classes”, supper-minting round dining tables once they’ve read about our crime sprees, for pittance, hardly anything when you think about what the local jewellery shop actually contains, when converted over to digicash, and we all know who’s writing that stuff . . .?

Is it me or do you sense somebody itching to step up to get they rep up, trying to make an industry out of our misfortune, devising a marketing plan to capitalize on our misery . . . again’? Crossfade huffed.

‘Observable observations, Conclusive conclusions like you’ve been saying Omni, that I’m glad to get off my chest, coz, when it’s all said and done, we all wanna eat food, right . . .? We know this maan. I ain’t surprised, nor am I impressed yo’.

‘Mmm’, Omni thought to himself immersed, quiet taken aback to hear Crossfade swerving from such an acute angle, ‘Intellectual honesty . . . damn, I like it’.

152

OI! I’VE WORKED IT OUT . . .

INFRASTRUCTURE!!!

The night skipped along and the unruly crew including Crossfade, still barking from the helm with separated associates scattered behind, all slowly marinated like Norwegian salmon in grated limeskin and balsamic vinegar (yea but, consuming flesh . . . uncivilized? . . . mmm). ‘People, I want to show appreciation for how far we’ve come, how, capable, of adaptation we’ve had no choice but to become, in order to survive, self- preservation steezo’.

Crossfade spoke on, unwisely filling his cup. ‘Let me reassure ya, I want it, huh, I may even need it, but I can see beyond it, I also remember a time before my obsession with it, before my quest for haircuts and bucks to spend on Cheddar Road over on Redlight Sodomside—enemy territory—all these scheming yatties with their hair extensions and pink weaves, playing barstools till small hours, wildin’ it up; crashed cars, tax-free hustles, Middle Kingdom people trafficking, drug sales and gunz for illegal funds? . . . Sh-t.

We’re full-time products of our environment star, ain’t no part-timers here. They think what dead men did don’t make’em liable, and you know what? I agree’! Omni, of everyone, still seemed the most infused, outwardly struck within thought, his own sense of reason steeped well into Crossfade’s personally-sound estimate, and off the back, he replied, ‘I’m shocked to hear you say that stabill, ain’t nothing you just said is lie, and yo, actually? The more I think about it? The more I feel like . . . blame; it negates responsibility (you’ll dig that when you’re about forty Tibet).

‘Yea, let them other cats prioritize they own agendas’ Crossfade insisted, full-on, deliberate with his machine-gun-like torrent of a flow, ‘Yea, let them prioritize and put straight bullabread at the top. Its freewill remember, nobody’s stopping them. Our enemies or, our rivals even, they all scream liberty statue-flame when they decide to hop out

153

Oi! i’Ve WORKeD iT OuT . . . inFRASTRuCTuRe!!!

the woodwork, growing out the dutty-rot like daisies and buttercups, on some Royalist of the Last Republic that’s going straight to DVD!

So I make these claims and I claim what I claim. And what I claim is . . . complicated yo. Just like Omni used to say when we played Tracking, remember those days? And we’d nearly always lose against them Irish car thieves and The Keanes, Bengbedengs too, way back, when we were younger? We’d always feel stirred up and Omni would always say to us . . . Oi remember . . .’?

Miguel, Omni Crossfade and Cartier all repeated Omni’s perennial motto, together recollecting on the whole “Some days I sit and wish I was a kid again” memories of hand-me-down-clothes, and being the only one in class forced into saying that they were fatherless, plus never “going anywhere special?” (Well boo, f—king hoo) during the holidays. They all shouted out, ‘We ain’t perfect . . . but ain’t nuttin wrong with . . .” And then, all began to scream in unison. “Ain’t nuthin wrong wid trying to get there, hahhhhhh”.

Crossfade was beginning to make himself deeply effusive now, from all his fanatical, but rago speeches. ‘Alright alright, quiet on the set yo, I forgot to mention one more thing’. He raised his plastic cup towards the small fire burning in front of them. ‘This next new year is for the sword, that’s gonna have to be held for the heartless on these low-temperature streets we have ourselves out here’! He threw his hands out and turned around. ‘We grew up in this area, none of us left, well, no-one but you blood, but salute to you regardless. And guys . . .? We ain’t immortal, far from it, were here just for a hot second. What I’m tryin’ to say is . . . nothin’ wrong with a little decadence, at least when surrounded by so many Onionheads, you know what I’m sayin’? So salute yo’!

Everyone, moved, yet trying not to show it, himself with a face of contemplation Crossfade stepped over to the milkcrate. Miguel, a step away, adjusted to the gravity and reached for the reignited ziggy from Cartier, stood by Hudson, cutting another incoming call, while Omni, in extra-abstract-mode, forced down another slurp of gin. Slightly gasping off its strength, all peripheral mumblings overcame any lingering sentimentality; bar one nameless individual.

Hopelessly predisposed to such moods, Omni went within and ran through a silent account of the path he felt himself cruising along, which had led him back home, there, feeling at his safest with his boys, naked

154

Celine Flux

without them; Returning to Zone1 as he had to, while still tagging Maverick, that naked feeling, exposed, unprotected and lost without his boys, the sensation would never leave him—due to false identification it would remain with him for the rest of his earthbound resistance.

But an abrupt turn was fast approaching with a blinding speed impossible to pre-empt, although, he definitely did feel something new heading his way on the event horizon. In spite of all adjacent frivolities, caught up in the diagnostics of delf he pulled out his own personal small bottle and re-topped his cup, bearing in mind the unseen, only felt, sharp edges. He wandered if he’d be able to make the tightness of this random—any time soon—upcoming corner of life. ‘Oi Omni?’, conceded Crossfade finally finished with his lectures, smiling and sliding off with Hudson whose phone went off like clockwork, signalling had to make a quick sale and then pick up those two restless ladies,

‘Omni, talking shit . . . you couldn’t imagine life without it could ya, ya debickhead’.

‘Ni—ugh who you calling a dickhead . . .! Dabizznickead’!!!

It constituted harmless history being made by the group, with little effort. Within a global omnievent this tiny crew gathering felt natural, all standing there, winding down, at the threshold of mid-life.

When younger they thought it to be collective quest but Mr Time, as mentioned later, continues to have the loudest, accusatory voice, and screamed once again, a reminder in Omni’s head, alongside the grown triplets Mr Fault, Mr Regret, and that divorcee-bitch Mrs Circumstance.

155

RUDEBOY, THE TRUTH WONT

FIT YOUR HEAD

The park emptied and the swings were wrapped and knotted by now, unusable to anyone with the intention of using it, due to both vandals and council neglect. The walkway too, had for the most part cleared.

So, after a short time, Omni asked Miguel to help push him up the old horse’s ramp and over to the park to see what little features, if any, had changed. The route would take them back through the remaining few people, including another couple of distracting hotties Cartier was eyeing up earlier worthy of note, standing around the “predictable unemployed potheads” sat grouped on the floor. Noticing during the course of the night that none of these people were in the neighbourhood or surrounding boroughs much while he was there and growing up, Omni asked Miguel who they and especially those other two women were, appearing much older than themselves.

Everybody from that part of the city had spent some time on the canal, the scrapyards, and the railways during their younger years; For some crews it was used as at test of a kid’s nerves. And although Cartier, Crossfade, Hudson, Omni and Miguel’s particular old graffiti-covered spot had hardly changed, the park floor had since been softened, graff-tags had been replaced with new crappier ones, etches in the thick wooden borders between playpark and the grass area too, which the petrol sniffers torched and blackened way back, now stood neglected, only germanian-vandal-work remained.

The factories were still standing hollowed-out behind—dead industries, mostly vacant, mean, and in disrepair. Omni had taught himself to guess how a town was doing economically by looking for cranes on the skyline, and now back in town wondered why these unused factories weren’t gutted and converted into art galleries, or some overpriced exclusive riverside studio apartments, or something? He began to feel overly nauseated from all the alcoholic cross breeding but,

156

Celine Flux

still summoned up an “I can just see it now” verbalization of thought for Miguel’s ears, readying to push him back up to the den in his wheelchair, while describing in omni-directional detail, the potential for a seasoned inflation property hustle.

Heading back along the walkway to wrap things up and wait for Hudson and Crossfade to take him to the “other flat”, Omni took a breath, absorbing the nostalgic but, in the end, useless scenery, uncertain he’d ever return.

157

WHY NATURAL LAWS PUNISH:

(DEMONIC ACTIVITIES? . . .

ARMAGEDDEON . . .? BRING IT!)

The moonlight deflected sunlight onto simultaneously still-yet-vibrating water, which in turn used its reflective surface to bounce those same apparent moonrays of particles/waves under the bridge, partially illuminating everyone’s clothes and faces. Because of limited space the moon was the only light, apart from the fire now dying out—(a basic case of, less bodies = more light). The width of the pavement, fine-grain, running parallel with the canal, was a little narrower under the bridge, everybody knew that, but all the same, care obviously had to be taken near the lip of the walkway which was barely noticeable at night, and only recognized by feature-defining shadows made by the moon against the wobbly water just beneath, reflecting light which is, of course, omnipresent. But the moonlight was most helpful when facing the water and one happened to look left.

Rapidly approaching intercity carriages rattled the bridge as trains had done countless times before, with increasing volume and velocity, which drowned out the sound of the radio coming from the portable provided courtesy of Miguel. He picked it up, music still playing, balanced it on the handles of the wheelchair and began pushing Omni to be introduced to these slightly over-dressed, distractively attractive women—(in retrospect he should have handed the boom-box to Omni!) Tipsily, with one hand balancing the stereo on the back of the wheelchair, and Omni’s shoulder, Miguel pivoted round to the back of the wheelchair and grabbed the other handle. He began to shove the chair into motion. Still in virtual darkness, he had to manoeuvre around somebody’s curled-up feet and concentrate as best he could while another thunderous train sped past overhead. As Miguel turned, without warning, he slipped backwards and fell into the water.

158

Celine Flux

Now, with no sound but the train carriages clanking high above, people around only noticed a splash, and subsequent ripples in the dark surface. Time was quickly running out for the over-dressed, drunk, and probably drowning Miguel! Omni began yelling at the top of his voice to a preoccupied Cartier (off in his own movie) a few steps over. But it was no use, the train was still racing across the bridge and Cartier had his back turned to the canal, consumed with shouting some birdcrap to someone else ahead. There was only one thing to do: To Omni’s thinking he was now strong enough to swim, so he pushed hip-first and slipped out of his wheelchair into the water, leaving his arms spread wide to hold onto the ledge which unfortunately was too large for him to grip properly. Wrong choice now made, Omni slowly sank down into the water too.

All who were present under the bridge and those standing besides the few sitting, each saw Omni fall into the freezing canal. He had upper body strength, and felt strong enough to help Miguel because he could stand up now, although he could not yet walk. A desperately freezing Miguel grabbed onto Omni, who kicked against the water with his weak legs.

As he did an immense pain ran down his lower body, forcing him into a sort of, improvised quick paddle technique instead. Omni’s clothes were getting the better of him, and with both wrists again extended out of the water until his nose went under, he tried his best to not panic and hold out for help. He didn’t take the opportunity for a final breath before his face crossed the “membrane theory” (microscopic film separating air from water) and by now his head was submerged by at least a foot. That caused the zoned-out stoners on the floor to jump up and fizz about like atoms at high temperature or fried Albuquerque headless chickens!

Every single body was now standing mobilized and after the initial chaos, actively forming chains for Miguel, four limbs operational, half out already, and Omni, struggling, who before long suffered a blackout, falling in and out of consciousness. But in the end under collective light of tiny cigarette lighters and their puny flames, someone intervened, dived in, so by Krsna’s causeless grace and mercy he too, limp from the waist down, was finally rescued.

And this is how for a second time, Omni awoke to another set of paramedics with torches in his face, but only this time, with Cartier all like “reah rudeboy reah, raah rudeboy raah, reah . . . raah rudeboy, my god!” and a shivering Miguel, full of beer weed and adrenaline cocktailed,

159

WHY NATURAL LAWS PUNISH: (DEMONIC ACTIVITIES? . . . ARMAGEDDEON . . .? BRING IT!)

standing inside a foil blanket, just as animated, telling Omni about how he died for a brief moment and was resurrected by a passing glue-sniffer who stripped half naked, leaped in to save him, performed CPR, got dressed, bounced into the night, and had now disappeared.

Cold, upset, but cool still, Omni called Hudson to say he wouldn’t be joining them at the “other flat” after all. ‘Yo, you aiight . . .’? Hudson asked. ‘Yea . . . still’. Omni replied again, joking with him. ‘I’m chillin for real, get it, chillin for real’? As he was on loudspeaker Crossfade heard—the three of them laughed. All other jubilant, boisterous, and no doubt drunken noises in the background sounded like they were having a load of fun. ‘Oi, Crossfade’s drivin’ over’ said Hudson, sounding “ultimately distracted”. Suddenly, a female voice hijacked Hudson’s phone to express regret at news Omni would be unable to come over to taste her speciality vodka-mango juice. Omni apologised, aloud, that he doesn’t “nyam tu-tu”, though he said it reluctantly, through tightly gritted teeth, and then, shouted Hudson, ‘Here, speak to Crossfade’.

But Omni’s despair (and erection) was short lived, reminding himself, that time after time, when it came to Celtic tigresses’ stables and mares, “that’s just how the distraction cookie crumbles”.

160

GRANDUERS OF DELUSION, DISHONESTY,

AND RAW FOOD RIOTS (I MEAN DIETS)

Drinking impairs judgement most people know that, so as Miguel was carted off to be checked over in a separate vehicle, Omni vowed, to not profile himself anymore (the reader of this scribe may require specifics) which meant no future residency at that universal spot he liked to call, The Last Hangover Saloon, deciding from then on to do like the alcohol adverts say on TV and “drink responsibly”. Cartier, still in “reah rudeboy raah” mode, waited for his cousin to turn up in the car, but, before he walked off, back up to the den to twirl one and wait for Crossfade, he shouted a joke that wasn’t even that funny, especially after a couple seconds spent thinking about it. ‘Hey . . . Omni’ he yelled ‘Yo, you were just given mouth-to-mouth by a fiend, after trying to save a drowning friend, and ended up nearly drowning your damn self ’! Omni grumbled under his breath, again being lifted into an ambulance . . .’ Ha ha ha zaggin . . . very funny’!

All in all it was a terrible experience but somehow, some way, the episode did, like spirit’s influence on matter, send Omni in a different direction. And with that old reflective scope of hindsight, riding in the ambulance on the way to A&E, memories on recall of his cousin’s spare mattress where he slept the night before, up till the small hours staring at his slowly strengthening legs, metal screws bulging, as usual, he projected philosophy onto the subject, remembering back when the core-group were much younger, when Miggie (back then named AG) made the whole crew, especially Omni, swear an oath to him. ‘So if you see me slipping ni—ugh reach for me, don’t just stand there and watch me drown’! (Oh how pastimes unfold on such mysteriously harmonic planes).

Still in reflection, mood of a cellist backstage with a dislocated finger, alcohol and weed now taking off their respective belts and giving him a harsh beating, Omni begun to dread that agreement made under oath, and the social clamber, lifespan remainder, awaiting him in Zone1,

161

GRANDUERS OF DELUSION, DISHONESTY, AND RAW FOOD RIOTS (I MEAN DIETS)

where he had a simple choice: affiliate with those who profile, or leave. He devised a plan to escape the country after a spell down there, that place Hudson, Cartier, Crossfade, and Miguel even, all called “Southern Suckatash”.

They hated anyone outside Centro1 (Metroaux’s three hood districts) with a breadth almost pre-natal, and even more prognostic, the situation for Omni, with its recondite lessons, this time round had a disjointed, fragmented, esoteric omen, scattered messages hard to connect to (well not without month-long yoga absorptions or something), omens only visible to, who Omni always terms . . . subtle people:

As one (you the reader) may or may not be aware (please god, let the reader be just vaguely aware) some people report access to a, “subtle-sight” ability at the edge of awareness. Some of these subtle-ability-having-folk sit at tables ogling teacups over scattered tarot cards, making butterfly claims, or they gaze into crystal balls, some right now even, are being misrepresented and burned at the stake by counter-terrorists!—(Yo just cool! . . . only rampin’). Some are where Omni needs to be for sixteen years, in order to return studied and purified like Abyssinian-Himalayan Holymen: secluded on mountaintops or in monasteries engaged in glorification of the Complete. (Hey Tibet, the Complete would include the incomplete right, otherwise it couldn’t be Complete . . . yay or nay?)

But one thing’s for certain, these people, are certainly outnumbered on this hemisphere of planet Azya. This variable subtle-sight quality that—to Omni’s guess anyway—needs to be located, isolated then fine-tuned, lays dormant within most at differing strengths, and must logically have a cut off point, in us, the proudly British, ex-imperial subjects to the crown (hmm).

Now Omni has his own self-righteous system of instinctively categorizing people which he intended to take back to use in the densely populated southern corner of the country, where he danced between his name of Omni, and his bluemarker-scrawling tagname of Maverick, from his favourite war flick, (you know, the one that taught all the mid-70’s kids how to kiss properly, like “Hi lanky girl, what’cha drinking?” and then all tantro excuses . . . “Sorry, beer-tongue, so, just lips if you please eh?”)

Only, back to this categorizing thing? The problem with categorisation is that, estimating or categorising anything in this

162

Celine Flux

overwhelmed information age brings its own counter-karma, however slight. Perceivable within the crew it seemed, to Maverick in particular, that he found his falsely identified ego to be a self-obsessed, and confessed, self-contradictory, walking paradox, always looking back, using a mirror facing another mirror . . . get it? You see, that was the thing about Maverick-o-versal . . .

Omniversal, or Omni, or Maverick, had spent his whole life (which showed) in built-up areas all over the southern half of the country in fact: met a lot of people, occupied different alias’s, climbed a few ladders—fallen off some—drunk wine with vicars, showed battle scars to war vets, stuck-up petrol stations on invicipills, snatched mic’s at the Millennium Dome, that sort of thing.

Omniversal felt, if only for nanoseconds of servitude, that he was actually akin to The Unmanifested, sort of like a ray is to the sunlight—(well kinda like in the Biblical sense)? Oui oui, it’s hard to follow but that’s just how he saw things. Catholic school from nine to three and the predicable Metroaux grimy life of yap-yap, combined with a never say sorry attitude and waffle from morning until bedtime, left him presently undecided on the whole outer-space-God thing—him having not sat with mahatma-attitudes already free from the passion’s influence realm.

It’s fair to say attending school where all the facilities you had was your mouth, that Omniversal had the gift of the gab to compensate for his lack of decapitated heads. Omni, like 95% of the human sprint was relentlessly engaged in profit-minded service, bittering the heart and even existence, but, was fully aware that if you wear a hoodie in an EC1 bar, during rush hour, especially on a Friday evening, your ability to silver-tongue your way into a nearby parallel conversation and turn it into the merging of two far-flung topics, such as—oh I don’t know—“Hip-Hop and Corporate Backing”—will surely be hampered.

But that is exactly, what happened upon his return to the south-eastern corner of Pre-historic Breton PLC.

163

“MULTIPLY MYSELF TEN TIMES

STANDING NEXT TO ZERO”

After they linked on a few occasions, Nivja from radiography? . . . she became, not a girlfriend—(Omni’s preference)—but a really tight friend to Omni. And because she passed him every Monday to Friday since a transfer from Queens College to Galz and St Francis Hospitalia, on the Southbank, just off River Engle, they made plans for her to rent his large upstairs bedroom at a discount price. It made logistical sense when compared to travelling all the way on the 171 from leafy summer (and florist)-kissed Forest Hill.

One sunny morning before work she buzzed the intercom telling Omni to be on their meeting bench—the one under their riverbridge road—at 18:30 hours sharp. This usual of three spots where they’d meet was within walking distance and nearest to their now shared Blackfriars Bridge home. The plan for that night was to join-up on the crowded south bank of east-central’s crammed financial hub, then he and his friend Dublin, who also instantly fancied Nivja, were supposed to follow her over to a drinks invitation that yet again would change the direction of Omni’s life.

All three rushed their meeting and greeting and began quickly to shuffle through the streets past a huge number of busy-looking bodies. On the way there Dublin gorped while he walked, occupied with admiring Nivja’s god-given but, ultimately distracting shape as it appeared to burst luscious through her lime green tweed jacket, white chequered pattern faintly behind, and only enhanced more by stylish beach-beige boots and matching handbag.

Yea but Godface’s false-ego, he likes wearing leather, soft Italian leather, as if every day were an interview and tonight, unknowing to him, he would be answering questions as if he were at some kind of conference probe. Across the pond one would refer to it as “spitting game” but most over-aspirational power-manipulators in the western world need to have this weapon in their arsenal, or they may as well forget it and go on an intellectual adventure to Cairo or something!

164

UNCULTURED SOPHISM ANYONE . . .?

(SOCRATIC METHOD

HURTS THOSE NEAREST)

That good ol’ Friday feeling was tangible in Sincity. While Omni’s friend Dubz (or Dublin who despite the name was born and raised all-English; a Cumbrian who can drink anybody under the table) was being reintroduced properly to Niv, they made their way across the streetlight-saturated pavements and arrived at the unfamiliar bar. ‘OK no potato juice . . . it’s strictly Conjack tonight’ said Omni, two years older, denying Dubz, still a few metaphorical steps behind the idea of his favourite tipple. All three slowed to step through big main doors, pausing for a moment on large fancy welcome mats leading into the stuffy, apparently popular joint seen by punters as one of the “ironically trendy” bars of this would-be semi-exclusive district. The ironic thing about these supposedly posh wine bars (as explained by a one-time living partner of Omni’s named Vivica Envee) is this . . . (ahem); 20 years ago the so-called Trendies wouldn’t be seen dead living or drinking in certain boroughs of London but once the artists move in the art lovers follow and hey, there you have it . . . a trendy bar . . . more than ironic (don’t ya think)?

The room they entered had a low-light and sound to complement the zazen-cushioned chairs, with cool, minimally crafted tables. ‘Very sharp . . . very sharp indeed’ spat Dublin begrudgable tone, slipping off into the sea of ties and shoulder pads, feint disrespect in his nonverbals.

Omni raised one eyebrow in agreement and scanned the establishment for acceptable vantage point, while Nivya, went to find some of her other friends and family members across in the opposite corner.

She’d turned up at this stylishly rammed-out bar—bringing Dubz and Omni along—with the intention of building a super group of sorts, for one night only, which was about time really, coz apart from, obviously

165

UNCULTURED SOPHISM ANYONE . . .? (SOCRATIC METHOD HURTS THOSE NEAREST)

her mother Aubrey down in the Southshires, big brother Nick was the only actual family she had in town. Nearly everyone was wearing a blazer or shirt at least, including a dolled-up Niv and every other female in sight. Omni didn’t take this into account when being only hinted to at the meeting bench about the then surprise location, and he began wishing she’d brief him with a little more detail in future.

So measured against a rather small ratio of smart-casual scatterings, and with no techno-types in sight, Omni and Dublin stared at each other, then their attire, then at the surrounding clientèle, checking cleanliness of white collars, then back at each other looking like . . .’ Huh . . . Oh well’!

Together they decided to find a spot on the periphery to slowly sip some Netherlands courage, long enough for a number of workers to leave, before circulating, and then land grab—(more like attempt acquisition of another slot for the whole evening). But first, beverage digestion was needed for the troops.

Eternally incapable of small talk Omni, and Dubz—the SE1 king of small talk—began to chat about their distracting lust for high-powered machine guns and, as the cognac started unlocking them in varying ways ended up, (or rather Omni ended up), talking scientifically about lead-tipped slugs and their velocity through the space-time continuum, even accidentally talking about the race to split-then-collide preatomic components, which had Dublin, like everyone else Omni knew, eyes-a-glazing.

‘I ain’t into that sort of that thing eh . . .’ yawned Dublin before taking another sip of his Martel on rustic diamonds. ‘What, science . . .? Yea but its true’ replied Omni ‘. . . if matter travels fast enough, time itself, will, slow, down’, not yet discouraged, Omni tutted, continuing with stoic gestures, ‘Just tell me you dig his theory’? ‘All I know is Einstein’s the famous one and Neils Bor ain’t. I hate brandy, couple of vodkas . . .’?

Dublin was clearly not in the mood to have his brain cells bombed again on the pearls of Particle Physics. Seconds later Dublin, then Omniversal stood. ‘Alright alright’ mercifully for Dublin Omni was about to give up on his unrecognised degree giving, ‘Just remember this then . . . all, matter, motivated, by non-matter’. He shouted this whilst sitting back down, Dubz, halfway to the toilet and then no doubt to the bar section for two Smirnoff ‘s on ice.

166

Celine Flux

Wrestling back, impressed—by what to Omni’s reckoning must be downgraded for its mere detection, as the, “glammed-off service technique”—Dublin made his return. And as he and Omni sipped their way through the next batch of tumbler glasses, to-and-fro-ing with the concept of what they would do with 12 years in a low-security jail and three million upon release, Omni felt a tap on his shoulder. Convinced he must be trippin’ he continued to empty the glass he was cuddling.

Once again, he received a series of pokes but this time, in his tricep.

Thoughts jumped from his combat knife to Dublin’s bemused stare as he turned around, curiously. ‘Sorry to interrupt star, but, I heard the convo between you and your dun’. Dun . . .? Omni thought to himself . . . How can a man in a suit talk to a man like me about “Star” and “Dun”? Where could he have got this redundant-arse, Murdoch-

Bruckheimer-Viamillenicom slang from . . .? MTV . . .? The Radio One Rap Show maybe . . .’?

Omni was thrown off guard by this tipsy-looking suit, sat in a group of ten or so people who all looked like they could afford to buy the best wine with the best digicards any time they chose. ‘I’m something of a scientist myself you know mate, yea, the high science of football and as for my club? They’re the immortal, the great, the . . .’ Right then an interruption came from, of all people, Nivja, mock-scowling through all the cigarette smoke drifting over a sea of ashtrays and glasses. ‘Oh do shut up Nick, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had your soccer jersey on underneath that bloody shirt of yours’. Omni turned his head, stunned by the realization this guy Nick was in fact Niv’s brother . . .! He was the one she used to talk about all the time, and who Omni then realized was the owner of the moby in his seat pocket. ‘Ahhh skabeeeen!!’ he thought to himself, considering both Nivja’s previous family recollections while she came over with drinks, along with a further thought wandering if he should straight away guide efforts to do some more ice breaking on this geeza, Nick, taking care not to mention he had one of his old downgraded cellphones!

Carefully Niv handed out the round of drinks, clutched Talon-style in her hand, before pulling over a nearby microstool. Throwing her hair back she then went up to grab Dublin, and led him from down on the cushion section—apparently also used as a stage—over to the corner of their own long, low table, so he and Omni could meet big bro Nick properly.

167

UNCULTURED SOPHISM ANYONE . . .? (SOCRATIC METHOD HURTS THOSE NEAREST)

While shaking both of their hands he replied to his sister’s football jibe with typical drunken southern-country misswit, ‘its spread across the back seat of my car, actually Niv, hadihaha . . .’ Warm eruptions of laughter rolled from Nick’s happy group of associates, which Omni would have previously just labelled sharks who for the most part seemed to be quite indifferent, in a weird kind of way, to the fresh presence of Omni, equally snooty at first, posing beside Dublin like a Moorish Sultan and by now, nine-thirty in the evening, all high and matrix-happy, with him eagerly picking wigs of Dubz then Nivja, along with Nick and some of his co-workers with sincere research charisma on various subjects:

From plateaus of cogitation way above those currently in the postcode it was easy to see: Godface’s ego should have stayed in school and went on to college: he should not have hung with car thieves and rather, should have became an ‘Ultra-doctor of Theo-Philosophy (if you consider all the babble that spills from his mouth, especially when in the company of potential employers and profilers). Omni—with particular leanings towards amazing such remissful atheists as this lot!—routinely haemorrhages useful/useless information when it’s first impression time, but on this occasion, his conversation on nothing but the relatively little he knew about the lower sciences, was actually and accidentally overheard by some family member of Nivja’s he assumed was somewhere over on the other side of the building! Omniversal can do a lot of things, alas, he can’t predict the future, but, has an hourly silent mantra trojection, which is . . . You never know what could be round sharp edges.

168

ALONE AGAIN IN FULL BLOOM (FINALLY)

Nick’s cluster of workmates along with Niv, Dublin, and Omni had been talking for maybe . . . half an hour. Omni had already graciously accepted a couple of drinks (one hard and one tactically soft) from Niv’s old Southshires school friend, now also in Zone1, huddled into the bunch, quite happily bubbling away with the buzz and after work vibe—(Shame she had to return so young eh)! This was Neon; at the time Nick’s workmate, looking extremely refined with her other colleagues, except for those times when she laughed harshly, or slurred orders to one of the barmen collecting glasses from short, candle lit, Scandinavian-style counters positioned against most walls of the room—In fact, everything in sight appeared to be constructed more fitting for punters the height of Namibian Bushmen!

Niv and Neon went way back, and although Neon (RIP), reclining cross legged, nice black shall-like overcoat with large buttons resting on her lap, was a bit younger than everyone’s favourite guy there Nick, the three of them grew up on the same street, and attended the same school in the same tiny village, located even further south (to northerners like Omni and Dublin) than Zone1, out in one of the Away Counties.

When amused by something heard, pre-cackle, Neon had a killer smile, and looked delightful in her compact but nonetheless thick number, consisting of deep colours, dark turquoise-blue, grey, and most prominent, black, all joined up to make one fabric wrap. The black sections dominated this taut winter dress, visible as she sat up holding her drink. It had wispy thin collars and built-in support loops at each side to hold the belt which twisted up into a half-knot at the ribs, the cloth hugging-firm, like some gigantic multi-folded, multi-lapped ribbon around her body.

She had long, bouncy, loose set curls, parted at one side of her dime-a-dozenly cute face, with strong, enticing blue-green eyes surrounded by thin understated frames, which reached back, leading one’s eyes to her earrings. They were made of a suspended, almost to the jaw corner, string

169

ALONE AGAIN IN FULL BLOOM (FINALLY)

of microscopic loops, with two small gold-plated balls mechanically sanded to give a rough texture. Although on the negative tip?, her eyes were quite reddened from the build up of toxins which reside in her daily two bottles of wine, plus all the surrounding cigarette smoke.

But her bouncy hair was the feature having the other girls curious; few could compete. Those large, gloriously glossy locks swept back like high surf from her hairline, in layers of waves that would twirl and coil downwards increasingly into curls.

For the first few years of school for these two though, before they fully physically bloomed and blossomed, Neon and Niv despised each other—(probably because of there being just over a twelve month difference in age, amongst other, less important “girlyfied” reasons)—which they both laugh about now and readily admit, was just sooo predictable.

So now sat drinking, it was Neon and Dublin, Omni, Nick and Niv who, while talking together, had coincidentally drawn two more of Nick and Neon’s workmates—plus a few of their friends, returned from the snooker hall downstairs—into generic conversation. In due time the main group of family and friends had somehow, through no one’s fault but Niv’s concern, evolved into two, of which the other half consisted of five men and a woman. Judging by the body language at least, this woman was the partner of a blissfully unconcerned but separated five talking amongst themselves—It was hard to be definite which guy she went out with but it was highly probable though, the gentleman who handed her an expensive-looking snooker cue to unscrew and then fasten away into a black decorated case, was the lucky chap.

As teenagers back in 91’ Niv and Neon had different groups of friends and unknown to them, only slightly varied views in their outlook and opinion on style; But you know that it was enough for them to see any other girls in their school as some kind of puritanical Wilderbeings from recessive planet ultra-violet, as opposed to their more dominant world of infra-red. You see Neon’s rather strict father, Burt? He would never have been prepared to let his pre-Cornish daughter tame that crimson hair of hers into the latest flex of the day, which consequentially had an effect on such a prematurely developed, and at that time preoccupied, bewildered, quite cerebral little apple of daddy’s eye. Her closest friends

170

Celine Flux

all wrote poetry and drunk like they were beyond their age for most of those slow-moving years of secondary schooling. And because of that, the hormonal, boisterous, and more unruly schoolmates marked her out as a victim, with a D-Cup.

171

THE SUPREME SERVICE SECTOR

(WHERE EVERY EVENT IS IRONIC)

School, they both agreed in hindsight could be seen as one long rutting season, long enough to learn that everything really is done more or less for sex. Neon always had the advantage of being a year and a rank above Nivja, and was also recognized as having the district-wide, grapevine-known, superior financial muscle, although it wasn’t until they were their late teens that they became actual friends, where at a house party, in an anarchist’s squat up in North Zone2, said destination played setting for a chance meeting later on in life.

That night felt deceptively young due to alcoholic stimulant so it was there, they both learned during a sitdown-styled get-together that nostalgia, is an illusionary material; not great when indulged in for too long, and like Omni and his Centro1 friends, not when too high. Upstairs in the sand-blasted and abandoned, now reclaimed Zone2 squat, Otis Reading re-issues, slowly dripped out the boom-box-turned-ashtray in a skeletal, doorless bedroom. The super-soul oozed like caramelized brown sugar as ill-gotten cider was passed around, when a voice that rang familiar to Neon, accepted a drink handed to a girl. Neon’s arm hair stood up on end when she heard this voice, somehow recognizable, particular to her old school days.

‘Thank you’ the girl said, the large plastic bottle no doubt swigged and then circulated. But the gem had dropped; It was Nivja!, cross legged, chirping away, as these politically-charged non-conformists had an instrument-less jam, each plucking questions out the ether, about . . . for example: “The measuring of the next woman’s pain threshold”. A familiar kind of topic for a group that had been heavy drinking, or, combining it with bootleg veterinary drugs for too long-a period now, so everyone, for one reason or another was either carpet mouthed, talkative or toxicologically speaking, both.

Niv in turn gave her own answer to the deep, well-circulated question. ‘I guess with ignorance comes a kind of security, a shelter,

172

Celine Flux

that blocks the rain, that rain is pain, and you can’t blame a person for doing anything possible for shelter, right’? As the main imbibed and over-alert anti-clubbers nodded hard and passed around chemical-dipped post-romantic-zoots, Neon continued to overhear the voice which transported her over five years back in time to snack breaks and flirting in the playground, or behind the art block, and when some commotion in the hallway came about just before her turn came to give an answer, by now convinced it was Nivja, she quietly reacquainted herself giving a friendly nudge, ‘Niv . . .? It is you, it is, flipping heck girl, fancy this’!

Niv, still cross-legged, threw back her hair and turned. ‘Oh Neon . . .! Hi, oh hi’! Briefly they squeezed hands.

This meeting again after all this time stirred up fly memories, which the two of them had to trade and exchange without letting the other grubby, but-resilient, fringe-political-partygoers latch onto the fact, that they went to a first-class comprehensive where the catchment area was in prime real estate—the southeast Zone4 kids would have considered it “uncool” but regardless, government commissions rated it top of the league! It was from that night on really, that the two of them once again retuned to being the tightest of friends, bonded by a sense of loss once Neon told Niv their mock-Gothic looking school had been demolished and replaced by a super-sized bingo hall inappropriately named after a holy city in the Near Orient. As society changed over the following half-decade and both were sucked from ideological fringes like generations before them, their friendship stretched out with the passing of time; but it did lull again for a moderately dramatic period during.

See both girls were, let’s say . . . easy on the eye in the looks department. Also fundamental to their inter-personal, un-lady-like crisis: no men under thirty nowadays pondered 8-fold questions and practiced strict celibacy. Add fermented grain from “oak barrels” in Tennessee and strobe lights to the equation . . . and you’re left to dodge only one answer.

173

OH, I MEAN STRINGS DEFINE CHAOS

WHERE EVEN INCONCEIVABLE

CONCEPTS EXIST

It’s been said that women politely bicker in this age of quarrel more than their opposite sex. But because sub-love isn’t just for poets, even, that is legitimate quarrelling territory when weeded on a group date. And during such women against men—that typical Venus of Willendorf v Martian-agricultural jousting—when guys on higher ground pull out the big cannons, metaphorically ejaculating through defensive mechanisms, with ample breastplate piercing hollow-tipped bullets which predictably (when tipsy, rowdy and artificially loud), they jokingly blame the girls for 9/11, citing those new tandem-showing hipsters which the designers know will give animalistic men (like the author’s husband) barely-suppressible urges. As females quite rightly return fire with the old classic “You should keep it in your pants then init”; such a copper-topped slug would kill any further accusations stone-cold dead.

All is not fair in love and war indeed, go ask Dr. Frasier Crane who’s probably Republibralcrat and Green simultaneously, what do you the reader think . . . huh?—(bet your thinking inconceivable concept)

See, the reason for that mellow-dramatic period after their reunion was in fact, love, and then war: Neon and Nivja allowed themselves to fall out over a zestful broad-nosed Olmec, renamed as a Christian after the conquistadors stomp as the young Mr Quetzal Toltec Fernandez, who was always so sick of telling new acquaintances the origin of his tribalname (Virachocha) that he’d suggest time and time again they fling it in a search engine to see what mountainous research documents came back!

Nivja applied the gutsiest tactics back then to get Quetzal, and suffice to say, won out in the end, ultimately having a decent run of passion with him. But as things eventually fizzled out with Quetzal,

174

Celine Flux

their lull in friendship began to slowly disappear in The Big Smoke, only to then return again years later on in their lives.

Nivja and Neon—both nice people plus hardbodied—played their rekindled friendship by ear, like dolphins; and so they should, because it’s not just them, there’s others, they ain’t the only ones using echo-location to feel their way through jagged, erratical, sometimes distractingly erotical shapes, filed down to form prickly points, within larger fields of this thing in modern English we all call passion, glued tight, to stick around extraterrestrial corners, corners crowned with even sharper and more durable mineral-clad edges (Huh?)

175

DRAMATIZE, MEDIASIZE, THEN

WEAPONIZE THOSE BIONIC YOGAHIPS

Time in the increasingly busy and noisy bar ticked by as Nick, Dublin, complete with his “Ere we go again look”, Omni, Neon, Nivja and co, were jiving themselves away from an omniversally-inspired topic entitled . . . “Weapons of metropolitan annihilation and a developing nation’s right to acquire them”. Nivja and Neon, (a bit like Crossfade, Cartier and them lot at the canal), were softly—at the beginning anyway—fussing over the mighty morphing power subject like the old sparring partners they were.

‘Rogue states . . .? Hey I’ll give you rogue states’, declared Neon passionately, ‘Kings way back in history fought to gain power and once there, must obviously have been quite ruthless in maintaining their place . . . claiming divine descent . . . fooling clueless peasants . . . hushing to in order to rule’ ‘So what, does that mean eradicating all opposition Deuteronomy-style, women, first born’s . . . all that business?’ asked Niv. So Neon, observing battle etiquette responded. ‘It’s a brutal game . . . You’d listen to all the advice, consult your council, but for complete rule ugly decisions would have to be made and if you’re not willing to use force, guess you can’t play . . . simplez’.

Lifting her shoulders Neon followed up while Niv reached for her drink, signalling accurate point concession. ‘You know . . . I said that to this guy at Repliversity, and I thought he called me a Wanker Incisor . . . I was pissed! But what he really said was Wagner sympathiser’ ‘Wagner sympathiser . . .! What’s that then when it’s at home then Neon . . .?’

‘Wagner . . .? Oh, you know . . . Hitler’s little mutt . . .?’ Omni had never ever heard women counter-spit like this—except for obscure Internet radio—(plus for sure he had no idea about Adolf ‘s musical pet)! He waited patiently for his own turn to surgically implant some delicious distracting head-food inside of them, secretly inspired by that unrepeatable hebraic-splice . . . “Then u shall displace nations mightier than yourself “!

176

Celine Flux

‘Well . . .’ he cynically joked instead, using personified dry-humour of the allumine, ‘these gold games, ripped from Jews mouths, have rules, melted into Swiss bank rules, rules that appear light . . . out there . . . beyond the dark, like dark chocolaaht, eeew’ ‘Huh . . .! Out where . . .? Chocowaaht . . .’??—Everyone, straight confused, were sipping and no doubt thinking it. But Omni, hoping his plurality of perspective wasn’t seen as weakness around these finance geeks, continued

‘. . . See presently, you have international law . . . Back in the day you had omniversal law . . . you know, as in the name I chose . . .’? The last members of the group still slow to latch onto, or get with Omni’s uncompromising twang and how he speaks began to smile with each other as the penny dropped, except for two people:

Both blotto yet intensively engaged Neon and Nivja had agreeable enough points of scope, but, not on this. Omni’s wonky lance of onion-opinion had them genuinely interested to know what the hell he was going on about. Neon peeled, and Nivja diced, getting nowhere with it, and then, smashed already, getting fed up enough to quit which actually, should remind the reader never to prejudge, although so-called society has conditioned us all to do so, and it’s so hard not to instinctively categorize humans into those four basic classes—which the author won’t label now but seems to be evident the world over (submerged continents obviously exempt).

Omni with Dublin and Nick, backs no longer facing each other, continued to talk with the group about a myriad of other things including: the fine-tuning of old and slow business, interbreeding replicants and neoroids, logos in space, Olympic debt, even banksta rappers with accounts stashed for Armageddon, with Neon in particular, looking across at Omni, she, oppositely, reminding him of the young Sean Young—(ha, get it) from that Bladerunner scene (but strictly hair down shots). See Omniversal wasn’t sloshed and in his element, the element was sloshing around in Omniversal! (Boxcutter write till you sweat).

177

STICKS AND STONES,

SUCH A LONG WAY TO SWIM

It was close to closing time and Dublin wanted to, but Omni just couldn’t leave early, not after covertly expanding ego, seemingly past consciousness and re-assuming the name Maverickavelillah to a select few, taking business cards while also promising to Nick, sharing a goodbye with his little sister Niv, that he’d call him on his no doubt newer and upgraded cellphone on Sunday in order to go punting with his Fiancé Vienna—currently busy at work in Tri Kilo—and himself, in Cambridge.

Nick—as his sister described him—was regularly tipsy, like now, but unlike Omni or Dubz, good natured with it. He and Omni had from Nivja’s point of view, a great meeting and even greater levels of conversation. Unknown to them the evening went just as she planned. Ever since first reading his name in hospital thinking, ‘Omniversal . . .?

Did I say that right . . .? Omniversal . . .?’ from his radiography file, then subsequently reading his style and hara while scanning injuries on the X-ray machine, she knew he and her brother should meet.

Aspirations of legal/illegal venture capitalism on a decreasing ebb Nick looked rather like Prince William, with the similar deep GM voice to match. It took a long time for Nick to explain exactly what punting was to a bemused but keen Dublin and Omni, and as the group bubbled away throwing on coats and preparing to leave Nick slowly nudged his glass forward, stood up thumb hooked to belt, saying after belching,

‘Be sure to bring two things, okay squire? A pen, and bring a pad mate, you’ll definitely be needing it’. They must have all been in on the joke because most of the drinking group around them found it funny. ‘Now’, he pronounced humorously—(and somewhat rago, placing frozen astonishment mostly on Neon’s face)—‘. . . I’m off to go make babies with my reluctant wife’.

178

Celine Flux

A tired and hungry Omni and slurring Dublin—who also lived near—didn’t have that far to travel, while Nivja, who they came with, the silent composer of this evening, stayed on for a while before going off to a club with Neon and her look-a-like cousin Jamie, who just came, sitting at the end of the table. As Jamie came over and sat Omni and Dublin were in the process of shaking a few more hands, after which, they said their goodbyes, threw up a few peace signs to those out of reach, and split.

Omni has been here before you know? Opportunistically networking and making a great connection but deciding for classified reasons to be an arsehole about it and not make that call? But yo . . . on this occasion (and Dublin and Nivja’s persuasion), Omni was “down to roll” with momentum, this time, not waiting, but seeing through poz-vis, what should, might, happen.

179

EL BINDING THREAD HYPOTHOS;

LONELY? . . . OR JUST SUBTLE?

‘OK rudeboy be cool’ chanted Omni internally, making his way along the river to meet Nick and company opposite Earls Court station. Only metres away, he didn’t notice the Banana Lex he was told to look out for. A call was made to double check the rendezvous point and within seconds the premier league four-door swung through. ‘Hop in Maverick, we should be there in an hour or so’ yelled Nick head out of the window adjusting his eyewear. As he approached this wide-body low-sitting bubble, pendent swinging down to the pelvic floor, looking uniquely grimy but spotless in a 5XL white tee dripping down from a matching niketickless sweatband up top, Vienna, the front seat blonde who Omni forgot was coming till he saw her (and who curiously wasn’t wearing a wedding band) was greeted continental style, the teeth were shown briefly as Vienna showed hers, (peroxided to perfection—who Omni later stole the technique from) as Nick commenced with the journey and one-liners, wrestling for space on a packed out slow-moving high street.

Somehow she managed to look bored and busy at the same time;Something was up there, between those two, but he obviously

couldn’t put his finger on what it was until he found out if this instinctive pre-judging based on sheer appearance, was correct: Was she anything like her shell would suggest? Omni wasn’t sure, I mean, Nick sounded public school but didn’t really look it while her random contempt just sounded public . . . Not that much—snooty enough though (but seemed oppositely to act public school—if such a thing were possible—Typical at the speed-of-life-type, go figure).

Designer sheen and designer scented, Vienna had a clump of paperwork on her lap with a Dictaphone and two-way, mumbling something about . . . the wiring of umpteen “million Düsseldollars” into a “filter system” account which Nick, watching the road, holding

180

Celine Flux

two conversations louder than the speakers output, appeared to be half helping her out with.

Anyway, it all sounded like gobbledygook to Omni who was a first-class neophyte when it came to things like that big name designer suit she was wearing, and the even bigger sums of money she was quoting.

‘OK Vee just gimme a sec I’ll help you’. He grabbed his phone, equipped with search engine, trying to find an answer to a question she was too near to completion of her own work to retrieve for herself; he wasn’t convinced but it looked to Omni as if she had this Nicky-boy wrapped around her nifty little finger. She may have seemed from far a dumb blonde, or could have been dismissed as they headed up to the waterways of C-town, as some trophy wannabe wag suspected of a nosejob, but how wide of the mark would Omni have been eh . . .?

Vienna was currently polite, articulated semi-nasal, and like most in the world, a good and bad fruits of her labour, work-based compulsive; no two ways about it, that was her chamber. Omni and of course Nicky-boy there for that matter, just wanted her to snap out of it and max-the-heck out, at least for today. But only when they hit C-town limits, did she finally decide to forget work for a while and enjoy her short break to this (so-called elite) student-saturated township, throwing her jacket beside Omni. The main problem with overpopulation is . . . countless people have the same short excursion ideas at the same time so Nick, Vienna and Omni blew at least half an hour getting off them newly created ring roads and on to the triple carriageway that would take them north by northwest to Cambridgeton.

Vienna was hated at her previous job but it didn’t really concern her as long as her ability wasn’t called into question. And also, she hated being called Mrs Edison, even though she was now married to Nick.

After securing a lucrative commission, Vienna and her first PR team back in Zone2, multi-facilitated the latest Pan-European Oakroom Conferencing Event; a week-long apptrade exhibition. The first few days were designated for merchants, networking or talking shop, and the final forty-eight hours were strictly closed-door discussions, ad hoc, exclusively for the top brass, famous for their drawn-out sit-ins and intense wrangling. In helping to orchestrate events like these Vienna increased her interest in both commerce, and especially in the lifestyles of those digicash-endowed chairmen, and offered the chance, which she

181

el BinDinG THReAD HYPOTHOS; lOnelY? . . . OR JuST SuBTle?

occasionally was, would take it by doing things that she’d never reveal to old Nicky-boy there.

One pivotal Zone2 morning—previous to the Oakroom contract—Vienna was lost in usual scheming thoughts, staring at her garnet-red nails, then out the window, when a colleague, who she had never really gotten on with, decided to choose that exact moment to use certain barley-belt-worthy tones of pugnation, alerting all present at their large discussions table to a season-old misunderstanding that Vienna—for appearances sake—would’ve rather kept contained. Now, Vienna is not a person to take semi-public disrespect easily, so she retaliated, no shorts, snapping back, countering then smothering those meeting room threats like some kinda grassland constricting Imperator. From that moment on her position slowly became untenable, a situation she never attempted to fix, or regretted. It was only after this, overt, limitedly repressed and destructive incident that she decided to then change career paths with ultimate intentions to spawn 731 for foreign bosses.

Unfortunately or otherwise, one of the by-products to subsequently come from that forced resignation was an increase in passion-driven qualitative powers. Example study—: Her now improved capacity to ruthlessly manipulate and dispense with individuals. Also into her demeanour-steez came an ugly generic begrudging of other people’s success, something she considered valuable as a zoom-in management tactic—despicable things of this variety came seeping to the forefront of her ways.

Vienna had taught herself many tricks of the “Private company’s Public face trade”, which she now in turn used at her latest place of work. Public-face trade tricks, such as fake eyelash stealth tactics, and the stone cold, apparently neutral pokerface. Non-participation in any type of watercooler politics was another lesson learned from that previous line of employment servitude, still coming off and received in both industries as “up herself “, and “distant”, then, and now, at what would turn out to become the Germanyan-VC-funded, female-piloted contender Maestro Keyholdings UK, down in Tri-Kilo—a first in the sector. All of that popular “He said she said . . . No no but afterwards she also said . . .”-type su-su on the workfloor was something she vowed never again to engage in, unless of course it furthered any of her own single-minded crafty-arse intentions.

182

Celine Flux

You might think if you were to scratch the surface of Vienna, that given her good-enough-sounding-heritage, there might’ve been some ever-deepening can of worms to discover about her, but more than likely, you’d be surprised to find a rather hollow, vacuous centre—and having such a—kind of—privileged life meant, she never had to go through any real mud in the physical sense, no, her struggles were much more removed, but just as life-threatening. Her adolescent direction usually gained no sympathy outside immediate familioso, for even as a pre-teen she was known behind gates for her lack of compassion.

Once—now peep this!—her best friend broke her arm while they were both out developing equestrian skills but instead of—like you or I—hoping off to assist her injured sistren she decided coldly, rather unbelievably, to ride around the empty country field in circles for another half an hour, while this painful and swollen fracture throbbed away in her ex-friends clutches instead of, as expected, immediately riding back to get her some help (What a biyatch)!

183

WILLIAM HOBBIT ON ABOLISHION

(HOOD INDO-INTELLIGENTSIA,

TAKE F##KIN’ NOTES)

Fulham Broadway? Yep . . . a few A-roads . . .? Yep . . . laptop and jackets up in the back window . . .? Yep . . . with folders and hamper bouncing on the buttermilk interior . . .? Oh most definite. ‘Hey I like this car . . . divine is the applicable word . . . and I can drive too by the way . . . triple hint’. Nick replied, empathetic under pressure, ‘Patience Maverick, soon enough I’ll be able to quote you happy’. Hit with love for this luxury bug-like vehicle like Mom-dukes with the belt, Nick’s words turned to music and boy did Omni like the sound.

They finally made it on to the motorway and were flying past rural views, (and let’s just say, for some reason they were not relaxing to the delightful sonatas of Radio3). The conversation had switched from Vienna’s work to pseudo-science, back then to Nick’s own line of work, and Omniversal was asking all the right questions, disregarding and reading all of the right signs.

‘It is what it is then . . .’ resounded the (actually nowhere near the region of dumb) blonde Vienna, with a long deep exhaling sigh, ‘. . . I guess I’ll just have to sort it out when I get back . . . It’s a great idea though’. Piling dossiers stacked on the handbrake, she was referring to that business leap being enterprisingly finalized and confirmed—on a Sunday of all days—over the phone en-route to C-town, and when her people are given the “your re-hired” finger that represented large funds from keyholding VC superiors in Düsseldorf, she’d soon be closely managing a team and sub-dividing her own department from parent company Maestro.

Realizing this, Omniversal (partially for entertainment purposes) cranked-up the initiative: Not contented to be a mere crumb snatcher for Nick, he decided to gamble on some stand up comedy for a brief moment, right there and then, combating Vienna’s stony office-on-a-Sunday

184

Celine Flux

attitude by being equally as facetious but taking care not to emotionally cheat the two of them, like he, by dint of being an earthbound human, often does to his humankind.

He loaded and aimed his quilldarts of fantascription letting Vienna know, he’d seen many short cuts on his twenty-six-year-long road of life but regardless, he felt he’d make a great worker, in some format at least, but beyond academia mind you, (his reasons for not having any commercially-recognized qualifications whatsoever).

So Omni did it . . . He let off one of his micro-javelins at their wigs explaining how irrespective of that fact, he was still itching to get a presently misguided foot on the ladder—just like the rest of The Zone—with the help of a couple loose-fit Hugano Bossellini suits, but him being pretty nice with the waffle he could do it with only a verbal entertainment résumé. All this was an attempt to spring a trap on Nicky-boy, by appearing blasé and not too out of depth simultaneously—but all three of them found it amusing.

When they stopped laughing Vienna closed her phone, put it on the dashboard and turned to Nick and Omni, ‘So how did you wind up in Zone1 then Omni’? She asked with Nick nodding, speeding hard in his pretty “vehicz”. ‘Yea, well, I got kinda bored after four years of getting stoned and playing ISS. Subconsciously I was just waiting for some sort of change. When it came in the form of a snub by my own crew for high treason, then a canal dip I figured, the time had come, already convinced it would look like retreat by peeps I grew up with. So, I came down here to stay with family near Zone6, past Zonelimits actually . . . technically in Middletonsex, near the National Stadia . . .’?

A side wind swilled round through the car lifting separate strings of Vienna’s over-treated hair, wispy-thin, held back by thick Italian Groucci glasses, quite long, weak, momentarily flying everywhere, but it smelled scrumptious. As the gusts changed direction Omni sat forward, eyeing up the Wondawoman Bracelet bouncing inspirational photons in his face.

After a brief pause he cocked back again, slamming the pin down on another fascinate-barb for the absorbed personnel, unpeeling consequence (yea plus he loved the sound of his own voice).

‘Hostel life for a few years, was . . . huh . . . character building, and that’s how what the foreigners fly thousands of miles to point at, and the political/financial class celebrate so highly became my homeless

185

WILLIAM HOBBIT ON ABOLISHION (HOOD INDO-INTELLIGENTSIA, TAKE F##KIN’ NOTES)

playground and let’s just say, the grade-listed architecture lost its historical romance after those cold nights’!

Vienna and Nick seemed now to be listening quite hard to this opening-up of narrative direct from societies hidden underbelly, disappointed when he thwarted attempts to find out more of what he’d witnessed behind all those polished buildings their colleagues frequented, becoming increasingly intrigued when he glossed over the most illicit scenes.

‘So I finally won the homeless struggle’. He continued. ‘I earned my place then settled in’. Vienna was unsatisfied. She looked at Omni, at a loss as to why he was charged with high treason in the first place but, hearing how he addressed them with that lump in his throat she, and quite unlike her, opted not to ask Omni outright.

‘So you don’t ever go back to Metroaux? . . . You don’t have much of an accent? Does he Nick, does he’? Nick tightened his already pushed-out bottom lip, signalling fake impartiality, acting like he was too busy with driving into C-town’s approaching metro area.

Vienna pressed a button and wound up her window leaving all the other windows down. As she did this, travelling past the houses, observable motion, slugged-out by traffic, Omni sat back and continued weaving into the woods of his memory, changing course but on a fixed destination, speaking indirectly about his past five years back in the cauldron of Zone1, still looking out at the unfamiliar optical virginity of his surroundings.

‘But know what it’s like’ he said, ‘you move to a new city and settle in, which is hard enough, then over time as the months and years go on, it’s as if the city becomes like your planet. You get your regional papers, your tailored news and radio covering issues and local events, every thing’s so targeted now, it’s so region-specific that, if you lay your hat in a place, like here for example, C-town’, Omni pointed out the window, into postcard middle-Britain blurring by, ‘and you jux for a long enough time it almost, becomes like, like your planet, your world, and travelling as a restless free spirit like you do, hundreds of miles to other cities you once called home just gets harder and harder, as you get sucked into the day to day, year to year life of your new hometown. But hey, you know, that’s life in the passion-propulsion realm for you huh . . . well that’s who I charge anyway, Mr Pro Pulsion, he gullyfied me, making me region-specific too’. Moved, Vienna twisted a stare over

186

Celine Flux

her shoulder, leading with her elbow and devil-encrusted wrist, at Omni, bouncing with suspension, adjusted now, close up on the backseat, still abstracted by the bracelet, diamond flooded, looking down at it, or out on cars in front, serious substance being gathered, with a comedic outline, personalised for present company, a blur, for both manipulation and his advancing growing pains.

‘As you can see I did put my “gullyness” in the grave once, it was a lavish and expensive farewell ceremony’. Unstoppable, though paused, Omni smiled and cracked-open a punchline, ‘. . . But, I think he’s immortal, coz, when the Criminaldreadz dig him up he returns with an erection for yours truly! And what’s worse, he only gets a hard-on when I begin that transition from acting all “gully” to playing “The Perfect English Gentleman”‘. Obviously unable to now withdraw the joke Omni paused once more, realizing what he (until then) harboured amounted to quite a profound little secret, one he hadn’t fully explored himself yet, and Vienna, as she grabbed a gum pellet, seemed to embark upon this understanding too, while Nick shifted back in his seat, eyes on the outside mirror surveying the fastlane for carspace, tempted by a fresh stretch of empty road clearing ahead, way up hill.

After actually clocking how broad his horizon was, and then, Nick’s sister, to his present situation, in her brothers car, empowered by gestures spawned within a particular exchange he continued with the confession, unsure if Nick, as a smalltown anglo-saxon (an imposition he and Omni later disputed) only seeing such things after came to Sincity, would really clock where his heart was currently at.

‘I reckon the Criminaldreadz must have paid Mr Pro Pulsion to assassinate me before I get anywhere close to an English gent . . . still I go there! It’s a thick, complicated process, off and on you know. So presently I’m still gullyfied to the point of no matter what city I spend time in, I just tend to gravitate towards the more gaza sections . . . just hard to resist’.

Unclear again, Vienna thought about it; Nick, busy negotiating a roundabout, hardly even heard. ‘Although we all try to settle down in some sense, but people just can’t keep still’. Stained certainly, by plights of old fogies on tiny Pacific land masses, acquiring their righteous scepticism Omni joked, ‘We just, can’t, quietly, sit there for infinite momento’s right, uh-uh’! Nick heard the last bit—lightly he smiled in vague agreement. After a second or two still looking at the scenery, from inside himself, Omni reached out in scientific human exploration. ‘Nah

187

WILLIAM HOBBIT ON ABOLISHION (HOOD INDO-INTELLIGENTSIA, TAKE F##KIN’ NOTES)

not in the urban chaos, that’d be lazy right’? He sat up from his slouch to look into their hearts; they were touched.

Methodical in his conclusion, returning his distant stare outside, he spoke on. ‘Know what I say, I say of all observed accomplishments, the one thing my perceived opponents can’t achieve, yep, The hardest thing for a highly passionate person like me to do is, to sit still, crosslegged, silent and thoughtless for ten degeh-degeh minuets, Try it, Impossible oui’? (Well chant then!)

The sum total, dropped heavily, was a long-winded anecdote with the final crux delivered like a torpedo, to Nick, who—after a few misses, it struck—indication?—(which was about blooming time)—His audible chuckle. But actually, it was more influenced by all the slightly confusing shop talk that he and Vienna were engaged in earlier, regarding the pending go-ahead at her neworn baby, 731 Filter Systems, which was to the frustration of Omni so, that’s when he steered the conversation—through Nick then Vienna’s extensive questioning—to a more cinematic modality. You see, corporate jargon was just that, jargon, as Nick and Vienna began to explain later. And being so sure that, Nick, especially now Vienna, curled up in a ball almost facing him, and, even the Lexus, seemed like they wanted to know about his past leading up to today, Omni spent a large chunk of the journey up to Cambridgeton massaging their neurons with diluted tales of street adventure laced with hopes, dreams, defeat, and plans for the future, experimentation style.

188

TETSUYA: LOSE THE “I” WITHIN

EVERYONE’S ODYSSEY

“The world is yours written all over the blimp” Nas ripped off Scarface then spliced onto a Mobb Deep album, but Omni would settle for an acre to create and serve God alone—better choice and more realistic dream, or is it?

They hopped out of the car, (no it doesn’t know Omni’s past) to a great view. The river reflected beautifully 180 degrees of environment and looked positively banging. The air smelled healthy, and the walk to the boat was . . . long. Near the river’s edge there was a man to be paid sitting in a kiosk. So here Omni played his position, at five paces, downwind, as to not catch a whiff of Nick’s wallet. ‘After you’ said Omni:—(Now what Omniversal should really have done here was play the oblivious “don’t know any better card” which would have left him with six cards to be dispatched when and where the situation dictated, because) unknown up until then, what presented itself was a flimsy looking narrow water vessel decorated with a couple of ageing, mouldy cushions, complete with obsolete insignia and pre-Sanskritic letters along a four-metre long pole. ‘It can’t be that hard to steer?’ he thought to himself, ‘I mean damn . . .! It’s just a canoe’?? Befuddlement, a mere blip flanking scrutiny Omni watched Nick escort Vienna aboard as the timber contraption braced, still afloat, but sunken slightly for its new passengers. Propped breadthways were two feeble planks for benches, and a third, apparently for standing on.

He stepped aboard last and with relish, gripped the pole he’d use—after brief orientation—to push off away from, along the river bank and cruise those waters, but only after taking a few more seconds to peep the environment and crucially, how the other punters did it. He took on stance and movement and soon it was no longer Omni-see-Omni-do but Omni-add and Omni-subtract, acquiring requisite skill to such competent and graceful levels it allowed for some appreciation of the elements converged attractively before him, altogether creating a

189

TeTSuYA: lOSe THe “i” WiTHin eVeRYOne’S ODYSSeY

moderate, tranquil scene. ‘Is H2o, a gas, or a liquid?’ he pondered, all three now gliding across the water. Quickly remembering the answer was thousands of miles away on the equilibrium-equator, he turned his needle-point of attention back to appreciation of surroundings and, after another pause of breath, visualized folding away his wings, once more swivelling around to navigate this extremely skinny boat giving off new, pleasant sensations.

* * *

Vienna and Nick appeared a happily married twosome, looking quite at home either in the New Docklands or Maggie’s old Fleet Street, even amongst the Ohnians of SW1 playing tennis with illegitimate royals. Coincidentally, that night the Red (with blue intentions) Flag Party won by a landslide, the pair had their gorgeous no-expenses-spared reception. It became the stuff of legend, memorable for its quick decay as soon as the bride and groom left for their East Indies honeymoon.

Nick’s mother Aubrey, Vee’s two parents, plus the bridal pair, were together unconcerned with all the feuds and accusations circulating the over-intoxicated tribes. With its repugnant Jerry Donahue—type antics, the function hall did have some referees until the more sensible people gave up and made their exits leaving the gross Undarmics with themselves and the smoke machines.

All immediate workmates from Tri Kilo attended, doing most of their particular well-wishing from the reserved tables situated along the outer side of the hall, where the unfolding hysteria could be viewed from a safe distance. As predicted it became just like mid-west Amerindian train-crash TV, where shocked onlookers wished they hadn’t witnessed all the sentimental missed-time speeches and the below-the-belt emotion/ alcohol-fuelled insults. The night descended into chaos pretty early with rumours of infidelity in the car park and other inappropriate places.

In retro, blame could be put firmly at the doors of the music, lack of air-con, and blood-rare steak. Insipid mid-nineties dance hits and goofy R’n’B so-called “classics”, were totally the wrong selection by the DJ who after seeing all the holding cream and styling gel on the dance floor, decided not to observe decrees from the mercenary wedding planner, who acted more like a drill sergeant, throwing smoke bombs and confetti about before disappearing and reappearing either beside the cameraman or the sound technician.

190

DISTANT ALIGNMENT OF

TELESCOPIC LUNACY

‘So what do you think of my punting? This is the punting part right’? ‘Quite simple isn’t it’ shouted Vienna, flirting around with the top items in a straw hamper box, in the hope something cured and high in nitrates would take her fancy. ‘Ah don’t you worry it’s your turn next Vee’ Nick popped straight after, caught between his bearings and tenderly filling a second glass of an abominably priced, decade-old bottle of unisex wine from foetus-throwing Spartasia. Nick gave his glass to Vee and invited Omni to take a load off. Now bedded-in he saw an opportunity to show what he hoped at least in hindsight, would come off as, not clowning but initiative, so, asking Nick to do the same he reached down for the bottle, intending to pour his own glass and declare a uniquely warped form of salutoast. ‘If you don’t mind, Nick, I’ve got something to spit out . . . But be forewarned! It’ll definitely be some way-out-there type stuff OK’? Nick crossed his feet to create space unaware of what to expect, placing his arm around Vienna.

Although she tried to resist, her mind kept floating along the water south to Zone1, especially Maestro Keyholdings and that pipeline funding decision. She only once more returned from her impatient plane-drift, and that was because of Omni, pressed for room at the other end of the boat, wobbling back conservatively from one buckled knee, lifting the glass off the bench and then up to his other foot. ‘Alright yo, I’d like to peel back a tri-bypass type mini-verse, but in the form of a toast though.

Vienna has never ever heard colourful bonix such as this, except for when her favourite bald-headed R&B cable presenter tried to use Omni’s discarded slang (like “The Lick”), or when unauthorized wannabes try to mimic, flicking, or flashing fingers about like an uncertified fabizznool!, so assuming she was about to bare witness to real live attack-rhyme display Omni, for now, had Vienna’s strict attention. ‘Right . . . to the following three things then: First . . .? To glory’, said Omni ‘. . . A

191

DiSTAnT AliGnMenT OF TeleSCOPiC lunACY

spoonful of yours wouldn’t be bad Nick . . . eh?’ It was working; Vienna and Nick were getting the gist of his “type flow”. ‘The second is to beauty’, He extended his glass towards Vienna, ‘It can only help, right’?

She tittered in response as Omni raised his drink to the sun to conclude,

‘And the third is to free radicals’ ‘Free radicals’? ‘Yea, free radicals . . . My only enemy’ Omni joked. ‘Cheers . . .’!

After that wacky bit of wordplay, the wine was sipped in unison, while some eavesdropping cyclists peddled by with puzzled smiles as Omni slowly began to lean back, the duo—with Vienna falling in and out—spending the remaining afternoon laying a foundation upon which Omni intended to build a great structure; Nick and Omniversal, had again, gotten on well.

With paperwork endorsement of Nicky-boy doors may open, and one did. The Chan that drives all mass forward including them, was being deflected way before and after their proto-introduction, sending them on what looked like a different but in fact, a pre-determined direction, leaving the possibility for creativity, if only on a small scale, to emerge from the realm of passion where Omni and Seattle, Vienna and Nick, Dublin, Neon and Nivja and his friends up in Metroaux were all bound by the laws of post-materialistic cause and effect: (If the reader of this scribe—that’s you Tibet—is wandering if there’s any way to break the laws governing this over-glorified material that humans supposedly own as a birthright, and “race” up and down the city through, well, first consider this on-going “race” for an extended amount of time, then find a spiritual practice—any will do till you read what fortunate ones have read—and then, peep my acknowledgements, influences, and thank you’s page, aaiigghht?)

But, particularizing Nick Omni and Vee; fruitive steps might be, and were in the end taken, and also, this opportunity should be seized upon to remind you (the reader) that he had been, here, quite a few times before!

Omni was dropped off again at Earls Court feeling slightly tested, as if fruitbowls on sanitized tables has started turning. He felt those sensations of that Rasta-fuelled philosophy of his youth which read:

“British boy raised by Jamaicans, eh bwoy . . .? . . . The ultimate limbo”!—That limbo thought originally crossed his mind much earlier

192

Celine Flux

on the motorway out of Zone1, when he was bouncing between Nick and such would-be posh company as Vienna’s (trust me, you’ve heard posher) but forgot to return to the notion due to being set free by all the wine, beer, hog, dog, and cheese. Despite this though, the day went well enough, to the point of the guys agreeing to meet the following day, at Shadowless Towers Complex, slap bang in the middle of town, with its very impressive, world renowned silhouette-like building shooting upward, which nobody could fail to notice right at its heart.

Omni made his way home to go through both the file and the short briefing Nick had broken down for use tomorrow—Preparations were made for 7am, but strangely, he was told to be in the foyer at noon. So on the way back to SE1 the gaps in Nick’s info were unsuccessfully filled and although he meant to, Omni did not have an early night.

193

RULE2# NEVER FALL IN LOVE WITH

FOLKSINGING LABLEMATES

The next day he made his way through the Criminopolis well-schooled on what could turn out to be either a coronation or an interrogation. He began to have that strange on the ropes feeling while eating breakfast at the table, but before long he managed down the oats and whey powder and at the same time did his daily morning card reshuffle. Since then he’d been thinking to himself, ‘Do like Bruce . . . play your cards right, just play those flippin’ cards right man’.

Along with the briefing the thought stuck, more or less throughout the whole morning, and they only began to fade when a short, plump, shampoo-smelling reception teamster led him up to the 37th floor, as a computerized female voice from the intercom did its best to reassure visitors . . .’ Welcome to Immortal Approach Village . . . For inquiries please blah blah . . . then blah’. Smooth, the elevator opened, to reveal a long walkway leading to a final door. As she knocked ahead, and then waited, innumerable sounds, hummed by, shuffles, between regular mumblings of workers, and keyboards being tapped, indicating use of further electronic diversions.

Now was showtime! Omni entered into a big smoky office; almost awe-inspiring it was, just like he imagined but somehow more . . . personalized. On flash was a series of paintings placed in eye-catching geometrix all along one wall, the most colourful of which being a more tripped-out interpretation of the Gammatec logo which lit up the urban skyline each evening. Mock-mahogany furniture with black safety trim laid to the left—for any timeouts and beverages, but most importantly, for those annual team meetings he loved so much; once trapping unfortunate employees in this room, being well within his remit to bark on such accused waggers or under-performance-heads.

Furnishings were surrounded by various frequencies of grey painted walls, a contrast behind apparent rainforest clippings, sprouted up on eight rows of shelf space, four on each side of the room. The other side

194

Celine Flux

was well-used, like some separate living space . . . hell . . . it seemed large enough, with its tell-tale sleeping bag rolled up and squashed between a tall book-laden cabinet, old, and menacing towards Omni from against the far wall.

He wanted to go checkout the books on the shelves, hopefully peaking interest and starting an exchange of impromptu communicate. Instinct attracted him over to the ample, stirring assemblage of ornamental publications on that side, no doubt giving him opportunity to isolate and degrade a few misleading historians in the process; (Needless to say, Omni fought the feeling).

Of course there was paperwork, sprinkled like snowflakes around the beefy replica-Oakwood desk where the sole occupant/interviewee, Mr Murphy sat; not as old as expected but still, of a real pencil neck variety—But that’s as far as the judging a book by its cover goes because Omni always made wrong calculations, thus learned the hard way, the real HARD WAY: Peep this following casefile study:

195

UNRECOGNIZED NATIONS MARKETED SO

WELL . . .! THINKIN’ A DEFECTING (NOT)

Once on a plane to Brussels Omni was talking crime with a Romanian-Flemish twang master from Antwerp—A real wet-look splinter-cell, subatomic-silicone-chip gadget user, with tantalizing fraud schemes. His briefcase had a great singing voice too, songs like “killer applications” and “fibre optical business illusions”. Omni played his cards on that occasion for high stakes but lucked-out and lost the bet (along with his possessions) winding up with an entrance wound, blindfolded face down on the pavement in a relatively smaller town called Gent six weeks later. And the moral of the story people, is this . . . When friendships with musket holders turn sour buy a vest . . . THEN A GUN!

196

JUST COOL, IN THE BUSINESS MR ERR . . .

IT WAS TOO EASY

‘Please take a seat Mister . . . Err . . .’ Omni interjected, ‘Ja, its Versal . . . Omniversal . . . and can I just say Mr . . .’ Mr Murphy interrupted with a distant grin, puzzled, after looking down at the servitude form. ‘Where did you say you were from again’? Omni noticed which part of the form he was looking at and tried prideful honesty.

‘Sir . . . I’m from, Three Veils of Darkness’. The reply did not register, Murphy, busy getting lost inside a “Shadowless Industries” mug, full of his favourite import fast running out; curvy Tunisian coffee.

Mr Murphy was a typical old school head-rolling upper-deputy manager with all those qualities needed to fill such an administrative post: Stubborn, consistently driven, to the point of being thoughtless to others while deluding himself into thinking he was fair, and easily excited, with superficial motivation off that milky freeze-dried form of caffeination which he is defiantly “nogh-bovvered” about.

The forty year long addiction, daily-drug-habit-having Mr Murphy, began to fumble around for a folder in the cabinet behind him, all hyped-up, jerking his wrinkled brow about, ‘Ah that’s great yea yea really great kid. Now . . . here’s what I want you to do for me okay’? He said this attempting to not look like what Omni—already succumbing to his inevitable pre-judging-mode—would wrongly deduce on the street as: either a stereotypical kerbcrawler, a typical dry-humoured Illumasha, or, an anorak-n-briefcase wearing thug’s target.

‘I want you Omni’ said Murphy, ‘to go undercover for me. My middle managers won’t suspect you . . . I hear you’d be perfect’. He threw the folder down in front of him. ‘Your job is to identify potential problem characters within this building . . . you understand me . . .? Nick told me you’d be good at that? So err . . . Propose some solutions, help me iron-out knobbly bits, these creases within UK headquarters . . . but I want presentations, and not you’re dismissing of Western philosophy OK . . .? No updates on excess carbon all up in the atmosphere, or

197

JuST COOl, in THe BuSineSS MR eRR . . . iT WAS TOO eASY

trapped underground and all that jazzfunk’. Omni seemed puzzled until Murphy confirmed, ‘Yes Omni, Nick did skim over your conversations yesterday in C-town, on that gondolier. So, based on that it seems . . . you could help.

I want you and him to do some sit-in’s for me, Gammatec barter-deals, get me some concessions on figures-agreements, so I can take those toe-steppers out over the road; They’d make a nice little company scalp to take upstairs to Shadowless Superiors . . .’ he held his tie flat to his wobble, then spun his chair 180 degrees to look out of the window overlooking the dense Tri-Kilo area. ‘With us as official big boys now, there’s more than one electro-commodity house out there that’d love to wave goodbye—pressing the flush lever if you know what I mean—all gleeful, then watch us sail away right down the drainpipe but you kid, must play your part in ensuring, that, does, not, happen’.

This ongoing decree though exciting without question, was interrupted by a muffled high-pitched sound from across the room. Sat straight now he swung his chair to the left towards the sound so he could get out, keeping a sideways glance on his monitor, ‘Ahhh, come on . . . I can’t believe this’! Torn between his activities Mr Murphy was by now well flustered; 07.45 and the interview had ground to a halt as pending calls flew into prominence from his squad of receptionists next door, eventually breaking his flow as he heard them.

Hectic since dawn—(apparently)—and crazy-snowed-in, he flung one arm toward the CPU, to make some sort of amendment on his keyboard, while sharp electronic binary-beeps continued to attach themselves to available ear canals. And now absorbed further, busy typing something of one kind or other it was just then, Omni wrongly considered the correct time to step in, first taking a sec to prepare. But on supplementary thought now that the interview deadline had caught up with him tabby had his tongue. He looked around the room to occupy himself, doing everything but tap his fingers on the desk or whistle. Mr Murphy there seemed oblivious, still reading the CPU screen intensely, with an increasingly preoccupied grillface.

Well actually Omni’s inspirational ideas hadn’t forsaken him at all; trans-3-dimensional-skullpulses were coming across the airwaves now, and thus, figured this moment instead would be the perfect time to make some sort of new improved impression; besides, he felt the need to find an opening and compensate for that “Three Veils of Darkness” gaff. So with invisible dice he took a short breath and proceeded.

198

Celine Flux

‘Umm . . . Mr Murphy . . .’? ‘Uh-uh’; thwarted again but this time, by the hand, demanding a few seconds heading over to correlate some other data, pulling his musty raincoat from under widewsheets, each unmanageable-sized leaf opened haphazardly over hypnotabloids on the coffee table, sound of a page received bolting out as he moved them out of the way.

Murphy plucked then strangled the upside-down beeper, awkwardly twisting round his head, gazing into the small interface, shouting furiously, ‘Nanccyyy!’ upon some hidden work-based realisation. Waiting for her delayed appearance he marched impatiently around one side of the room after stopping at the large window. One breathcycle or so later, still holding that thought he pulled at his collar strategizing something unknown, stroked his pressed nimbus-tone shirt and walked on, back to the other end of the room, less spacious, to fall into his broad, cold settee, pushing back obviously dyed hair.

‘Hey, hand me that remote over huh kid?’ Omni located the remote under desk papers and walked over to join him at the far corner of the room to the two, three, and single seater, also all covered with folders; last night’s company transits and printed A4’s. ‘Don’t just stand there son, take a seat’! Omni always hated taking orders from institutional authoritarian flyweights—(with arms too short to write prescriptions for demigods)—ever since school attendance, but nevertheless he cleared the single-seater and sat.

‘Gammatec Shadowless Subnano Systems’, declared Murphy, ‘It’s not so much a company, more like a community . . . OK?’ TV remote waved back and forth passed his face, closer than costly steamshaves, it became trapped in Omni’s sense-bubble that what he was about to sit through would amount to a further verbal beating from Mr Murphy, who talked now yet only had eyes for CNN-Parliament but, before long, Murphy worked his way down to the bottom line.

So thankfully after that spell of lambasting up cropped the undarmic nectar for Omni’s ears, with him, still, only half-looking, the rest of the time spent goofing at the TV screen. ‘Omni, OK . . . Whu . . . where did you say you were from again Omni?’ Omni just couldn’t resist. ‘Erm . . . from Azya’. As he answered he could see Murphy’s face once again going distant, a few tuts aimed at the telly, standing up now, about to walk around the coffee table over to the massive bookshelf, whimsically freestyling more honey which included . . .’ Listen . . . you, work, for us now’. He pointed his finger at Omni and then turned, flicking

199

JuST COOl, in THe BuSineSS MR eRR . . . iT WAS TOO eASY

rapido through papers on the double seater behind, wearing a slight grin of the mouth, as if he was about to hand over some razor sharp, ceremonial- induction, bushido-like envelope opener for—(a not really that easternly- principled to the point of controlling any willingness to slice off one of his own digits Omni)—to swiftly remove a pinky, top joint, Bank of Yakuza method.

‘I want you to take this to Nancy. Ah Jesus Christ . . . Nancy . . .!! Get your cigarette butt in here . . .! You see what I gotta work with’? Gruffed-up voice like Scorpio from Mortal Kombat, Mr Murphy broadened another grin, allowing Omni to take that question as presented—like a joke.

Nancy could be heard approaching from the tiny passageway between both rooms, from where things sounded pretty lively indeed. Initiated by suggestive hand gesture, both Mr Murphy and Omni, feeling far from invigorated, left the seating area to take some “should of had an early night” steps towards the door and, as they did, Omni nearing as Nancy came in, narrow-neck workaholic Murphy shouted ‘Hey’ with his hand extended. Omni somewhat mockhumbled and awed shook it the Irish way and followed Nancy to be introduced to members of the department, then through to be shown his own square metre floorspace of what he, quite rightly reckoned, constituted his hardly-an-office.

200

LISTEN, THAT ***** WAS DISSIN’

LISTEN, REWIND IT!

Every month or so Nick travelled down to Southshires with Vienna to stay with Aubrey; his bored, widowed Mother. Unlike his sister Niv whose bedroom remained virtually unused and unchanged, he loved deeply the option of having that old loft conversion to fall back on. Stripped of old toys, childhood posters and bedroom furniture, then extended and completely renovated, since his dad died he’d always pretended to be man of the house—now grown and protective of his fam nowadays even more so. Whenever he turned up, be it a few days notice or none at all, he’d just assume the vacant male post and his Mom would wait on him hand and foot, to rich best friend Natalya’s contained bemusement shrouding it in neighbourly village etiquette.

He exploits this fact of course, the same way he did when he was young, only now bizarrely, Aubrey serves him and any partner he ever had, presently Vienna, even more than years previous in a vain bid to regain time spent apart—This month was no different.

‘Just leave it in the oven, yea, sure, no no Mom, the traffics too bad, yea . . . so don’t stay up, I’ll just see you in the morning, Mom, OK? Can you hear me? Darn phone. Vee?’ he called out to Vienna wisely shutting down his (nowadays fine-worthy) phone activity, ‘Check under the dashboard for me, see if I brought the other keys’? She refused to move, maintaining her fed-up posture as Nick changed lanes. ‘Pleeease . . .?’

Animated, she fumed, patronizing, flipping down the lid with a sharp stare. Nick matched it quickly. ‘Just don’t Vienna’, He looked back on the road, ‘Not now’! Vienna flicked the dust off her tights, longish legs, bent, feet up on the chair, invisible nail powder potentially ruining the gloss around his pre-amped sound system.

‘I’m not gonna ill-out . . . No’, he thought squeezing the dashboard for dear life, trying not to climb the infamous Stairway To Bickerland, having both just established (through the blowing once more of microscopic nail particles via the heating fan, in Nicks direction!) that

201

liSTen, THAT ***** WAS DiSSin’ liSTen, ReWinD iT!

journeying up this Mountain, after those well-practised and ritualistic antics between them, meant it would be, obviously, his step next: (Here I once again welcome the reader of this scribe to the sucka-saturated emotional passion-realm for souls of mischief stuck on no man’s land, so, peep ethical high ground (ahem); The Ultimate Person be the only proprietor of all you pay doe for . . . lau them leaseholding cats wha-wah)!

202

DIE DRUNK

There was much to learn at Zone1’s tallest capital gains shrine Shadowless Towers, much for Omni to be aware of, to memorize and to take in. It became apparent that the actual job description was as a deputy, gratefully similar to Nick’s, awarded to Omni before he even knew he had it. Nick’s kindness and on-the-job explanations made it much easier for him to settle in. In Nick he’d found himself a mentor and naturally, over time, got to know a group of colleagues lacking the infamous disagreeable gene. As a consequence he regularly hung with them. The set included Neon, who worked over in another department.

She shuffled between there and the other ten Gammatec floors which were basically the mid-section of the tower.

Now, these two had emotional eyes on each other ever since they first met at the EC1 bar. Lunch was an exciting time, when the both of them would pinch a brief moment to throw gross and subtle messages back and forth. Constricted by uniform and “code of employee conduct”, the customary murky courtship lines at first could not be crossed, but only coz this was the beginning of his first declarable vocation and he didn’t actually know how to do it yet.

That’s where Nick came in; he continued to show Omni the ropes, introducing him to the established working system and how to appear to be using it. Over time, they became known as a sort of quiet but dynamic, Shadowless party-whip duo and for a long time Omni played his cards well by reading, disregarding and responding to all the particular right and wrong options.

Everybody he got on well with would help him out whenever they could but, of course, and as complex civilization always produces, there were a few associates his soul just did not take to. Regardless of those sharp edges and mundane office politics though, Omni began his first few seasons of work with lashings of youthful zeal, weaving in and out of the “community”, co-preparing elaborate consultations for Mr Murphy’s senior personnel, just like an MC gripping mic’s on some grimy basement PA system!

203

Die DRunK

By briefing the sub-committee every quarter-year he made sure things went as smooth as, and if ever he’d need any restricted info? He was instructed to just get in the lift, check this pencilneck Murphy, aka the Under-Deputy, and return with a tick in the box and a signature on the line. That Moorish sultan posture was reserved and assumed in the fitness bar after work; one of the few places where the so-called beautiful people showed their more uglier sides, although really, Omni only juxed in that classic pose because it was so bloody hard to stay awake!

* * *

204

ELIXIR OF INVISIBLE VIRTUE

The Geotrade Fair on the sub-continent slowly wound down. The phones had stopped ringing and all the halls, sub-halls, pitching stands and negotiating rooms were now concerned with breaking down rupees from eastern tigers into bank accounts of private eagles—Multiple seasons had stirred, settled, and moved along, to this land with its pre-monsoon, proto-Dravidian Friday heat. By now, the more financial-wind-beaten Omni was here, oversees with his colleagues, deployed as a sort of earpiece floor runner for the Gammatec sales team of representatives and by the end of the week, products and contracts were secured as foretasted and small fish had been swallowed up just as predicted.

The team left Omni with a-number-crunching Neon and went to celebrate the end of an unusually exotic working week. He rolled his sleeves back down after finishing off stacking the last of the boxes, and Neon, with her conspicuous pygmy eyes and potentially regal-baring outline, was completing the job of (ahem) rounding-off some figures.

Suddenly she looked over at Omni fastening his cuffs, brightened, as if she’d just received a fresh stream of consciousness. ‘Hey, let’s go over to Little England again’ she said with a creamy “could do with a drink” look. ‘You really love your comfort zones init?’ said Omni, reluctant to return to such a British pub in a tropical country, preferring instead the breezy bamboo shack on the coastline, ‘All those ex-pats and gap year students fluent in your language right? But OK’ he said blazer hooked on finger, ‘. . . whatever the lady wants. So, err, how long before you finish with that clipboard’? She initially replied raspy voiced due to her extended giggle, ‘Just gotta do these sums then that’s me finito’. That same old sensory-professional-line seemed to be moulding itself around them, giving any exchange from this moment on an air of sexual innuendo (if again, you’re receptive to that particular frequency).

Their conjugal weaponry began to secretly oscillate in tandem with the sub-supreme possibility.

‘OK . . . I’m feeling kinda grubby so I’ma go take a shower’. He said it with a simple smile, heading for the turnstiles and elderly security

205

elixiR OF inViSiBle ViRTue

men, then, in jest, he began to list with his fingers methodically while walking backwards, ‘I’ll go and quickly baby powder my abs, fold my wings out, preen my feathers . . . so on. You be in the lounge in 20. We can depart with style and toast a goodbye to Mumbai’!

A full thirty minutes had passed all too slowly and pygmy eyes, who overruled Omni’s advice, was waiting downstairs near a cocktail-mixing waiter and had run out of patience. She decided to leave the conference bar, brave the busy main convention centre floor and go over to the hotel to hurry Omni along.

The hotel was part of Tradesville and Omni’s floor exposed a fantastic view. She knocked the door. Naked, steaming, Omni ran from the shower to look through the peep hole. As he opened it she stepped inside. ‘Your lack of punctuality made me start the party without you Omni’. She then walked over to the large sheet of glass showing the late afternoon-tinged city, quick, slightly stunned by his Mohican-shaved pubic and pelvic area—It was struggle to keep her gaze on the assortment of red tops and glossy’s as she pilates-perched on the designer sitting bench. Appropriately drawn away she turned the subject to an article she’d just noticed in the Royal Geographic, about some gutless government-sponsored genocidal territory swallower’s on camelback:

These militia men were being paid to push back Indoprotoindigenous tribes of a neighbouring country, and the subject matter of this article caused a pain that nobody of relative intelligence was immune from (bar Taoists?) The topic had Omni voicing his passionate opinion from the bathroom, so they were aroused in more ways than one.

‘If we the masses were to try and bring it to the “machine” or what not, I doubt we’d win. It’s like that guy said in my favourite cyborg flick; people like me and you are supposed to survive Armageddon, not strap-on bombs and detonate it’! What was just said took paramount over the situation that presented itself so a towel-wrapped, electrified Omniversal, forever over-opinionated, began to get dressed.

‘Some people desire the mineral wealth and some back home where it’s supposed to matter, are impartial. But I make my stance knowing the whole temperature-zone’s praying for me . . . And you’! He threw down the moisturiser and reached for Neon’s hand, ‘. . . Full pockets won’t get our Atma’s to heavenly planets . . .’ then, firmly, he pulled her up to her feet.

206

Celine Flux

Ready, dipped-up now, smelling of extortionately-priced swine juice alongside other toiletries on an otherwise well-made bed, she locked onto his elbow as they stepped toward the tall tainted-glisten-door, both receiving that previous dart as truth disposable, Omni, withdrawn for a time, back to familiar sentimental soppiness, quietly battling sexy angels in consort regalia, one, the adulteress Mrs Therefore, barking at him through resonance dimensions . . . “Oi Maverick, don’t get too horny there will ya mate . . . coz . . . you know . . . techniques of enlightenment . . . they ain’t infinite!” all this happening within a casual footstep or two, still together, arm in arm, prepared now to close the massive door behind them, and bounce.

207

LIVE FROM THE GATED COMMUNITY

(WIDE OF THE MARK PT1)

It wasn’t long before a pen-pushing Neon and a freshly-squeezed Omni were making their way through the corridor to the elevator, passing a few formal, but uncomfortably dressed Agiotage Bond dealers snapping orders to overseas counterparts, their room doors flung wide open.

While waiting (like any normal person?) Omni’s eyes began to glaze over, again zoning-out to enchanting thoughts of . . . the warping of spacetime, and the ripple-effect of gravity (huh?). Dark memories of the more grimy side of streetculture now left behind and romantic feelings about the velocity of change also started to inevitably set-in. ‘Corners have sharp edges indeed’, he conceded to himself in a brief yet infinite, life-affirming moment cut short by the lift door breaching during the immeasurable amount of nanotime which had elapsed.

Back in so-called perceived reality, Neon appeared to have just finished laughing at her own joke but was actually thinking about how utterly infuriated her parents would be if she had a child with Omni—What a stir it would cause down the hill on the Southshires social circuit?

Their smiles turned to bewilderment as the two, in parallel, were now forced to negotiate a big airy foyer, having to march all the way through to revolving doors, via the platoon of street sellers who all appeared to be immune to the answer NO!, right through to the main street with rows of rickshaws and parked up old-school taxis. She was attempting to say something over the loud clamber of diggers and cranes down the way, unaware she wasn’t being completely heard. From his perspective, she was only going on about uninspiring girly politics and the night ahead (how wide of the mark was he eh?). Walking faster now, she practically dragged Omni by the arm, clearly anxious to fall back and get the slurping started.

208

STOP; THE OBSERVER CHANGES

PROPERTIES OF THE OBSERVED!

Dusk: By now as far as PLC plans, and skiving minds of Britanyan Geotrade workers were concerned, the weekend had officially begun!

The couple made their way inside. Most of the Gammatec team were already splashed out on leathers with other UK corp-ops, looking satisfied under large but slow-moving bronze-plated fans and enjoying the closure of an apparently profitable night; an evening in the night of a lively week; a moment in the life of (all relative to the observer you understand) of Omni and his neo-associates each drinking, exchanging ideas and stories with each other, including Omni, seeing a lot of, OK maybe a little of? . . . OK then maybe a hint of themselves, in him.

The firms expenses rider was taking a final beating and almost every rule around that could be broken (because of that special British kind of leeway which comes with being drunk and overseas with a highly desirable passport) was being pierced by almost all of the Gammatec mergers and supporting sales team, who had downed tools plus, downed a lot of xes-potion cocktails while Neon and Omni were engrossing themselves in par-casual conversation.

Rinsing it well for the evening, Neon had on a nice tight red shirt, leaving a touch of black as trim to promote rare quality—its deep richness—and open, thin mid-length chain accessory above, with utility-like white trousers down to mid-shin, loose fit at the base, but flexible further up to extenuate the shape of her seat and hips. A thick flap of material sown and buttoned onto the seat gave the impression of a rear pocket. The same illusion applied to the two front pockets.

Her hair was tied back, loosely enough to let out an off-setting pinch of hair which tucked and swerved down behind her ear. The three-quarter length trousers stopped, revealing shimmer pasted skin, giving the upper calf and feet a salivating sheen-like appearance to any rivals that may notice—you know, those other hyper-groomed females who’d walk by each rush hour back home—They’d hopefully snarl

209

STOP; THe OBSeRVeR CHAnGeS PROPeRTieS OF THe OBSeRVeD!

materialistically at her Manolo Blah Blah Blah’s—limited edition shoes that cut the heels but were beautiful in the extreme, and begun their foot coverage only from the toe crevices, leaving the sole of the shoe bridging the whole thing together until you get to the heel which was mid-height but pointy; a lot of the foot was visible, but funny enough, not much of the expensive shoes!

Omni, still in conversation, looked up at the lamps, searching for inspiration to clarify his latest out-of-the-blue opinion. ‘What I really want from a woman Neon, and not many singletons long-term want this . . . is help . . . shedding light on the origin of man’. Her brow looked puzzled but Neon’s lips, they smiled wide. He couldn’t interpret the response, he didn’t dare, yet asking instead, swinging a metaphorical dustpan and broom, ‘So, I mean, does the subject make you wanna order shots from the bar or does it bring up even vague interest’?

Working near him for long enough now, she already knew which things got his goat, and he wasn’t talking like this was a date or anything.

‘Everyone has crusades Neon . . . and I project . . . some people have similar ones’. He explained himself, serious opmode, detailing through ideas suggesting if he should even bother floating, them; the worlds wackiest chat-down lines. ‘I’m not sure if I’d label my discreet crusade pursuance of harts or minds . . . maybe . . .? Hunger’s a great motivation and that’s what it all boils down to’.

Such inner pictures of these, painted governing outer dynamics, with considerable effort, over lifelong impulses to lau it, described at the speed of nearby slowjazz for what seemed like no ears but theirs, kinda fuzzy off the liquor Omni took his eyes off the tumbler, and after the tripolemix of, failure of the state, motivation, and, innate self-correction, he saw in Neon’s gaze through the evening pastime, recognizable, what he years back termed “conditional reachability”, softly approaching; mild, still earnest, psychobabble darts, by grace of the complete whole, thrown well, lodged on her spreadboard.

Almost breathtaken, shocked, inspired to come fourth, he drew another picture, borrowed images this time, and proof to him that the first treehugger to fall in love with him, was, in fact right, ‘Sometimes, I just feel this Third World we move in back home, is some straight circus, and Zone1’s the Big Tent, the Main Arena . . . You know what I mean’?

Ultimately, she did agree with his previous points, and earlier still, when proclaiming, he reckoned, contemporary government think-tanks

210

Celine Flux

were just dry speculators, because they, unlike the so-called barbaric countries didn’t keep the most high in mind when performing their social servitude. Actually they made it seem like they too, saw the whole “infra-space god-thing” as a huge inconvenience—all usually perceived as self-righteous pretentious garbage and always would be by intuitive opposition (That’s if such an isolated regime “out there” exists tho, right)?

211

YEA, I GET IT, BUT I DON’T RATE IT!

(WIDE OF THE MARK PT2)

Believe it or not this gambling man’s digressive rant was more than just an attempt to impress Neon, who, during the course of the evening, and with a more miscellaneous dialect, seemed to be saying similar things. That’s what he originally dug about Neon: You see, Neon’s late night dream also, was something like a flute on the beach but like most of corporate Breton PLC she could never declare it, and she did for the most part anyway, seem to dig Omni’s wavelength too. And that’s another thing about Omniversal:

Omni, born with the answer—till the question changed—was from that new question onwards, raised with a big, politically black (but on closer inspection, as mentioned, factually brown) chip on his shoulder, and a M.W.A.—monkey with attitude—on his back. Like approximately 84% of people (ask the Office of National Statistics then!) he believed karma had earned him a bad hand, including when he left himself open, meeting the invisible Mr H Ard Luck. Even at age eight, he told his shrink he felt he had the weight of the world “and all matter that exists in this dense 3rd dimension which must be observed through anti-physical comprehension” (thanks Robert Digital) pressing down on his tiny neck girdles.

Nowadays, blaming these shortcomings on personal neglect—the definition of maturity—he salutes three-piece wearing contractors, who may or may not choose to call him brother, thinking (and justifiably so) thoughts like . . .’ Yes, I know smoking clogs the arteries . . . Yes I know who didn’t build Stonehenge and yes . . . you would vote sky-blue next election but really, given a chance to shine, few could do it better’!

Nevertheless, for such persons corners have sharp edges and it’d be wise for Omni to watch what he leans on (Now where’s that bloomin’ sandpaper)?

212

RELIGIOUS UPGRADE FOR

THE SEXY SAVAGE

The mobile rang like a woodpecker in nesting season while Omni lingered near random dreamland, round to sobriety’s breech, thinking . . .’ Me . . .? Nah . . . couldn’t possibly manage without my trusty slave there . . .’—then, in pain and awake, more immediate thoughts like . . .’ O bizzollocks . . . I should have drunk more water . . . bloody hell, gonna have to start leaving this alcohol lark to the punters . . . Six pints a day, damn, hat no longer fits . . . It always impairs my judgement but oh no, I never learn . . . Anyway how the heck did I get in this room . . .? And where the hell are my trousers . . .’?

Outside was still dark, but the streets sounded like they were gearing-up for a new morning and as the toilet flushed in the bathroom, that familiar regal shadow slid across to the corner of the bed. Adjusting his eyes to the light saying ‘Ra’, from the sun, Omni winced mechanically, asking ‘Beg you pass my trousers’ while still virtually blind. Neon did so with a pre-emptive grin.

He rustled around in his trouser pocket and opened a text he’d received early that morning reminding him to be at the airport at midday.

Heavily drowsy, oscitant, trying to pace, measure his motion, thinking through the upcoming day (plus recovering from liquid drug abuse) he mapped out his morning incorporating lots of percolated water, and some final arrangements, woozily watching the jerky breath for a few seconds trying urgently to recall the previous night.

Meanwhile Regal Shadow was packing up her stuff in preparation for the return flight. She threw on an airy dress comprising of two thin fabrics, one perforated and wind-pervious, and the other which made up, like, eighty percent, partly suggested her skin, with two accessories; a thin decoration style mock-silver bracelet, accompanied by a middle finger ring with an opaque pale blue stone inside a mounting circle of white metal—Sharpedged no doubt, Neon always scrubbed up well.

213

ReliGiOuS uPGRADe FOR THe SexY SAVAGe

She, Nick and Niv were practically raised together, on a few acres that ran down right beside and along some farmland-come-playground.

Their houses were far enough apart, both placed on one side of a steep hill, un-tilled, and partly owned by an insular tribe of villagers (late-pass heritage, downplayed Danish blood) which included parents; consisting of Natalya, Neon’s Mother of half-Bangladeshi, so-called lower-upper-caste stock—Aubrey lived alone further down the hill and their lands met in the middle. Although the kids delighted in massive gardens that together joined onto woodland and fields, all three of them freely gooning around on it for years, their mothers only became friends after Nick and Niv’s father caught a heavy medicine ball named angina, then a few strokes, and finally passed away leaving Aubrey to raise Nick and Niv by herself.

Both mothers were now an ageing airbrushed-n-tucked couple, and also a wasteful wife and widow, but great friends, with levels of sophisticated appreciation which stopped at their passionately celebrating, Natalya’s travelling to view, her husband Burtrand sponsoring her collecting, and Aubrey’s painting of, meaningless forms of art. All three were unaware the political history and cultural waves they found so interesting, and its pinnacles, bouncing back and forth across continents for hundreds of thousands of ice ages now (that’s millions of solar orbits Tibet), although merely a couple hundred or so renaissance-years old, were only stargates to the supreme subject, and answer, that drives those born with pre-innate righteousness (Dispute please)?

Happy in the matrix-border of nonmeaningful artforms along with the band of society that stay entranced by supposed par-human gestures, Natalya, Burtrand, plus Aubrey further down the hill, enjoyed their exclusive lifestyle, community, and sense of ownership like infants, apparently unaware of the opportunity afforded by such material positions.

Natalya herself was raised and badly anti-cultured by a colonial teaching academy on the sub-continent diced up by de-humanizers, which didn’t really rub off on Neon, well past, maybe, a bit of the queen’s twang—A nice enough semi-civilised lady still, with a snooty confidence from the digibank, warm and charming to all on her tier or who acted as such.

The duality with Neon’s mother Natalya was, she, also financially independent, had too much, and she knew it. Her heart was in the wrong

214

Celine Flux

place and of course, there being only one thing that subtly separates people?, she never even knew that. (Tibet, here’s two things apparent . . . one source: background radiation and background irritation, when you mature to the level of detecting both, try to study the former).

Natalya and Burtrand together were a loud and misguided couple of partly active UKippers via conservatism. Burtrand’s fam-fam were “even older money stabeeze”: He spent most of the eighties smoking cigars and whispering under broadsheets in Carltonian House corridors, perfecting the theory of inflation then practising the art of off-loading stocks with optimum timing, many grade-levels above the enlightened number “33 alignment” ( . . . Steady on there Youngrey!) After declaring bankruptcy late in his career, he hopped on the wagon and lost the weight, re-inventing his lifestyle into the last of the freemélange eccentrics.

Their loud delivery and stiff philosophy infuriated a young and rebellious Neon who made her escape from the grip of what, as a teenager she thought was pompous xenophobia of cultural eye-blinks but, as she grew into a juicy rose, her burntface-outer-crust accent stayed.

As soon as that gap year came she leaned on her single-minded streak, disappearing with her pack back for what turned out to be a decennium:

In Melanesia she was tattooed by a Maori shaman. While working her way across Amerazya she grew blonde dreadlocks and returned home from the “Bright Continent” on the equator with one too many piercings.

Now still juicy at thirty-three, all the signs of self-sufficient counter culture no longer bubble-up to the surface, although her vegetarianism and other jungle-green motives defiantly remained.

215

THIS AINT FOR THE CONVERTED

Back in England Mr Murphy was under pressure. As co-controller of the Gammatec floors which took up practically the whole middle chunk of Shadowless Towers, the aforementioned area was his domain to crack the whip over, and worst still, he felt no way about reminding his employees of this. Above the workfloor, Mr Murphy’s job was to come-a-running with answers whenever the bigger monster-house of Shadowless Systems said to him weekly “Feed me Murphy, feed me Gammatec”! Mr Murphy then in turn would echo those same sentiments by sending relevant instruction down the Cuban linx of Gammatec command.

The org-monsters main staple food, taken up and submitted on sterling trays, satisfying the appetites of this long desk of self-appointed Shadowless Overbosses along with their translators, took the form of progress reports, which were like the proteins in their incessant diet of cybah-money. Now not just money to, I don’t know, maybe buy a small plot of land, where you could become virtually self-sufficient and immerse one’s true self in the effulgence of scientifically-recognized spiritual anti-matter for example, oh no no no! this was a diet born of, something innocently juvenile when approaching the point of death, something called, trade, for profit, to satisfy twelve accounts in twelve unrecognised borders, or to satisfy a sense of achievement, or a sense of passing something on, therefore reigning for a few generations, supposedly that was the traditional plan, more money, which is earning one’s person more and more money, enough to get you into the pseudo-satisfied-Aires club, which comes with, I guess, a sense of, I don’t know, inclusion, maybe momentary satisfactions (huh)?

Anyway, alongside proteins on the plate, would be receipts and returns, which they would serve as the complex-carbs in the meal, and finally the stock-spring water just north of all the expensive china, would nourish and hydrate Overbosses like aqueous plant based minerals.

216

WOOLF DELIVERING BARBEROUS RACES

TO THE BLESSINGS OF CIVILISATION

Meanwhile, downstairs, broad minds deflected like flint off each other at the monthly company-possessions prep meeting. Lanky Peter shined like an Olympic gold medallist, loving his job, sat pigeon-chested towards the Gammatec flag on his podium. He—reliable as always—returned most of the quick-fire suggestions flying intensively back and forth across the floor, where all attending were forced to sit. No one but Peter enjoyed this annual unfolding of beady-eyed competition in their empty, corporate-cold design of the largest of the Shadowless Cognipods.

The females took advantage of the view, placing their “funky” cushions near the windows while guys—including the distracted Omni—were more impressed by the indoor view; This way for both parties, the ambitious point-scoring and pointless planning of different themes—while Omni and Neon sitting sort of together—tummies rumbling away demanding satisfaction—made the time pass by much faster. Before you knew it though, lunchtime for everyone had thankfully arrived.

So began the usual few-year-long ritual of eating out at the Shadowless-subsidized Oniansmiths Conservatory and sports field—in the vast south-wing of Immortal Approachville—to take advantage of the warmest spell of the year. Scores of overrated and overpaid from the Classified Equity Sector were out, behaving noticeably more limited than usual due to the relentlessly pounding heat—Nick, Omni, Neon, and the by now well-established work gang were engaged in generic chit-chat, facing the tall shimmering Smithsonien pillars, all the more prominent under such strong sunlight, darkening the brow of those to first send culturewaves round the medbasin (uh . . . who?).

‘No Nick . . .!’ came Peter’s reply while laid flat on the parched grass, soil hardened, partly exposed beneath, ‘. . . not unless you flunk or catch only two Eaton A-levels like Prince Harry. You can’t even think about it, never could. Radical politician . . .? No way. Well put it like this . . .

217

WOOlF DeliVeRinG BARBeROuS RACeS TO THe BleSSinGS OF CiViliSATiOn

yes way . . . if you want to get your head blown off with subsidised bullets’!—These were Peter’s own personal findings (but from exactly where who knows); the basis of his current lunchtime dismissal, sunshine beating his styling gel, and brow, dragging fingers across to protect them and see properly—‘Besides’, he then added, ‘. . . whatever manifesto you dare stand upon a soapbox and declare, wouldn’t have the cameras swooping round like you’d wish—not quite “national interest” enough. I mean if the fodder in your newsagents is considered easyreading- syrup-turned-chip-paper, then, even slightly radical opinions from a perceived “rad party”, won’t be sweet enough to attract the flies, as such; unlike this soft drink I’ve got here . . . Sh-t . . . I’m filing for harassment’! Peter continued to inform Nick, but then was forced to stop—inconvenienced by a fly with only a season long life-span. ‘. . . But I hope I get this overtime though . . .’ He cranked up again, referring this time to cash problems while drawn into another attempt to “bring it” to his airborne and more agile opponent, ‘. . . my outgoings seem to be increasing every month—Not even sure how I’ve been coping lately’!

Nick chowed-down on his sandwich all this time, sat forward, listening to Peter drop fiscal-manipulation-science, then politics, and now, back to talking shop. ‘. . . What, with you yanking me across town wearing that drinking-buddies coat? Let’s not forget all your schemes you try and set me up with . . .? Huh . . . I should be setting you up Nick’!

Mostly oblivious until she left lunch early-off to complete a quick errand—Omni and Neon were smooching nose-to-nose falling in and out of the sun-drenched debate. When she left Omni went to the bin and returned sitting down near Peter. Five Zone1 heartbeats later Nick, curious, and quite randomly, asked how his legs were—It was the wrong question to ask. When he noticed this, he then asked how things were with Neon. ‘You’d better be treating her right’ he half warned in jest, knowing her, her mother, and more importantly in this case, her jetsetting father so well; Their relationship by now was more than that (a relationship), considered old news by eternally interested Taiwanese whisperers who entertain themselves in this fashion amongst relevant work rooms.

A car drove by playing loud rap music. It altered the conversation slightly over to include music in general, which Omni couldn’t resist zooming into after being put into abstract mode by Nick and Peter, talking

218

Celine Flux

with him, Neon, and the others, about things as random as Vienna, and her middle-men’s cybah-harassment from the ever-encroaching

731, which kinda bewildered Nick who assumed Vienna OK’d all their aggressive actions, then once more freewheeling the conversation right over to Peter, looking at Omni rubbing those mildly irritating legs and sharing his own past injuries: So, from eating in the park and Omni lounging with his girlfriend, thoughts drifted, and again other personally crucial moments of everyone’s old life reappeared.

Omni’s mood changed. ‘Yeah’, he said a while later in response, embellishing a version of inconsequential past events, but to his mind worth spitting. ‘Man . . .’—Although it was an unwelcome visit he paused; Mr Spiteful Regret made his way to the stagelobe to help weave-in to this unfolding story, a jagged poem. ‘. . . It was probably the most costly of my many mistakes as a post-graduate rapper . . . employed on the strength of crowd galvanizing ability’. Nick and Peter knew nothing but the scary negatives of rap—(you know, the sex, money, drugs and murder propelled by afro-Caribbean/Amerindian poverty)—so every time Omni reminisced on his various invites to partake in the music, that Omni witnessed (at first hand as part of the movement), get held to ransom by hatred, Nick, and especially the unrepentant rock music lover Peter, were almost always curious to know why he didn’t get back on that particular wagon—(like Farysomnia ain’t the only messager from god—only now I think I know what she’s trying to say Tibet)!

219

HANGING MY WASHING OUT THERE

LIKE JERRY MAGUIRE

‘Looking back’ he said, ‘there’s always a moment. Whatever pool you swim in there’s always that defining moment. There’s always that old problem of exposure to an acquaintance’s despicable musical persuasion, for too long a period, and on the other side a plate full of a flame, rapidly starving of oxygen, and its name is digicash’! Nick and Peter could relate to that, both briefly musing more personalised angles, yet, understanding the universal matter-bound dilemma of acquaintances and exposure. ‘And guys, there’s more than one set of acquaintances in this tale’. Omni pointed it out scratching his head, trying to pull the memoir through his scalp follicles.

‘I mean it weren’t no client-based brotherhood system or nothing. But I did give my word. Plus, I knew it was gonna be a long night, at a time when I thought life was a complete waste of time’. He continued on. ‘See, I, I was invited, once, to backup, let’s say a more established artist at the Sovereign in Camden, dingy but reputable, and when I sound-checked, left to eat, and came back to act the knucklehead—permanently in character you see—I saw another affiliate artist. In fact, I got on better with him than the guys I was employed by, and I wanted to hang with him but was made to feel like I couldn’t. So what did I do’? Nick and Peter looked at each other, plausibly flummoxed, ‘. . . I did what any other twenty-five year old would do with a rider to exploit . . . got drunk’! Picturing in his mind a spiritual ally made after soundcheck, Omni enjoyed the punchline and smiled, finger tapping his cheek with an air of nostalgic musings for she, who added Scotch to the beer, and begged him for a zoot in exchange for a cassette of Courtney Love’s Hole-Oui, unaware of such grungy music, Omni was forever changed by the album:

Neon, out of sight now, hugging one knee like it was she, with Tri Kilo finance nerds struck by complimentary sunrays walking by, he remembered songs from that cassette, and recreated the night, positioning

220

Celine Flux

specified individuals behind the bar: engineers, other working staff, grubby grey zip-up hoodies (that Omni because of them can no longer wear!) busy in pre-show prep-work, honing light, and sound equipment, as distinctively dressed punters, trickled, then heaved-in, before Omni and co—(including, strangely, a label-employed bodyguard)—had all returned from the restaurant. Like the whole club scene of overpopulated Camden, inside laid moist and smoky black walls, and a stage area, housing chrome mic’s for more poorly-funded acts. The atmosphere recalled under Omni’s wig initially excited; which he tried to hold and then mythicate.

‘So as the crowds—who don’t appreciate rap as such, rather, just appreciate good music—gathered on the dance floor, And remember, I was young, and submerged, immersed, entangled, trapped in hip-hop . . . So much so that it infects anyone interested! And that’s exactly what I was employed to do for the crazy Camdenite rockers, who used to dig the rap-attitude too, before it got racist, and the core question of class got strangely suppressed, leaving only the superficiality apparent nowadays and “The Unqualifieds” somehow holding mic’s, saying a little about something, but, not of supreme interest’. Nick finished his box of food and closed it, tuning further into Omni’s tale of compromise.

‘So when the time for our midnight set came up there was no doubt what I was gonna do—do what I always do when confronted by a sea of grubby drunken students stretching back to the bar—Give’em the improvised crazy rocker show huh . . .?

So anyway, after the set, we were taken into a room beside the stage floor where engineers snow-ski’d on old chairs smelling of rancid beer, and VIP’s tried to look like I should recognize what genre-planet there so-called importance came from. I looked over to see my musical peer and entourage who remember, unlike the others, I’d been on actual record releases with. He was fixing up his performance wares in preparation to go on soon after the current set, so quite naturally he suggested I should stay and bless the stage again with him. Why not . . .? I thought. It beats going home to an empty flat in SE1 feeling like I’ve given away a piece of me I can never get back’!

Contemplating, Omni continued. ‘You see, the touring band I came in with had two DJ’s, one of them freelance with solo gigs worldwide;

DJ’ing pays his mortgage. He advised me not to compromise my standing with the so-called group leader—him with an eagle eye for detail and a stickler for correct servitude. But I was Defisis, (the rap

221

HAnGinG MY WASHinG OuT THeRe liKe JeRRY MAGuiRe

speng), and stoned in various ways, which made any thought of possible impropriety on my part simply laugh out loud funny to me.

So I went off and did my thing—the same thing I always did after a set, in damn near every nightclub in Northwestern Europe—I mingled in the crowd: deceiving them and myself, looking for acceptance, acting like the glittered-out rapstar that no-one could really prove otherwise, but only this time, I did so until I heard my name.

The whole thing was being recorded by a midget-man for XYZ FM so to hear the host introduce my associate, up next, and now him—my peer—single me out from the crowd like this, it was the ultimate in sense gratification; the great motivator.

Well anyway, on the way to the stage me and midget man got talking and of course, it didn’t seem selfish at the time, it felt like I was just accepting another invite caused by my acting the virile slave on stage, I mean, it was all for the chance groupie girl attracted to danger at the end of the night right?; the “ultimate distraction”.

I thought the group had already left after we got paid but, I was wrong; and having more fun on stage with the second set than the first, it was being noted by my then employees. When I noticed, it hit me, and as I said, looking back now? That was the moment—the main moment of a few. It wasn’t no bust-up at the airport or nothing, where you’re forced to pick sides, but I did ad-lib some of the set with the cat, at a price.

But like they say, you never know who could be in the crowd watching!

There were many off-shoots from that mercenary work but the question is though; How can one take full credit for one’s tiny victories, knowing at any time your original employer can turn around and say “. . . If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t even have that other job”!

So coming to The Big Smoke to be an entertainer—basically a battery-slave showing teeth like a jester—elevating through association, then battling like a crab in a rusty tin can—forced into taking orders from unauthorized sources, uncertified producers and other outdated types—saying . . . something, OK of course, but saying nothing of long-term interest—really does go against the genetic grain. In retro, to quote that Tom and Cuba reel-to-reel, “It was a backstage till dawn, pride-swallowing siege that I can never ever really tell you about”! I tried though, I did everything asked and expected of an up and coming, too-hardcore-a-rapper. Now I know how Saddam must have felt as an

222

Celine Flux

assassin for the CIA at only 15, trying to get a piece of the pie, hanging washing out there like Mr Maguire . . . And actually, now I think about it, “If I could go back I never would have rapped”‘!

Omni’s story took the canvass of everyone’s mind far. When he returned from his aureate rococo thoughts, Nick was truly prepz’d-up by brush strokes willingly slashed upon his sacred dome section, so too, was Peter.

223

MAYA (OUR TEACHER) SPITES

ONE’S BEST INTENTIONS!

Peter’s a good guy, real “chill like that”. He and Nick always looked out for freshman Omni, and not just at work either. Lanky Peter graduated from Swinechester University in 91’ majoring in Mid-High-Technical Quantum Company-Mechanisms. During work hours at least, he would play his role well as the Ironfist component of Nicky’s Galvatron-like troop, spending all his time swapping, catching, security-screening then screaming down cell phones before throwing them to someone else.

Peter’s brilliant at calculating spreadsheets—that’s his thing—for some reason only he and Lord Govinda knows, he really enjoys it! Always submersed in playing his Omni-pod, after years of training his ears, he chose to follow Recessive-rock—his selected music genre—right up to its final death in the late eighties, staunchly refusing to quit listening.

These days he absorbed the ageing playlist of MP3’s secretly willing himself into the form of a puffy haired rockstar like the ones he idolized as a kid.

Outside his job, usually at air-guitar venues, Peter was rather calm, careful, and just obedient enough not to get ejected, but at work . . . he was manic, going all-out, only stopping at lunch to discreetly crush gohardpills into his sandwich.

Known back when he was young as the vaguely better looking twin, and slightly too old for styling gel, Ironfist always wore his out-dated graduation waistcoat underneath a tatty blazer and truly lived on planet private finance, born to a well-to-do workaholic mother and non-apparent father, but somehow or another, of nicely mixed pre-Japanese and pre-Canadian stock. Now thirty seven, apparently grown knowing no one ever finishes growing, and married with a cherished daughter, the never-meeting-his-father-thing, in a highly intricate sense, perforated his development. This is why he stayed lost in corporate Breton, to escape that inwardly glaring and most principle issue dogging his existence which is portrayed to the reader as such.

224

APPLY SNOWFLAKES TO

MACROMINICOSMS

At age sixteen just before starting college Peter’s revered mentor and uncle broke the news to his more emotionally resilient brother that, during the height of the feminist movement, his mother had been flown to Japan to be part of the non-government funded “Modern Lesbos Project” where she, amongst many others, had agreed to have children without the assistance of any men via artificial insemination. When Peter found out all this from his brother David, he carried something of an automatic-denial issue into the next chapter of his life.

So over a long duration—being locked in the ignorance sphere regarding this excusably overwhelming and bewildering information—it totally shattered his world view, which in turn created a great deal of self-turbulence in adulthood whenever he paused for any length of time.

The expectation of being “the successful one” kept Peter and his brother David apart for many years now. Because of their differing ideals and principles they’d never gotten on too well so, when Peter and David were occasionally together, they threw darts at each other’s egos like only twin brothers could.

On the way home early that afternoon Peter bumped into David, predictably up to no good in Leicester Square with his unfamiliar squad of wisefaces. They greeted with their unique and customary decades-old resentment, which was mutual.

David let it be known through a series of time-consuming confessions that he and his latest line-up were on the rise with what he’d already concluded, were new airtight schemes of grandeur, in addition, incorporating some “selective swipes” from those caste-obsessed Zone1’ers, which he charged with being proprietors of obscenely unethical display cabinets, ripened now for the grey market, reducing world heritage papers down to sh-t paper in the process. He also proclaimed proudly

225

APPlY SnOWFlAKeS TO MACROMiniCOSMS

that the latest addition to his criminal paraphernalia behind him, all rugged, in beastskin tanktops, tattoos, reassembling phones and a few mocking passersby in Dutch, included a fleet of would-be Euro-Rastas straight outa Rotterdam!

Aware the story would be—as always—far from impressive, Peter quickly asked David about the apparent mark slowly bubbling-up and erupting on his face. While Peter resisted the urge to give additional inspection he replied, explaining it was from being inappropriately pistol-whipped in front of his girl by a female officer during a sting operation, in which his “connected” solicitor, who, only that morning, had turned a persuasion-trick on the crooked-I judge and luckily for David, was skilled enough have bail granted with a release from his excessively long remand sentence: The fact by the way, that he never met his Dad, he said, had no influence on him going off the tracks and becoming labelled as “unemployable” after his second bird—No on the contrary;

He said, he’d observed London closely; it had regressed into a zoo, and in this age of bickerland only “street rules” apply—everywhere—and they applied even to the office.

‘Look . . . my biochemistry informs me Peter . . . that I ain’t, in any form an orthodox 9 to 5’er’! With this he ended his rant and changed tact, to which a typically unimpressed Peter for now had to suffer. ‘Okay, you don’t agree, I know. I can see it in your face that you, a onetime so-called intellectual academic type, right now, act like you don’t comprehend what I’m speaking on but hear me out before you hail your cab alright bro . . .? Okay . . . listen’. With protruding jaw muscles tensed, Peter gritted his teeth while David stepped in close to continue.

‘So one stormy night in a bar right, me and my crew did a lucrative transaction with this protective-leather-wearing-biker-type-gang from Baymouth, out in the West Country. The leader of this gang wore platinum teeth-braces carefully shaped into vampire fangs, tryin’a display the fact he was merciless. He wore his long hair in a relevant style too,

12-inch vinyl black, his clothes and everything jet black like . . . like the omniverse. After the deal went down we ordered drinks and one of the dreads in my squad asked him what’s up with all the black . . . Was he a Goth or something’? Here David began to explain—in that real abstract pothead sort of way—telling Peter that this guys appearance was essentially the result of fatherhood. ‘Whu-what . . .??’ questioned Peter, impatiently looking at his cellphone. But David—behind his own

226

Celine Flux

eyes—was making perfect sense so he moved up a gear to conclude this cautionary tale.

‘Yea, his Dad’s the reason for his dark look Peter. Alright listen up; it goes a little something like this (hit it). Check this out. You see his dad?

His dad was from the political apartheid period of South Africasia, way before Mandela was freed, schooled military-style and programmed at birth to hate purple people. But as his son grew up on the other side of the world and learned that his father was wired-up all wrong, he figured out during adolescence, that he would, at all costs, grow up to be like, an emotional soldering iron or something, to adjust his elderly fathers way-outdated imperialist wiring. So to piss him off the son began to dress like Dark Varda: The geezer grew up and started listening to Van Anthrax, loud, and dyed everything he owned black’! David clenched his fist, profound mini-dramatics, but slow, pressing his knuckles against Peter’s jarred and spiking heart.

‘Peter what I’m trying to say to you is, even if we had a father growing up, who’s to say he wouldn’t be a butt-wipe now, eh . . .’? They hadn’t noticed the dip in traffic and that most of the entourage, hangin’ tight, smokin’ ziggys and leaning against the wall behind them, had heard almost everything and were irritatingly giggling away.

Therefore David, (still in hardnut café mode) swiftly moved the conversation on. ‘So when was the last time you went to Swinechester’?

Peter answered with increasing irritation, checking his cell once more to calculate his impending ETA while responding. ‘Let me guess, you’re feeling guilty because you won’t be there for Christmas again, right David’? David frowned, flagging down a cab just before again reminding Peter he hadn’t seen their mother in years and still deemed them not on speaking terms, because, as he knew, she withheld information he believed was an unwarranted attempt to mess-up their heads, unwittingly or not. ‘Look . . . I gotta go David’.

The cab pulled up, then pulled off, and a few moments later Peter slouched back into his cab seat sensing he lost their prolonged ribbing-competition. Through the window, David, trying to look important shouted out, ‘OK so, gimme a call’. So the cab grumbled on down Leicester Square, passing multiple screens and pictures flashing above the old hotel on the corner. The Continental Neotec Holdings League scrolled below. Here he briefly glimpsed Wirecom, and 731/

227

APPlY SnOWFlAKeS TO MACROMiniCOSMS

Meastro with who he was now engaged in some surreptitious festivities, including Vienna’s thumbs-up; this reminded him to call Nick.

On an equally accelerative note him and David had been dragging this rival twins nonsense out for too long now, and Peter’s Thetan, unsure where to begin the sequence of blame in his reactive mind, often wondered how brotherly love came to this? Nevertheless, us subtle heads already know, that corners like these have sharp edges—(Any more sandpaper)??

228

Celine Flux

THE SUCKA-FREE SUCKA AND

THE QUIET DESPERADO LASS

The blackened melting cauldron that was Zone1 bubbled, as if some industrial furnace was beneath, propelling heat and responsible for seemingly aimless flux. It was winter; the cold was classically overcast, restricting, and region-wide. Another year of fruitive labour and its variable effects had passed. Omni and Neon were celebrating the renewal of the solar calendar, (along with three million others) on Embankment Bridge to usher in a neo-millennium and unbelievably, they seemed to be the only ones who thought to bring music!

The mood of anticipation seemed anxious because of the earlier bomb threats blocks away, where some elderly skulls had got crunched.

The surrounding congregation slowly swarmed through the streets until Omni wound-up back on Blackfriars Bridge Road, playing DJ with his boom box held high, and Neon on his arm. Rouge iceskaters balled near the banks of the river Engle beneath them which had been zenfro since around the month of Sagitura. All within earshot looked borderline yobbish; everybody in spite of this though appeared up for a good time.

But the unified ambiance was short-lived.For now (till premature death later parted them) ordained by Neon’s

love Omni felt positively invincible. He found himself, currently, playing the good guy along with some others, after a series of crowd surges created by this general sense of heightened suspicion.

When he heard some of what sounded like subterranean groans of injury on the floor, he followed instinct and took matters into his own hands with some inebriated bystanders, pulling down a few restrictive fences, and, with one eye on Neon nearby, assisted in lifting some of the injured onto wheelie bins. The impending countdown was now unstoppable though, and as the critical time drew agonizingly near things started to once more calm down. Omni, trapped in processional sentiment, casually began to observe thousands upon thousands of faces,

229

including when she smiled at him, Neon’s. As he stood there, looking into her blameless eyes, Omniversal felt like everyone and everything in existence had become faint, delicate, subtly romanticized. He unconsciously unfolded his wings as he ducked to kiss her, handing over as much as he could, like . . . he was kissing “the first female created entity” (but O.A.A.M)?

Thirty seconds left; and because Omni knew Gregory the Calendar Inventor did his calculations slightly wrong—but made allowances for—he tried verbalizing his terrible humour, making sure as many people as possible heard. ‘Romulus is coming for me you know mate!’ he said to the goof beside him, pretending to look at his watch with a cheeky grin ‘. . . Oh, is that Osiris in his Enochian-Kemetic starship coming to scoop me up?’ The idea behind these slick remarks was to simultaneously stimulate thoughts in the spiritual allies nearby and frighten the living daylights out of any spiritual foreigners that may be listening.

The boombox now strapped to Omni’s back had the Golden Arms Redemption album ringing, as loud as possible, just as the final ten seconds ticked down. Sparked by such monster truck melodies Omni felt himself arrested by a quaint notion; something suddenly occurred to him; after romance, then of course deviance, where had old reliable sensation Miss P Essimism bounced off to? So to induce her appearance he decided on a relevant thought, about all those conspiracy theories and prophecies scheduled to appear at the stroke of midnight, at any moment now in fact—And in case you’re wandering, these were the top three things supposedly expected: 1. Jesus or God would come down from the sky for Judgement Day or . . . 2. Y2K would go berserk and cause Gaia-wide anarchy or . . . 3. At the stroke of neo-millennium?, euphoria would wash over them all, and human society would take that demystifying leap together into the enlightened Age of Aquarius—the awakening would be etched on every man woman and child’s face (well so the prophecy went right)?

The countdown begun, ending with a 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . And . . . huh . . . a fireworks display, and then the anti-climatic trudge home in smoke that was so thick, everybody’s visual radius was impaired to about five metres, which had Omni (as per-usual) off-tangent, thinking about the enemies of the G38 members who could so easily set-off some anthrax or Agent Burgundy as everyone fiesta’d their way home. ‘It would be total game over for us!’ he mused, ‘. . . everyone’s so preoccupied right

230

Celine Flux

now. We’d have our faces peeled . . . Maan shoot . . . put to eternal sleep for simply congregating to party in the wrong city centre’! “AIN’T NO ESCAPIN’ FROM THE SOUTH TO THE NORTH WHEN YOU WALK TEN PACES AND YOUR FACE IS FALLIN’ OFF” (Repentance Day/Gravediggaz)—That quote played a few times under his wig, flipping around on the deck of his lobe like a fish out of water clubbed into a form of sub-abomnifood.

Still playing the U-localized-Krsna album, Omni and Neon made their way home, although, he was kind of disappointed that the heavens never opened up like many people had predicted. He thought to himself how it had possibly come about that their latest conditioned concept of time had become yet another lie; an accusation placed firmly at the door of the Reich nearer Gregory’s birth.

He tried to imagine that charge being defended in a great hall supported by ivory or marble pillars, witnessed by more ageing bisexuals, with tactical professional legislative-manoeuvring done by law briefs dressed in long white robes, and olive branch coronets, like those epic movies his mother used to watch when he was young. Highly trained in the art of political rhetoric Omni’s allegation would be shot down in flames, theatrical style, by prickly, anti-classically trained characters with sharp edges indeed!

231

QUIXOTIC EXTREMITIES OF EXISTENCE

The following Monday was frosty in SE1, where sharp winds had Omni gagging to get on the tube real swift. A few miscivilians were standing and nearly every seat was full. Feeling just as uncivil, Omni cocked-up his foot on the opposite chair so an approaching drunk in sight couldn’t decide to come and jux beside him. The train had just made its way from the previous stop with a few seats vacant when this same body-odour-rocking, loud-mouth drunken master, had all the passengers, on all observable carriages prang senseless, internally praying he wouldn’t find a seat anywhere around them. But Omni was already thinking to himself . . .’ He won’t come and stink out my radius, he wouldn’t dare’? By now Mr Pisshead had approached further, studying a chair he’d targeted while Omni studied too—how much was left in that half-litre bottle of vodka he was strangling.

This man looked a terrible state as he made his way towards the beholding fragmental eye. Omni regulated with an excuse that was a blatant untruth which didn’t sit well inside his already jaded heart, ‘. . . You can’t come and sit by me bredgren, my legs mash up’. Smothered smirks and smiles came from the businessmen and women, visibly unified in their anxiety to see the back of this skin-sweating, bogey-drippy wine-o-type looking man, so just like in that Tunes advertisement, the stench would decrease allowing them to “breathe more easily”. This old chap was so disorientated from last night (and that morning’s) drink, that his response was unrecognisable. But before too long he kept it moving, to everyone’s huge satisfaction.

Omni’s stop came. He stood up with about a quarter of all of the people on the train carriage. Seconds before the clangy tube completed its motion an extra yard—like every other stop—usually came that old predictable silence, where all people see is fellow commuters manoeuvring, preparing to exit automatic doors, and by that time, you can see, through windows, more civilians in front of you on the platform, doing the same thing, shuffling and jostling, until the pneumatically-propelled, rubber-tip-movable-barrier, sufficiently opened. A final screech of the brakes just

232

Celine Flux

that one, more, slow, extra, yard, and then the Zone1 anthem . . . Mind the gap, and, . . . Please let the passengers off the train first . . . begun to accompany the great migration of the labouring and administrative classes, or so-called civilized mankind—or kind of man . . . or maybe it’s man woman and child—that made their way in and out of the underground rail network daily.

Omni carefully stepped off the train (minding the gap) into a continuous gust of dusty warm air and made his way to the lift with about two hundred other apparent pawns in the Tri Kilo game. From the station, it was only a few minutes walk to Shadowless Towers. And so began for Omni, another long, increasingly undesirable, politically-charged shift at work.

* * *

Omni would always seek different perspectives from people, hence the systematic questioning and neo-sophism. All in an attempt to enhance his own theory on why he felt such resentment to things he couldn’t actually specify. He’d already read things from his teenage years that he now regretted even seeing, making present engagements of service virtually untenable to him in the long-term. On the other hand some things he was fortunate enough to read were now to him, presently undeniable.

One of those things being that firstly: His body was in truth only a shell, and that his “real” self was unbelievably, yet actually, physically unacceptable but possible and materially unverifiable, unquantifiable, scientifically immeasurable and stupefying, but in reality . . . a spark, a spark made from a triplespacedark antimaterial that propelled the omnicosmic dance of all observable domains . . . get it? Don’t worry, that made perfect sense to Omni (and hopefully Tibet Archytec but if not, I accept blame). Secondly, his existence was to complete a mission that he, possibly, had more than a few chances at—that was to break the bond of conditioning people including himself were manifestly exposed to but the main problem was, he had to control his variations of lust, renouncing things like punny, Courvosier and cerebral speculation—and that was just for starters! Not easy, but worth the contentment of being embraced by your pre-existing father who (like any parent, right?) takes enjoyment from your enjoyment and really only wants to see you happy.

233

QUIXOTIC EXTREMITIES OF EXISTENCE

* * *

Arriving with a huge sense of realism and now at his work station Omni threw down his coat and bag, looking at the Monday morning business of the workfloor. Always perplexed when not satisfying the

“sparkself ” (which yet inextinguishable, disappears from detection when he does), he sighed, attempting to “argue with his own self over the truth—that’s like me trying to tell myself don’t tell me what to do”—(Thanx Chaingun Germain). He re-accepted, in vain, that, his bank statements, or what they were printed on? . . . Or the queen’s head written on that same said printed paper (material) unfortunate but true, presently, constituted the supreme purpose of his adult life and current job of revenue-concerned subservice—The same job that only six years previous he under-dreamed of going to each day—a dream falling apart below his higher, more urgent duty now declaring inherent disappointment within any other success.

He leaned back to look round his cubicle, pointlessly reasoning from multiple perspectives, these bewildered men and women—not his business, but, apparently needing no reason regarding The aim of existence—Omni, now, still stuck below the zenith of all reasons.

‘This task, my heart wants, would appear to colleagues an invisible vocation? . . . Besides . . .’ he told himself, ‘. . . few men are successful I reckon . . . especially if they’re living in sensory-overloaded Megapolitan Zone1’!

Another reason for thinking this regal job was truly the most noble he’d ever come across but way too big for him, was the fact that his childhood had corrupted that said heart to such an extent that he couldn’t work out the application of spiritual life for himself, and it was looking as if he needed to request help from someone more experienced in calculating damage done to him growing up. Refuting immature excuses with both hands on his desk he stood up. ‘But for now . . .’?

Omni inwardly conceded, ‘this mere, calculating the damage endeavour will have to suffice’.

That notion crept over him before briefly regaining his presence of mind—that he wasn’t striking work production targets—quickly sitting back down, then forward, as to not get noticed by one of his four bosses talking in the glass offices up front. Vain as well, he looked at his face reflected on the CPU screen, picking some fluff off his perfect eyebrows,

234

Celine Flux

thinking about the Chavs on all those chatshows. He expanded that thought to frenzied social circumstances of his present-day municipality woven all around him—(Plus anyway, these queries noted above, to “organic robots” like him, will never be quelled, which kinda tends to pull a bit on the ol’ heartstrings of the slightly compassionate . . . if not only a touch)—(can I get another big boo f#$%king hoo :)

Beautiful mind aching like Jenifer Connelly hounding David Bowie through everyone else’s labyrinthine mystery, Omni thought back, to life-altering moments, bed bound, stitches, and speaking to Vivica Envee on the phone, or another time, talking to one of his “Ghetto Guru’s”, especially of those times when Seattle drove over, visiting him in Harbourton, checking his legs for infection, pushing him to the beach, and on occasions, them, talking, making breakthroughs, storing equations, ones worth saving, him throwing up calculations of his own, for dual scrutiny, clarification and confirmation; help. When she spoke it made sense. Few women past her and Neon really did. He was finding it hard nowadays to appear interested in anything else at all. Seattle’s subtlety was lightly brushed and that had always impressed Omni. He often wondered how she was doing over at Queen’s College, or down south in Satelliteton with her Bluecoat boyfriend, Adam.

Emerging from more profound waterfalls Omni folded away his unseen wings, swivelling round on his office chair to again face his computer screen, while he kicked once more, his silent mantra, to his silent witness:

Hey, I bet you working in the city is great; anyone would put money on those odds but you know what? Its more lightly you’d lose your money. A brisk six years of (let’s face it), physically easy labour, had Omni already begging for change from all the glasshouses of polished marble, over to sun, seed, soil, bird, beast, and exotic flower etc, although, change, historically, was the one thing that remained constant in his life, which was now well over a quarter-century old, and noticeably, there was something slowly clogging up his cogs of late, like a thin film, again, like before, over everyday affairs. The comet had returned; his life was beginning to have that synthetic feel about it.

Deep down, in the stolen name of applied theory, he just wanted to diary two controlled periods of time:—home, and away—then base his conclusions on resulting empirical data. This, he considered a valid, not to mention, quite delightful scientific experiment. There seemed, even

235

QUIXOTIC EXTREMITIES OF EXISTENCE

before trials begun, no disputing that even comforts of increased luxury, exhibited, and, all those dry cleaned suits, and played-out coffee bars, had started to take their toll after thousands upon thousands of days and coincidentally, for Omniversal, another opportunity arose through his ever-dilating disinterest. Unsheathed for deliverance and great purpose of such kind this opportunity, approached and introduced itself with a Christian, and a surname—The name of this opportunity?, was a divorced Mrs F Resh Air who was in fact, much higher on the busy spiritual mountain than him, or subtle Seattle, she, merely buying tools for the journey at this stage to perfect activity.

236

IMPINGING JOINTS, TRAPPED NERVES,

MORE PRIDE, MORE PREJUDGING

Vienna came in from work . . . late, while Nick was watching TV. ‘Hi honey, sorry I’m late again’. Nick’s long cycle of disquiet was sensed from the front room. ‘No problem’ he replied, ongoing equivocal hostility of both parties subsiding somewhat now she was home. Not out of the ordinary—because of tiredness plus it was a weekday—she lobbed her things down stepping into the kitchen, unwelcome ga-ga sounds invading her ears from next door. Worried, reaching over to stick her head through the serving window, she didn’t even bother to look directly at the screen, just faked an intrigue which only confirmed the suspicion.

‘Oh no . . . what you watching?’ she asked, with this supposed interest of hers instantly dying after the question. Nick nevertheless, still feeling kinda resentful—a build up of things left unsaid for months now—tried hard to concentrate on his recent, slowly growing curiosity—The Mother and Fostering Channel. So he paid her no mind, instead keeping his eyes on the toddlers playing happy families with their parents on the telly.

Noticing the bait and not biting—yet—she went to the cupboard for a glass, then to the sink pouring herself some water, ‘You won’t believe the day I’ve had today love’. He could hear a familiar antagonistic tone coming through the gap—she, likewise, was to find an equally tired and slouched Nick resisting his facetious mode . . . unsuccessfully. ‘Let me guess . . . Mary your secretary, and Appolonya, who’s “trying to destroy you” on an epic scale’? As he replied with this Kubrick—Vee’s female puppy—a whippet—started barking out on the balcony. So kicking her shoes across the tiles she came out, thudded down the hall, across Nick’s view to let her in.

‘You did feed her didn’t you darling?’ snapped Vee, as usual over-alarmed, like it’s of course necessary—(in so doing, alarming Nick)—unlocking then pulling the door open. ‘Of course; the dry stuff. She’s scratching out back something terrible. Bad move cancelling

237

iMPinGinG JOinTS, TRAPPeD neRVeS, MORe PRiDe, MORe PReJuDGinG

that dog walker I tell ya’: Nick was suggesting a long-apprehended view—his—that dog’s bred to hideous proportions nowadays exist like slaves in bondage, domesticated only to serve us, for redundant egotistical services holding no contemporary urban standing beyond the unpersuasive obvious, and such poor beasts held captive by the neck should be unleashed, skinny Kubrick included . . . henceforward.

This reaffirmation of opinion wisely had to simmer itself over the years, reduced to come out this evening as a more cheeky and concentrated form. ‘Now she’s just sh-tting up the balcony each week night till we, rather, I, come in each evening and clean it’—(In another world somewhere Vee would have acknowledged with graceful concession, saying . . .’ Your indirect request was again detected and again noted’ . . . but this is not how things go down with these two).

After a quick cuddle, ugly albino Kubrick just ran straight over to her favourite corner of the room and curled up. If Nick had his way, he’d go round setting all those little four-legged slaves free (to run a mock in the city then fk up unmanipulated gene pools probably, but who to blame eh? Hands up . . . Ooh I know!)

It was dark, around nine. All the main lights of the house were switched off. Large TV images brightened up the room alongside two tiny wall lamps, highlighting Vienna’s picture-shrines of yesteryear—this long established light formula guaranteed for tolerable if not decadent front room visibility. Plus more light came in from that kitchen serving window where its middle work surface had built-in heat bulbs—a pricey undertaking, with that particular section of counter, commissioned to look more like a microbar complete with twin stools and three chrome bottle hinges. ‘You want a drink babe?’ she asked already heading back down the hallway to sit down. Now if he had said yes, she would have no doubt tutted, be forced to turn back increasing her pulse, effect the evening further, allowing Nick’s blood to take a small step up just like her’s—(then when you open your mouth . . .? 1st class ticket to Bickerland). ‘No thanks Vee’.

This inept fighting of ill-communicated frustrations, plus the sticking to his plan of art-o-war-timing regarding what was on his mind, already stressed, was presently proving harder than he could have possibly imagined. She came and sat on the settee beside him throwing her hair back, cutting into Nick’s viewing time (as a right) speaking about her extended day at work and as she did this, his tension began to increase.

238

Celine Flux

‘Mary bombarded me with Appolonya’s man problem . . . figured it was worth knowing. I called her back to my office. Wish I didn’t bloody bother now! Hardly got any work done after that . . . flips sake.

Nick . . . you listening to me’?Nick had developed a technique and staunchly implemented it on

the diddy-low. Called “Attention Multi-Tasking”, it’s hard, and involves keeping approximately 6o% of attention on what you want to be doing (usually taking place before your interruption) and the other 40 placed on holding a wholly unsatisfying conversation, that is, unless you freeze frame, and give it interesting route-causes (if you can do this while watching TV your considered a badass woman).

‘Yea anyway’ recalled Vienna, ‘According to Mary, she introduced this guy, and he doesn’t even take her out, I mean anywhere special, like to eat or anything’. About 40% puzzled, Nick didn’t bother do the math, still dismissing all this as . . . inconsequential 731 stuff which would all work itself out; after all it’d only been a few years. ‘Why do you care?’ he frowned at her, ‘it’s not like its some enterprise-Intel or anything’? Vienna agreed but persisted in distracting him from all the baby-wishing on TV. ‘Well I won’t be phoning D-dorf if that’s what you’re implying! But if she brings it up with me I’ll say she should to dump him’ ‘Mmm . . . right’, Nick turned his half-tilted head back to the screen. ‘He’s a kid too . . . over from some fireman’s college.

Only early twenties . . .! Slut like that . . . she’d probably swallow him up . . . baggy b-tch’ ‘why how long’ve they been going out’? ‘Not long, but all they do is screw, and she wants wining and dining’. Vee put her feet on his lap, heels in his groin, knowing he wasn’t in the mood. This equalized his “Attention Multi-Tasking” ratio.

‘So what do you think . . .’? Nick breathed slowly and heavily, ‘Have you considered he may not be able to afford it’?

‘Huh?’ rejected Vee straight away, ‘he just doesn’t want to that’s what it is! All he wants is to eat the cake and not do what’s expected of him’

‘By whom . . .! Who else is expecting him to wine and dine her anyhow’?

‘Everyone . . .!! That’s what you’re supposed to do’. Nick freeze-framed in his mind some boisterous young geezer type trying to impress one of Vienna’s over-qualified work peers, popping off his digicheque on a dinner reservation he can ill-afford merely because he’s heard it’s the done-thing: Following through, isolating a few related queries from here onwards, such Intersocial Engineering mixed with the Micro-Class

239

iMPinGinG JOinTS, TRAPPeD neRVeS, MORe PRiDe, MORe PReJuDGinG

Pyramidion, now made this a personally interesting subject title (to him at least). ‘No movie . . . takeout . . . nada’! ‘All right . . . but you shouldn’t just assume the kid has to, I’m not too sure I like the sound of that’.

Alas Nick and Vee both lived near this Bickerland, an island, where Mount Bickerland itself, was in the middle, easy to get to. So picking up his objects of interest to play with, and then put down again was like running the gauntlet with no minesweeper ahead of you. And with Vee determined to attain every last percent of his attention ratio, what else could Nick do but explore what he considered to be the female of the species, and their perceived mandatory courtship protocol (d-d-danger).

‘He’s broke. She ain’t. What’s the problem’? It was turning into a metaphor for their own relationship, with Vienna’s tone upset and on the offensive already. ‘But it’s not the point though Nick is it’?

‘OK, fair enough. But she’s an independent woman, higher income bracket, which allows people like us, her, to indulge in for example, catching a quick flick, or cabbing it home, stopping off for a nifty bite along the way you know what I mean’:

Now, although Appolonya does have a higher income bracket than her post-student piece of arm candy, Vienna was never forthcoming enough, in this sort of Nick situation, to ever help the discussion along by saying the word yes. And being constantly stressed too (period pain, event deadlines, caffeine etc.), privately, she always upheld the excuse to withhold mere demonstration of this ability—Needless to say, Nick did not know of this inability-due-to-frenzied-emotion-thing at the start of their relationship.

‘Fortunate for us, we can spend in some trendy store? Maybe send a funky moped to go “Oi Sushi” us at our flat? But he doesn’t know about wooing girls with the right wine for the right occasion, or the right age that goes with the right bloody fish sauce or whatever. For her to request being taken up west for a five course because some social protocol says?

I mean c’mon courtship demands? That’s so last century . . . Surly men have the right to resist’

‘It’s not courtship demands at all! . . . Women just want to be made to feel special. We are female after all . . .? We’re supposed to be looked after. Only then, if the guys lucky . . .! That’s how it went when I was young’

240

Celine Flux

‘What, just by dint of them being female huh . . .?’ Nick felt righteousness on his side therefore didn’t have to get no usual throat-lump while speaking, he felt the complaint would survive till next time some other woman assumed cash-dating was a prerequisite of partnership—then complex love—and hopefully someone would drop the following wise jewel on them . . .

‘Look’, (he knew pursuance could lead them up hysteria-stairway to Mount Bickerland but . . .) ‘I’m with a woman, who as a kid was taken to steakhouses by parents, and does that kind of thing now she’s older, you meet up with family and eat there. We can afford it so we dine in fancy places. Affluent males succumb to pressure that they ought to, me included, I felt obliged to expose and re-expose you to a lifestyle you always knew. I constantly felt the obligation because of your background, but such assumptions should bypass a man on the breadline, surly’?

‘He should start with a pizza then, anyone can afford a bloody pizza’!

‘What do you mean by “should”?’‘Well you know what I mean . . .’ ‘No, I don’t . . .! What he “should” be is, exempt, even if it is only a

pizza’‘Well, I think all women deserve the best that’s all I’m trying to say, I

don’t care where there from or how much their partners make . . . if they want babies Nick, then there’s certain, requirements, and if they can’t afford it then they’d better find some way, pronto’!

For the sake of upset, an ever-present force between these two, Nick had to put some space between the topic he thought he’d already isolated and thrown up for intelligent analysis. But no, it was indeed being taken personal (because he kept citing her personal history me thinks).

‘All right all right, take an example of a young duke who’s just snared himself this hot chick, Now he chats her up and finds out while speaking she went to the so-called right Repli, left with the right papers.

He later finds that her job has the right expense account, let’s say some license funded TV assistant or something; brunch in the Bistro with colleagues . . . flowers or cabs just for the heck of it . . . after work functions . . . calendar celebrations at expensive dinory tables, and this kid, he’s just a stallion jack-the-lad who cares for none of this, but she’s done it all; she knows where that fork goes, and what this spoon is for, so if you’ve been exposed on such a stratum, and your boyfriend hasn’t,

241

iMPinGinG JOinTS, TRAPPeD neRVeS, MORe PRiDe, MORe PReJuDGinG

then you shouldn’t request such things from him, It’s almost wrong to just hop up out the wood work like, “Oh you don’t take me Up West enough” when, for all you know, he came up with powdered milk and salt sandwiches with post-war communities . . . Eastend style! While her family was popping off 3 tonnes on a group meal in the right restaurant, then off to be seen in the right club, ordering the right cocktail and so on . . . Only a fool would go request whatever from the winelist not even knowing what wine he’s ordering, trying to impress someone who shouldn’t be looking to him, for that, making those demands, even expecting it as some form of protocol, it’s just wrong, in my humble opinion . . . wrong’.

If Nick was speaking on behalf of the male of the species, and it felt that way, then Vienna was holding down the fort for the opposite sex.

With such an appointment, desperate in the face of quite sympathetic pleas of exemption, for the sake of sisterhood she could not be seen to yield; this was a typical outcome and Nick couldn’t work out why: Were these ways due to her nature or circumstantial episodes—a substantial part of anyone’s personality?—He couldn’t tell. Nick always deemed himself a conventional romantic; hell . . . he had good credit, why not pop some digicash on Wifey . . .? It’d be impolite? Wrong of him not to . . . or maybe plain stingy . . .? Guess it depends on—(as Nick tried to explain)—the particular calibre of woman.

Now there laid transformed was a healthy debate; a personally interesting topic which he tried to pick up and place back down with no fuss—but this was hardly ever actualized, somehow always ruffling the feathers of love—really quite minor conversations developing then deteriorating things. Adopting silence works, but it’s impractical, though, claiming to be the wiser one, and with other tricks up the sleeve (attention-rationing, recalling tai-chi principles of absorption etc) Nick gets by, and hadn’t forgotten, yet he questions it, that they originally entered the marriage with him convinced he loved Vee. Now time would show and prove if his love alone would suffice.

* * *

242

MIGHT AS WELL FACE IT YOU’RE

PRETENDING TO LUUUVE

(EGGSHELLS PT. 1)

With the car boot, tiny, full of shopping, Seattle swiftly made her way home. Her cop boyfriend Adam was quite a possessive man. He was expecting Seattle at any moment to come take the babysitting position for Othellenius, so he can attend his evaporating enthusiasm for twice-weekly rugby training. Off with bullish team mates and their generally forceful banter, the glacial mornings and crispy arctic evenings were almost tolerable; moreover, lately it was a great excuse for him to leave the house. But his lack of vivification had for a long while now affected his fitness level and for sure his ability wasn’t what it used to be.

The rugby field where he supposedly trained and played home matches was located at the rear of the town leisure complex giving Seattle, on that day, a small window of time to go visit the Geologist’s Haven section of the beach and lounge for a few moments. She had to keep her eyes on her son much more nowadays; her only inspiration, plus take over more than her fair share (which was more anyway) from Adam who was becoming overly pudgy, borderline alcohol-dependent and had irritatingly for both of them, grown out of shape due to his increasing love for the television not to mention his food. With its ups and many more downs Seattle felt she was in an acutely restrictive engagement to Adam who was born with a quick temper and a short fuse.

She and Otho were occupants of a house that could be best described as being carpeted with eggshells, now over the space of four years together their levels of affection were steadily deteriorating. Earlier in time their co-habitation was more fruitful, and combined through Othellenius they together emitted a brightness resembling our nearest star; Seattle would then reflect that light as if she was the moon, upon their little planet Othellenius whose nourishment ain’t hard to tell (Thanx Escobar). But

243

MIGHT AS WELL FACE IT YOU’RE PRETENDING TO LUUUVE (EGGSHELLS PT. 1)

nowadays the trio shined more like a candle near a storm-blasted open window! This now extreme unreachability of Adam to Seattle, still, was difficult to admit to. The endeavour to regain a lapse of communication proved arduous, and it was for Seattle utterly regretful, just really hard to accept.

She plugged away at domestic life stubbornly, often latching onto previous painful thoughts of past arguments which induced a kind of emotional stillness within her, but not in any good way. Before, they used to talk for hours on end, that mind union would stimulate them on all sub-strata, and during some deeply sacred times, above any amount of the “ultimate distraction”. Yes, Seattle also knew, notions of the future, or past, were just fragments of untrustworthy illusory material. Although she indulged, those thoughts gave her, in the comforting satisfactory sense of duality, an ultimately unsatisfied and uncomfortable feeling. In essence, it was that feeling that would eventually force her away from Adam and his home.

Seattle had returned to the house now, and began to stack the freezer. The house was warm and Otho was at his grandmothers not too far away. She sensed Adam had recently been home; right at that same time, she dissected the possible probabilities of being spotted earlier. Re-filling the fruit bowl only she ate from, she thought to herself, yet again, ‘This is no way to live’? With that personal truth, which had an extended barrel she aimed, shot, and wounded herself. The whole sense of dread caused her to break down into tears. She wiped her eyes, staring at the azalea (only she had the presence of mind to water) brought from the garden centre to salute the sun, hopefully brightening up the window ledge in the process. Her hands would appear in the periphery as she gazed, not at it, through it, holding on to the hatesex and all them blows aimed below the belt while washing up each morning, before the other two woke.

Standing there, a domestic, instinctive mother, she willed herself the courage to restore pre-relationship principles and ultimately leave Adam, bestowing upon herself one full season to organize the escape taking Othellenius with her.

One soggy, melancholic dawn, almost sobbing as she yet again quenched the visibly thirsty, slightly blotched plant, her higher and lower self wrestled with questions. ‘But obviously I’m doing something wrong . . .’? Searching inside, she tried to diffuse, at least reduce the

244

Celine Flux

problem, quietly saying such things as this to her restless and silent witness who of course, knew better.

Daringly provoked or unprovoked Adam’s fuse would alight, and with statue-cracking force his voice box would detonate; by extension he would explode. Mr W Inter would enter the house at that point, to reduce the temperature so it couldn’t possibly feel like home—and only Adam had the power to make it humanely warm again: It was his house . . . on his whim. Part of the problem was, being somewhat innocent he never actually noticed this—that his house was full of eggshells. Nevertheless before long the cipher came to completion with an apology, predictably within an agonizingly tense day or so. She would in the name of progression accept this apology, withdrawing for a time to innerstand as best she could. But the fallout would be examined alone.

With each retreat however, she never quite made it back to that original spot.

Often Seattle remembered Omni; descriptive tales of his which rang true for her as she heard them all those years ago at work, about a row, with his pregnant girlfriend in whom he claimed, he’d never completely recovered yet always regretted, if only a little. That distorted memory of Omni’s regarding his inner-ortow-pylit, quoted at the time with a measure of humour, came seeping to her attention. ‘“. . . Drama is having your heart broken and the person who broke it, doesn’t even motherf##in’ notice!”‘ Seattle, hypersensitive too, also traded her heart over for Adam’s a long time ago, before the official start of their relationship.

Each fortnight annually, after her own creating of an escalation, over at first something small—(caused by, apparently, her presence)—and after a short time, this snowball becoming unstoppable, Adam would lunge into his pocket, retrieve her heart, the trump card, claiming to be not so sensitive, so much so, he could play this card and not devastate himself at the same time! Adam would do this just as her train of thought would appear to be arranging all those micro-fragments of a micro-conflict, thereby hopefully decreasing the intensity of this particular, torturous, ultimately pointless dispute. He would at that momento choose to hold up her brittle, symbolic heart, with a batcave stare, “You see what you’re making me do Seattle? You’d better back down before I get really mad, like you know I can, and take it up another psychotic notch”! Both drunk off the emotion, mistakes would be made, uranium would be enriched.

245

MIGHT AS WELL FACE IT YOU’RE PRETENDING TO LUUUVE (EGGSHELLS PT. 1)

Momentarily furious, thoughtless to Seattle’s feelings he would also, like Omni’s hospital ward memoir, throw her heart against the wall, but first, pumping himself to explosive levels enabling it all to appear like an accident, making the later apology impossible for a peace-seeking Seattle to then refute, especially after a breach of her own ethics causing the minor war, seeming a part of life and material love yet always wrong. For that oxymoron of a somehow “purposeful mistake” (if such a thing is possible), an entangled Seattle is punished by her soul, which by even engaging in this animalistic defence born of fear becomes a superself-imposed punishment, a bruised false-ego, an ego which she has not yet subjugated. Therefore she (like anyone having there heart ripped out) would fall to the floor, picking up the pieces of her broken heart, looking up at Adam like ‘I can’t believe you did that, again’, and him, looking down like, ‘Huh . . . that’s nothing compared to the pain I felt all my life so, take it like an adult Seattle, and by the way . . . Gimme that heart back’! Cutting a glance of disbelief she would ponder retaliation, thinking, ‘OK then, it’s like that huh?’ remembering the times she forgave Adam before.

And she would still consider, sometimes succumb to base impulse, unable to display more prearyan instincts within, carefully abandoning compassion, but knowing the outcome would be worse, and already, fearing consequences, in so doing, fighting against what she yearned for which was trading like-for-like rage. Luckily she was aware her emotions had desires different to her souls, and being tried, found guilty, then punished by “Thy Self ” for barbarism, she would not dare. Railing against the soul though is seemingly modern life, that principle she did not dispute, but verbally throwing his heart, smashing it against the nearest surface in an attempt to win, this time, without taking a deep breath-cycle, without sitting down with logic, reason, and other tools of engagement, victory just this one time, would come at a familiar, harrowing price, leaving her feeling like holding a cordless in front of sixteen thousand, then sitting in the darkness of a hotel room, pondering the experience of how to get your heart back that you broke into pieces, handed to fans, and left in the crowd. Somehow, Seattle wanted her heart back.

246

A BLONDE MOMENTO IN

RISK-FREE ROMANCES

At night, while he slept uncorrupted like an innocent child, her anxious dream state would place her in a windy, leafy, graveyard where she and Othellenius scraped dirt mounds back into deep pits—There, her hurt lay buried. A creepy sight, where cold flesh diminished and all tombstones read, “. . . With your words I’ve been stripped naked . . . Intense fury, you almost annihilated me . . . Now, slightly altered and foolish, I’m back for more”. She would wake from her quantum dynamics, counting down the days until he exploded again and blew the stitches off her weeping, tender wounds.

Throughout the relationship they tried in vain to accommodate each other’s prescription. But no matter how those descriptions were delivered, either high on the vocal Richter-Scale or relatively low and gently spoken, the outcome, over time would be the same. Within a fortnight another domestic eruption would discharge with little regard for witness or environment. Police attended on a few occasions, embarrassingly for Seattle but greeted with condemnation by Adam who, once drawn from his emotional centre, would have no care for calm, reasoning, or metaphorical crease-ironing.

By now as a coping mechanism, which allowed her to desperately understand what was happening to this all-consuming black hole of an engagement, she began to consider the looming inevitability that Adam was impossible to love. While he in return, claimed to love Seattle too much. She gave little credit to his theory and spent hours per day looking at their relationship from differing angles, in order to acquire some sort of insight that would help her move forward. Communicating this to Adam would only make his eyes roll or make him serve a request to her for yet another beer. Once consumed in too large of an amount, those same eyes would then become steely and eyebrows would become given the nod by Adam’s red ears, loss of his sense of sound, and moody breathing.

247

A BLONDE MOMENTO IN RISK-FREE ROMANCES

Seattle shivered during such times, and tried to thicken the sheet of acceptance to keep warm, staying on the move about the house, to delay the onset of another alcohol-induced blowout. She would arise hours before dawn to battle demons with weaponised exercises and duties before work, attempting to avoid his inevitable apology, because maybe suppressed upset, if not careful, could cause yet another explosion; compartmentalizing anger like this made things easier to overstand and manage.

‘Maybe it is my fault?’ she told herself ‘Surely, I’m doing something wrong . . .? There must be a combination of words I can say to him to bring us back, closer together . . . just haven’t thought of that sentence yet . . . that’s all. One day we will sit together and I will propel a paragraph, with just the right combination of words to comprehensively change the rest of our lives’. This, she desperately tried to convince her lower self of as she shut the car door and made her way to the beach for a few breath-cycles.

248

GENETIK TRAUMA FOR THE NUCLEI

She remembered the mobile phone left in the glove compartment and immediately felt compelled to retrieve it. Fighting the feeling she rolled out her yoga mat to find half-lotus, focusing her lens of sincerity on the nose-dent between her eyes, then, at the speed of bacterium, sent her awareness in the direction of the heavens, stopping when she reached between her brows, just underneath her purposefully scruffy looking, sun-glare-blocking designer visor, pulled low.

Sitting on the beach, with its sound of age, incalculable, she welcomed approaching ideas, various ones, telling her to check her watch, or to consider something else. These thoughts made themselves noticed as if they were young infants like Otho, impatient, bored children, but she just observed, wisely, like watching clouds drift across the sky in her dome, and then, transient by nature, she waved goodbye to them, either enjoying the clear blue patches of daylight, or sensing her bi-coastal and pelvic control. After twenty-five increasingly smooth and long breath cycles, which took quite long, she returned from “elsewhere” back to the beach front. She rolled up her mat, being dragged back to the mundane-realm to make a pretty swift departure.

Omni again popped into her head; another entertaining break in the thoughtless imaginations’ clear blue day, enforced by one of the 8-fold vigilantes; pranayama. A manageable distraction, it reminded her to question again why she felt the need to stop calling him after a while—to focus more on rekindling lost feelings she once had for Adam. But struck by resurgence of glandwork currently exciting her body, exhaling she still remembered just a few miles down the beach, those long conversations, fondly, both in stark agreement about spiritual and mental dimensions of most relationships. ‘You know, I read in an article . . .’ she told him once, trying to encase a jewel inside what Omni afterwards called in gratitude, a superscientific observation ‘. . . most marriages deficient in saluting the presence of “the energy that spins the earth upward and outward”

249

GeneTiK TRAuMA FOR THe nuClei

(thanks Javelin Fangs) never seem to last for decades, and, are more likely to end up on the rubbish tip much earlier . . . And they reckon they can prove it’! The recollection brushed a nerve-ending, plunged back in time, to shouting over waves, sharing this subjective conclusion many moon-tugs ago now, her idea of fun, acting like she was playing soprano’s counsellor while secretly applying council minuets to herself, in relation to her own fiancé, and his afflictions.

Adam was a pretty orthodox chap who earned 26-large per year and who lately began to spend it, (according to those on the unorthodox “fringe”), unwisely. With his love for rugby and its subsequent practice sessions on the wane, rapidly over time Adam was only adding to their list of problems, including his mainstream favourite . . . the demon drink. Overweight and aggressive he, from time to time, shouted at Seattle until she was either on her knees in an opposite room, sinking her nails into her forehead while he was doing everything but flip over the furniture, or she would be curled up in the foetal position as he delivered his familiar “What about me?” speeches, which would rain down on Seattle with spittle having the aroma of a vodka even a pesiano from St. Petersburg would decline to drink!

She survived by reasoning with herself. ‘Many women the world over live through situations such as this?’ and after the damage was patched-up, in a reflective mood, the entirety of those episodes seemed avoidable in future, they felt immature, and would be labelled by even a tabloid jury as totally ridiculous. ‘Denile Seattle? Oriental river . . .’?

Proximity imagination; it screamed back at her.She tried in vain to work out if there was something about her

personality she could sacrifice in order to keep her family together, but since thinking about Omni more of late, and now, driving back home, she knew there was no turning back, the decision had been made. The more she thought about things, what Omni said, and leaving, possibly for good, the lighter and more streamlined she began to feel. She used this momentum and conviction to empower herself, which took a considerable amount of effort and time considering all the axles of crisis and bouts of procrastination which accompanied her feelings of defeat, mixing with situational guilt.

250

THE TURTLE-SPARROW AXIOM

Seattle had a relationship which devoured all else including family therefore nothing was private. The sense of getting to know each other seemed to her like a tape recorder of life . . . but it was going in reverse!

Drifting further away did alarm Adam but he would never directly reveal it and even if he did, like always, he thought he would just be misunderstood. The next morning he walked out the door tipsy and tense, as Seattle went up the stairs with Otho—it was past his bedtime.

When it came to his job Adam drove ahead with a lead foot and toiled like an ass in a medieval field. He was the same with continental beer, also when his back is against the wall. If in situations of confrontation and battling of wills through arguing, he would always give much more than he could receive. The formidable battle-skin-hardened ace of verbal attacks, coupled with his size, always steered him out of any tricky situation. He never got as far as using out right, the pseudo-martial art he learned at police training back in the late 90’s, though on occasion a few subduing techniques were in fact, half-used. But it was his words that hurt Seattle the most. They hit her guts and cranium with the impact of flying fists of marble thrown at the speed of his extreme vocal projection. He knew his emotional stripping-power, but once taken out off-centre he was unable to stop himself.

For Adam, being at his most ferocious was nothing short of life-affirming. The sense of immediacy that came with howling at a primitive level felt like genetically-inherited emotions—outdated one would have thought—for so-called-modern man living in futuristic society (type3 Shadowless society exemptions apply), emotions epochs old and arguably a human right, for not to show such displays every now and then he feared, was unmanly, while Seattle on the other hand, hoped restraint, or mercy, would be more deserving of qualities in the league of godly merits. Saddening to her but true, although losing many, even he still had beer-guzzling friends to call and validate opinion, leaving her to assume (but you know what’s said about assumption don’t cha), through

251

THE TURTLE-SPARROW AXIOM

prolonged appraisal, that there was no clear right or wrong between them, there just is (thanx Perverted Monk), and when it was over—(she figured)—it didn’t really matter if those acts of passionaterealm- persuasion/aggression were displayed, purposely, or not.

Otho with his favourite, rolling Bugs Bunny on Cabletoon, left alone in the kitchen, tearful and aching she sensed that world-turning, sustaining, voluntary embarked upon, elegantly accepted penance that is severe hardship, and superior voluntary suffering of the giant saints and learned, tossing her down a small mental object in the form of an idea, as a gift, like guidance, to a door handle of some sort. Seattle placed the object she named Wisdom at the feet of these, Etheric-wise, as an imagined sacrifice. Inside she hoped her load would become lighter for the journey ahead.

Yes, Seattle, like Omniversal, was about to find out that corners have sharp edges, and that sharp edges left unsanded, can cause the appearance of bittersweet feelings within any personal triumph if not first offered to the Complete (Try it Tibet and see—Hurts somewhat right)?

Inwardly spent, Seattle turned, and bowed to the glorified guardian-like well-wishers, then turned again to smile at the flaming horizon in the far distance, leaning off the sharp edges, nudging to the edge, as a metaphor, leaving no option. She took a deep breath and leaped off her plateau of innerstanding. On the way down, gentle voices above her advised warmly and fatherly . . . “Seattle? In future, it’d be wise for you to watch what you lean on”!

252

ELABORATE SCROLLZ FOR THE

SINCERE CATHOLIC

Before hitting the emotional ground she closed her eyes thinking of Omni once more, and the things he said. ‘. . . But now, there’s only two flags left, that polarize the whole tempzone in two thousand and now—the subtle, and gross flag’. He reflected this “old news” to her a long time ago—seasons of late she’d been missing all his yickety-yak terribly. ‘. . . And beyond that’, he remarked, ‘. . . opposition exists only to oppose, hoist their opposing rag high into the breeze’. Although at first inspired by such recollections she knew deep down she’d just hit rock bottom, and had to for the sake of her son, begin the climb back.

For Adam fast asleep, engaging in re-dissecting the aftermath of an explosion like some laboratoire technician he declared a waste of time, and momentum. But just like the virtually futile quest to innerstand one’s own nature without a trip to the wilderness (which is only one of a few revealed prescriptions so don’t freak), gorilla-chesting one’s point across like an uncultured man of culture—that is to say, one who isn’t cultured enough to humble thyself—is a large reason why some of us are presently earthbound heading once more for beast frames.

Like solid liquid which appears lest for deepest winter, the cold ghost of resentment between Seattle and Adam seeped, floating outward from the bone, detected only by the undetectable where only the most festering, matured pain can appear. Adam didn’t sense that Seattle was increasingly contemplating placing her bruised insides on the fertile soil that was Omni’s navel, although, that wasn’t the uppermost motivation for her fleeing the place she called home for nearly five years. He thought—and would vigorously express—that he worked enough hours of the day to excuse any behaviour and any level of inebriation. Adam, oui, was one those people who believed that even when he was wrong? . . . he was right and to his credit it must be said, also never took things to heart for too long, unlike his more delicate fiancé who took much longer to quell those arson attacks upon unacknowledged ego, and heal those scars.

253

elABORATe SCROllZ FOR THe SinCeRe CATHOliC

He wore his flag proudly, defiantly, and never particularly enjoyed any of the time spent bathing, feeding or babysitting his son, in keeping with the type of world view held. For him it was an arduous chore yet to others, it’s (almost) them at their best: variyoga with young godling curiously imitating, wandering the purpose of those limbs protruding its torso, or, supreme inner arts to practice as a tool for life’s hardest hits (trust me Tibet, beats weed and wine hands down yo!) alongside a handful of wholesome culture oats a.m., and, some eager to learn nurture beans p.m.? To Seattle that was all a child really needed: a little more . . . and no less.

Her estimated time of departure drew near: Adam never noticed clothes being slowly stashed and bagged, for he wasn’t a man who really did much in the housework department, unlike Seattle, who ritualistically undertook this discipline in the name of organization of environment, balance, and harmony. He never noticed the increase in clutter laying about the place either, and the weekly rubbish build-up outside the front door, growing in size, which was to Seattle yet again, surprisingly . . . unsurprising. He never noticed the anguish-covered smell of rancid pain; the by product of her private battle for impossible sensory happiness with him strewn most heavily, across the room where they lay their heads.

Seattle’s shift pattern at the hospital changed. Suitcases were taken down from the loft. Favourite CD’s, removed from the living room, leaving large gaps in the self space. A few black bags she put outside, stored rago, blatant, on the garden patio.

One day, while Adam was at supposed rugby training, she rolled out “Part 1” of her logistical exercise which included one of her closest allies, Evelyn, coming round to pick up her belongings, placing them in storage out in Zone1, so when the time came all she had to take with her, was a bag and her son then drive straight to Evelyn’s pad in Hoeswater.

But still, no liquid could help the pill of defeat go down her throat any easier; It would remain as a lump in that region of her physical-extension for the rest of her days.

254

OUTNUMBERED IN POLLS, NAKED IN

BALLOTS, DESPITE GLOBAL MAJORITY

About a month earlier Seattle held a conversation, more like a super snooty “OK ja, fine, right darling” with the overbearing Agatha—her would-be mother-in-law. Although always busy doing something or another (and therefore mostly dismissive towards Seattle and her problem) Agatha knew that her son had grown, by conditioning, into a cheesdick brute, often agreeing with Seattle that he treated her way too harshly. But at present, with all her incessant reorganizing of other peoples’ lives, she wasn’t about to be told now of all times, that her almost daughter-in-law, along with Otho, were about to call a real major time out!

Judgment day: Like deadweight, the umpire within cradled its arms, just navel-gazing. Acknowledging such a lonely state, to cultivate courage Seattle headed out for one final pre-dawn run, before spreading her wings, attempting to disable her own inner ortow-pilot, something she hadn’t done since around the time of her first menstruation.

Othellenius and Adam still asleep, she hid her bag under the stairs and grabbed her training kit from the kitchen before Adam’s first alarm clock activated, reminding him that a second one would go off in half-an hour. Upon her return, throwing off her running shoes, she switched on the shower and carefully mapped out movements; some with Evelyn, some auxiliary, for the present day, and beyond.

After a brief timecheck and with clean clothes at the ready she stepped in the shower, gripping her local specialty soap made with lavender/ginseng extract. Defiant over this simple pleasure she once more scanned—as best she could—her particular, over-problematic cul-de-sac; unlike the first female premier, this lady, was about to raise her hands in admission of multiple U-turns on many fronts!

She stepped out the shower and started to dry her eggshell-pale skin in front of the mirror, pausing for examination, her now outdated tattoo and what it once represented, forced to recollect again it’s symbolism,

255

OuTnuMBeReD in POllS, nAKeD in BAllOTS, DeSPiTe GlOBAl MAJORiTY

and the intention behind its unique style but, currently, a popular type of marking, especially for people in Satelliteton where seekers of an alternative lifestyle tended to settle—These individuals on the coast along with her old bodyboarding community were amongst those Seattle most identified with.

Letting some steam out the room, off the mirror, and stepping back to take a look, soft, demulcent autumn sunrise outside her windows, the serious mood of grace appeared to change all. Orangey red-kissed trees in the street cast varied shadows against the oncoming sunrise.

Leaves of similar tone, also in motion, swaying, edited the light-stream, hot upon contact, as one pulsed its way through the bathroom glass, and caused a gentle flickering upon Seattle’s sight. Looking around the room her eyelids reacted, reflexed as light reflected, a few layers of sound, in retreat, all cancelling each other out.

Brighter now, briefly, changing the morning moment; the gift, the present, awakening, alivening. Seattle’s levels of concentration intensified, adjusting to the strength of light, looking closely at herself—one of Krsna’s numberless material masterpieces—a fragment of The Complete.

Slowly she lurched her head forward to focus in on her emerald eyes, provoking images of rich green foliage; thick, tropical canopies grew skyward in her mind. She stared at herself under the spotless surgical-styled bathroom light, this gentle, mature beyond her years twenty-four year old, attempting to meet herself, watching her own candle-flame stance, just observing. She could see the essence of her mother’s face, cheek bones, and corners of her mouth but, could no longer determine who this woman before her was. Lost, she felt as if her material body was borrowed property, and misfortune, was payback on the loan. Closing her eyes to search inner regions she was unable to find herself. She was not there. She could not be located.

Seattle had dyed her hair an intense glossy red, moving from braveheart-ginger just for the half-season, for no other reason than the impulse to demonstrative this apparently scarce ability. Hurrying, thoughts turned next to Otho, and life, stretching out to the long-term.

So she got dressed, trying her utmost to block pressure, reaching up for her athletic-design sports knickers/bra set. Cropped and manageable her hair stopped well before her freckled Ra-kissed shoulders, and from her noble marching woman’s diet had quite a defined upper chest. Today unusually, the rest of her torso was covered by a nice deep racing-green coloured vest fastened at the neck, and which swept down, round, and

256

Celine Flux

under her society-demanded shoulders to meet stitches, under, and around the mid-ribs—Another swathe of identical material bound at the spine by means of tiny hooks, like a corset that actually, she’d’ve had no need for.

It went up one by one, every few inches, starting from her lower spinal bones up to the neck base between the blades in that great classic twenties colour, and although elegantly pleated the vest had a strong, built to last, no nonsense stitch and joinery about it. She picked a necklace and placed it around her bare collar, made mostly of a silver chain, which stopped when six light-catching circles took over, about the size of fingernails. They met down at the chest plate to hold a pear shaped amber stone, cut and polished to create small reflective sides for a diamond effect.

Freshly dipped now and determined to eat as normal, she moisturised then dreamt up combinations of clean food to go eat—blitzing quality cals after burning wack ones seemed enjoyable compared to worrying about Adam, and the latest link in the shackle of bust-ups:

He was easily, a self confessed, aggressive man but (as he would often report after a kiss and make up) that’s just how he’d progressed from his very rough childhood, and credit to him, surviving in the process.

As she looked back, that explained it: the under and now over-eating, unwillingness to take more of the responsibility than was personally comfortable and also—which appeared suggestive—refusal to take any interest in practising with Seattle, if only to inspire Otho to take up the highest brow of any so-called art, for a few symbolic minuets daily.

He spent his personal luxuries allowance Seattle thought, incorrectly. Yet he had a similar contempt for all of her crystals and candles. Truly, if Seattle was chalk, he was the cheese and if Adam was to be the chalk, then she would be like the cheese. The resentment and withdrawal of the love between them calcified all joints until it was impossible to conceptualize the idea of them presently, or ever, complementing each other, anymore.

It was looking like Seattle had to resume her search maybe in vain for Omni’s hailed ingredient, examined heavily for active compounds; “that complimentary me”.

Time approached for the second alarm clock to sound and when it did Adam slowly emerged, running hands through his hair after first kicking off the quilt with a frown. Seattle applied finish touches

257

OuTnuMBeReD in POllS, nAKeD in BAllOTS, DeSPiTe GlOBAl MAJORiTY

to discreet make-up and fixed a thin resin band onto her head before entering Otho’s bedroom to softly wake him up. Watching him asleep, as yet uncontaminated by material atmosphere, ego unstamped by esteemed acts of passion, unsettling reminders of inevitable break up, sobered, and mixed with happiness and concern for her little child legacy, her one and only lucky star.

Tired, whining now, but easy enough to wake, she picked him up, gently lifting her arm under and stroking his head carrying Othellenius out of his small bedroom, timing her movement through the door as not to bump into Adam on his way to the bathroom. Once downstairs she began to set the kitchen table for two and prepare breakfast, returning to that state of remoteness, absorbed in her memorized plan of evacuation.

Adam’s morning routine was familiar and predictable. So Seattle bid her time by the dishwasher, stacked and open while Otho fed and true to form, Adam, who was never good in the morning, entered, face like thunder, briefly mumbling for a few moments, whipping the skirt off a can of cola to do battle with his hangover.

As he left, slamming the front door on his way out to the police station, Seattle jumped at the sound while pouring a serving of donachino into her stainless flask for the upcoming journey—the door banged against the frame almost shaking the house. It left her feeling doubtful, rather empty, realizing she’d be wasting her time if she thought she could go outside, yell Adam’s name and march him back to the front door to close it properly. Besides, the final countdown had begun. For the ingestion of her breakfast smoothie and also for what she was about to do, she had no appetite, until the following notion, reminding her of the ease at which Adam could take the assumed position of hostility, bringing with it time after time, a knock on the front door from Mr W Inter or Mr F Rost Bite, who’d enter, then sprinkle eggshells generously over the cold polywood floor.

Getting herself and Otho ready she executed the plan, making her way with large sports bag, locking the door and then carrying her little son to the car. By now any sense of worry had been replaced with a greater sense of excitement as she knew, too many adjustments in her life had been made to just give up and return, even if she wanted to. Adrenalized, once out of town she hit the motorway with an acute, crystal-polished focus, pocketing her cellphone on which she’d just confirmed “plan C”

258

Celine Flux

of her evacuation, fevered but driving on, clumsily spilling her cupful of donachino down near her feet, just as she came to the fork in the road.

She threw that picture up at her imagination and inwardly affirmed to go straight, being careful this time to avoid the sharp edges jutting immediate life-events. Meditating on it and driving to Zone1 in the car, Seattle’s life was momentarily—and at other little contemplative phases of her future—realized as a continuing saga, an adventure, within which she, for the sake of Othellenius as well as herself, had to forge a path that hopefully avoided those sharp edges (where Tet, perceptive saints and sages have blazed trails for us).

259

BUT SEE . . . THIS WAS A DIFFERENT GAME

The locomotive that was Vienna’s career with 731 steamed well ahead. Wrapped up in Tri-Kilo affairs her diverted intention, akin to fibre optic impulses at darkspeed, dashed along her one track mind to being established in the field like she was the one personally shovelling coal and controlling the levers, hair rapidly blowing in the wind playing rail road driver! While on the other hand, Nick, always on-point with the spreadable encouragement and support, was reasonably satisfied with what he’d achieved and contributed during his current station over at Gammatec, working alongside amigo Peter, not forgetting the inclusion of young protégé Omni.

One evening over a large polystyrene cup of loose green tea he stopped outside his second favourite spot (after the pub) the Alternative Herbal Cafeterium in W1, to take stock of things for a few brief momento’s.

Upon micro-assessment of lifestyle feeling relatively contented, (unexpected, given that day’s hectic mood), he superimposed over the recent past his ten-year plan and seven years in, was actually where he expected to be. Brushing in-house magazines aside he took a sip of tea taking care to wring out a small droplet of sensual satisfaction during this short spell of down-time, taken on a Westside street for some remote perspective and a little introspection, identifying himself?:—A philanthropic cosmo-sexual feeding on smaller cityfish.

Yeah, but that’s only if the working hat was on, making sorcery happen half-way up that muscular construct of Shadowless Towers, king of the bustling finance-orientated Tri Kilo jungle out on the Eastsect.

It was visible from his outdoor seat so he looked up, past swarms, over to the enormous tentacle of employment far across the zone, extending way past its neighbours to great climbs. Drinking away in a sort of reflective trance suddenly he realized; he was only barley enjoying the sensations of getting his wallet swollen, working up there, as a Company Mechanism Lubricator.

Because life in Zone1, he too well appreciated, was difficult, it was stubbornly hard to relinquish over any sense of enjoyment knowing

260

Celine Flux

everything around him was stolen (yay or nay)? Like most of the post-war kids conditioned-then-miseducated, he wasn’t really feeling the Gammatec open-mercantile philosophy like he did at the start either, but also knew—which took a degree of pressing the pause button to work out—that this realm, this duration-dimension, was where all his events were morphing.

He was in training, all those years ago, in full expectance of a long bout in Triangular Kilometres but it was rapidly becoming apparent, that if he won anything against any of the top players in his fiscal field, he would have to split that massive fight prize with another thousand analysts and consultants in the finance sector, not just in Tri Kilo, but spread all over The Far East, Frankfurt and of course, the jewel . . . Now Why City; where his main challengers were putting in the most unlawful work. ‘Maybe I should move out there, go latch onto some Upper East Side snobs. But . . . doubt honour flourishes amongst thieves anywhere?

May as well stay with whitecollar crimeys right here’? Of this final caveat he convinced himself, only after initial wanderings of illusory foreign competition, perceived as playing the commercial lettings game even dirtier than his express Gammatec floors personnel, and all this while still watching weary W1 faces bounce by.

Continuing to zone about work and more importantly, legality, he noticed Lanky Peter didn’t seem to have too much of a problem dealing with all the enclosed trading and corporate thuggery. But Peter was exceptionally great with numbers, to the point of geekyness. Plus he more or less lived for his work. ‘I mean what? . . . Does he have some zeal gene that I don’t or something . . .?’ he thought.

Work had become for Nick, just like that story Omni told him on the way to Cambridgeton about his time previous, spent in the hip-hop caste: letting himself get so involved in that chosen pool of interest. ‘For twenty years now’! Omni told him once.

Overly output focused—and not on his personal development—Nick increasingly felt the same way about Immortal Approachville: total immersion in the community, covered in it, unable to wash it off, and the worst thing was, “just when he thought he” had a stash thrown, hidden in the ground and “was out”? Well just like Carlito de Mekico surrounded by invading Sicilians till exile, the whitecollar crimeys would go “pull him” right “back in” again.

261

BuT See . . . THiS WAS A DiFFeRenT GAMe

Of escape Peter had no such intentions. Peter was going hard with frothy money, rolling about town of late, debauching with the type of cybah-fraudsters that’d propagate the sale of firms shifting carcinogenic plastics to baby bottle making companies without a second thought!

And if any afterthought came at all, it’d be something more on the lines of . . .’ Commiseration for the unborn, but Commission for me babypah . . . ooohweeee’!!!

Peter’s mudded contacts from rival Wirecom plus Vienna’s up and coming 731—two facts Vee was aware of—had turned over the years into Peter’s actual drinking buddies and by association, Nick was now more and more entangled in group disposals of toxic loans, credit default contracts, amongst other hands in other peoples cybah-pies too, which constituted some serious off-the-book realness with company property!

Through these ultra-covert transactions and business deals, some done on a long term basis, Peter had got Nick seriously encumbered for sure: kicking upstairs over-monocled forecasts, calling up Shadowless investors cold with guarantees of fly returns on hedged capital, sexing up data for the nod, clearance to engage in submitting spies to retrieve internal research docs containing 731 and Wirecom’s company transits, only so he could put other peoples capitax on them as a sure thing—then he, Peter, and individuals kept in the credit loop, could cream some fermented Stilton right off the top without Gammatec bosses or selected Shadowless Superiors knowing any different.

He now had enough to make his exit, crisp undigitized money, real tangible notes of decapitated heads in a hole in the ground way out of Zonelimits, buried deep in Weeping Forest. He hadn’t told Peter about his intended plan and virtual completion of its execution—falling back from the trenches to retire overseas—Even Vienna thought all his savings were held by exiled Canaanite’s out on the continent in the form of unwashed rubber-banded digicash.

Finishing up his drink, leaving the Cafeterium for Regal’s Park to take a sentimental stroll, he re-examined his progress and continued scanning his dodgy work ethics . . . and himself. His conclusion . . .?

A pretty sophisticated and cultured type of dude who wasn’t so refined that he despised football, nor for that matter did he mind being called a dude!

262

Celine Flux

He’d seen much more than his old chums down in Southshires plus stragglers he couldn’t shake down the years. And on that note, his travelling south with Vee to stay with mom, pulling up in his Banana Lex, leggy slicker Vee in-toe, was drawing all types of thermodynamic heat (and hate) from old friends in the tiny town. ‘But, wasn’t it exactly that, what enriches the ongoing life-epic’? This question he’d pose to himself not only now, but on the regz. Yet and still, with a forced hand he remembered a day gone by, that old iconic holograph pushed on him, also recalling when that declaration of jihad was penned, foolishly at the time thinking . . .’ Hey, members with heart like that? I wanna join’!

What Nick did as a teenager (you know, signing on the dotted line . . .? Well that)—amongst lots of other personal stuff—nagged away at him whenever polygraph drifting in and out of R.E.M. on the pillow, where the militia of hope battled his increased sense of corruption, via money-minded engagements, it, beating away there for an indeterminate span below the left side of his upper ribs.

Sober from the quaint reminder, sucked back into the world of toil for comfort, Nick, the sociochameleon, often down-played his varied talents to suit the predicament but, could “kick it” on many levels and topics, be it aimless speculation via systematic questioning or trivial gossip for the sake of entertainment.

Shifting across to affairs of the heart however, after all the career concerns were sorted out in his drowsed-off head taking him into late afternoon, he decided it late enough to head to the crib and run a bath.

If timed correctly, he’d be in it when the patience-trying yet enduring sublove of his era, splendiferous Vee got home and yep, (before you ask again), she was a highly driven-type too, in fact, more like, adversely. He walked the twenty minuets over to his car parked in Tri Kilo, reminiscing about the day he first clapped eyes on her.

‘Excuse, me . . . Miss World, can I ask you something . . .’ he remembered saying. ‘I mean . . . I’d like to ask you something but . . .’

‘But what’? She replied. ‘But, I’m suddenly feeling all reluctant which . . . ahem . . . Which of course I shouldn’t say, but . . .’—younger, less experienced back then, Nick remembered trying to move the subject along. ‘Errm, you’re really pretty . . . by the way’! Apparently running late or unimpressed she began to walk off, turning back once more to smile, then say . . .’ Bye’. Nick lost for words, found some goofy lines

263

BuT See . . . THiS WAS A DiFFeRenT GAMe

to shout just in time. ‘Alright . . . so . . . guess I’ll see you another time, planet or something, the “Otherside” maybe?’ Vienna turned back to resume her journey onwards into the busy street, pedestrians swarming past as the space between them increased. He pointed to his chin. ‘. . . But remember this face lady . . . Iiimmm gonna save the world’! To Nick’s surprise she turned a final time and giggled saying, ‘You coming then . . . superhero’ before skipping back around. Speeding back to the Banana Lex—to beat-off any council warden’s who may have been considering a commission-motivated pounce—then home over in Blood Diamond District, Nick smiled at the whole scene, its entirety playing in his memory banks, finishing off his tea, and reminiscing some more.

264

UNMODIFIED SERVANTS IN THE

HABITAT O-THE SENSES

Regardless of their more recent bickering though, Nick accommodated her slight lifestyle change and increase in working hours, which was to be expected, considering the hotly anticipated success at new “Twig” on the tree, that had now developed into the latest rival on the block. This was the same company she’d been seeking to launch ever since the gap in the market was first highlighted and then pitched for, as the establishment now known to be 731 Filter Systems. Vienna was increasing her input there, working late, launching strategic operations on marked personnel, headhunting them from parallel orgs, including Gammatec, transferred then paraded like some kind of trophy for display.

Vienna saw to it wherever possible, the salaries of opposite luminaries were now out-bide, inviting whichever new prize agent to come over and oil any “oxidization”, bringing with them valuable intel alluring to rumours of private “Infinite-Lives Cheats And Password Funds”, particularly in the much larger institution where Nick worked, strutting itself around Approachville as the crown dominatrix of north-western Europe (where the Britannic Isles are considered part of Scandinavia) the mighty Shadowless Subnano Systems And Classic Industries, which dwarf all other firms in the villa. Because of this, any defectors were paid handsomely by 731, also situated in that district of town along with the rest of those banksta-digistock headquarters, and support-blocks of Immortal Approachville.

Nick was by now at home cooling-out. Large and fluffy, he threw his favourite stolen hotel towel over his soap-rinsed body, falling back on the bed holding the remote control. He turned up the Iberiarabic guitar exhaling a long relaxing ‘Aaahh’, and drifted off to pre-desertified Namibiasia while he waited for Vienna, who was as usual, extremely late.

265

UNMODIFIED SERVANTS IN THE HABITAT O-THE SENSES

‘Roger that, OK, yes we’re coming to ya live via satellite, reporting to you for P-P-Pentagon TV. Yes, it would seem from our files that you, who constructed immense citadels in mile-high medicinal trees, are in fact, the first peoples to search the supercontinental coastline, and seeing nobody else around therefore, claimed the most bio-diverse part as home.

Oh, don’t be startled by the camera, they’re with us . . . So . . . can we have your response to that please . . .’? ‘Ummm click click aaooww aaggh click click’. ‘Translator . . .? Get your butt over here and tell us what this Bushaman just said. Keep rolling keep rolling . . .! And also, we believe you may be able to shed some light on where you originally came from . . .? Err . . . What’s that . . .? We believe he just said—and I quote—‘I emptied my lungs and closed my gills back in the “Tampering with High Explosives Yuga”‘. And now . . . we’re following him, he’s taking us to a clearing . . . this is unbelievable . . . He appears to be . . . what’s this . . .? He seems to be pointing to the sky! He’s alerting us to a star system, the one revealed to rope and boundary men by, Shensi-river, and Indus-valley invading astronomers, then renamed by The Hellenisticals as . . . Galacto Quadrant . . .? Errm, we don’t outerstand this so . . . were gonna hand back over to you . . . Tom in the studio . . . Tom . . .?’ Nick awoke, partially, to the sound of Vienna galloping up the stairs.

266

THIS IS MY WEEDFACE (DEVOTIONAL

SERVITUDE: ANGSTLESS?)

Neon stuck to Omni like glue; standard procedure nowadays, kissing and touching him as they frittered away an exhausting evening at Dublin’s. Since last summer—from Neon’s own point of view—her love life yearned for little more, and this whole bank holiday weekend, particularly enjoyable, cruised by nice and slow-like, with a pleasant warmth too, gratefully accepted by all zones and adjoining shires; a unanimously welcomed sunny twenty-three degrees. It felt special, the mood, straight chill-out day, spent pulling out old tales from the memory lobe and admiring sunset views (sloppy millennium sunworship—Here’s an idea . . . Bypass demigods?)

When the apparent disc up in the sky, that life-giving prenova had completely disappeared for the day, they came back from the spot over where Dubz and his wife lived—that ugly old council high rise across the street. Omni had roped his mind (and Neon’s body) into making some barley coffee upon arrival, along with his favourite junk food . . . a big bowl of sugar puffs on tepid multiple goat’s juice.

Although she hid it well being that all four of them had just been getting on with it, Nivja was becoming increasingly worrisome about any potential situation that could, maybe, arise between her and Neon since Quetzal’s return. Considerably more thoughtful now grown, plus seeing the two of them crossing the street through the kitchen blinds, she figured there was nothing for it, deciding there and then to try and clear things up just as soon as they came in from downstairs. Moments on, the alien-buzzer went off near the front door. ‘Hey Toltec, can you answer that for me please its Niv and Omni’.

Quetzal hurled himself up off Omni’s beanbag and walked over to grab the intercom mouthpiece. ‘Let us up please, I forgot my key’. Not long afterwards Omni burst in just as Nivja put away another plate.

She threw the tea towel over her shoulder. ‘Alright guys’ he offered to all, smiling through the windowed door to see if, and what, Niv had

267

THIS IS MY WEEDFACE (DEVOTIONAL SERVITUDE: ANGSTLESS?)

cooked. As he came through offering obedience’s to his own appetite, pushing it open, with a nosy stare over at pots steaming softly on the cooker, Niv quickly came up to the passageway halting Neon directly behind him, before she had a chance to step into the room all were due to occupy, blinds and windows open onto the constant growl of SE1’s emissions hotspot, Blackfriars Road.

Neon stepped back as Niv edged her into reverse towards the stairs with notable urgency, ‘Err Neon . . .? Can I have a quick word’? ‘Sure, what is it, nothing bad I hope’? ‘Oh, no, nothing bad’ she said looking down through the corner of her eye at Quetzal, and Omni throwing off his hat, reaching behind the TV to change scart-leads then challenge Quetzal to a game of ISS. Noticing she wasn’t in the kitchen yet, he figured right then the best time to try and persuade Neon about snack time, and maybe, give her a motivating slither of the low-fat munchies too. ‘Hey’, he shouted to Neon, about to sit down on the stairs and listen to Nivja ‘You said you’d hook me up’? ‘One sec then Omni . . . bloody hell!’ she tutted, ‘Come . . .’ then she turned around, ‘let’s speak in the kitchen’.

As they turned and walked back through, Neon dropped her jacket down on Omni’s futon beside Quetzal, luckily allowing Niv to step past as unfeatured as possible, with something she deemed personally important, as yet held unsaid. Still trying to tune in the TV Omni pointed from the corner, ‘Yo Toltec you got the remote over there . . .?

Nah the grey one . . .’? Quetzal shook his head moving from the bed to the futon. ‘It’s probably dropped behind the bed again; can you grab it for me please, and press the AV button?’ While Quetzal found the remote helping Omni to set up the stationbox, Niv and Neon began talking in the kitchen, clearing plates and sorting out drinks with appetisers.

‘What is it’?‘It’s about Quetzal: See . . . Since . . .’ ‘Yes . . .’?‘Well since I’ve been with him I’ve wanted to you talk about . . .’

within arm’s reach laid the draining rack with a few glistening glasses tilted precariously beside some mugs; ending her tactful pause she turned them over near the pancakemaid, and then one by one, carefully handled a bunch to go put away ‘. . . with you . . . about . . . Well it’s, I just feel like, it’s only been a few weeks, and we’ve had such a long healing process since he’s been gone . . . walls have come down since us and him, since then—the first time. Can’t forget how we were at school even before him

268

Celine Flux

so . . . I wouldn’t want the fact—me, him, back together—create like, any new walls between us’. Neon smiled, a bit shocked that all this was bothering her on the DL, responding with a long ‘Mmmmm’?—This reply in turn puzzled Nivja, thinking she was doing the right thing,

‘What!’ she exclaimed quietly, still nonplussed by Neon’s smile and ambiguous “Mmmmm” expression, her arms now folded.

So she unfolded them to elaborate, ‘No, it’s just, it’s not like you to get insecure about relationships, it’s quite obvious me and Omni are happy . . . so nah, course it won’t divide us . . . at all’ ‘Good!’ Niv was relieved. ‘I thought this would take us into, some, sort of area 101 or something’. Neon hugged Niv smiling, ‘Don’t be silly . . . I wouldn’t get all salty, I’m happy for the two of you Niv, you’re my best friend, OK, So uh-uh, don’t worry I’m good, Don’t think of it as betraying friendship or anything, I’d never accuse you of stealing . . .! Actually, all that—what me and him went through before—it hardly counts does it . . .’?

Completely realizing the absurdity, Niv left adjudication on sixthform rival-love-matters strictly to Neon, and busy kicking herself now and sort of stunned, she had nothing to say. ‘Things have developed so much since we’ve all met again . . . Sun Paulo’s his home, he’s like a changed person—he’ll probably want you to go back with him!’ ‘You reckon?’

‘Yea . . . and as for us, well we’ve made sure it stayed constant since reuniting so . . .’ Nivja felt alleviated, looking over Neon’s shoulder at Quetzal, him and Omni still playing the ISS rowdy hooligans. ‘I just thought, maybe I was being a little discourteous. I remembered you two were in love once before, so coz of that I thought it only proper that I . . .’ Neon helped pack away the crockery. That prompted Niv to get back to what she was doing also. ‘Yea but that was yeeeaaars ago Niv, We were kids, and in case you hadn’t noticed Omni quite likes him too’!

They looked back through the window of the kitchen, with its thin wire mesh, holding some of their attention on the front room in order to keep their convo from the other two.

Neon slung her hair back and grabbed some milk from the fridge.‘You know what? I can’t even believe we even argued over a man

back then. In fact all I see is irony in Quetzal’s return. Ain’t nothing bad in getting hit by the love juggernaut, I’m sure given the choice you would have dodged it, for convenience sake’?

‘Would have dodged what’? Omni came into the kitchen grabbing up a whole hand of bananas . . . and kissed Neon. ‘Oh nothing to worry your little brain about’—The two of them blushed, unsure how much

269

THIS IS MY WEEDFACE (DEVOTIONAL SERVITUDE: ANGSTLESS?)

of the conversation Omni picked up. ‘You two are up to something . . . What is it? Tell me’!

‘It’s nothing. Now take these drinks go back in the front room, I’ll be out in a minuet with the cereal’

‘OK but it better not be nothing about me you know . . .? Or else . . .’! Omni went back to beat Quetzal at cybah-soccer with his fruit and the drinks. He placed them on the table. ‘Hey I think they’re talking about us in there’, he picked up his joypad, ‘Dunno bout you but I’ve judged guilty . . . Look at them’! Quetzal looked over the futon and smiled, ‘I think your right’. Neon and Niv tried to contain their giggles and look busy. ‘Yea you see, even Quetzal agrees, but the punishment’s being suspended till later though’ ‘Later huh?’ Neon replied. ‘Sounds racy Omni!’ shouted Niv but looking at Neon (who felt like stamping on Niv’s foot). ‘Yea, the punishment is digs in the ribs, no mercy’ he yelled unpausing his game. Neon and Niv laughed. ‘You won’t be laughing when I’ve done with you Neon, I’m serious’

‘Oh yeeaa . . .?’ He heard over the running tap. ‘Yeeaa, he joked,‘Deep digs in ribs’!!

270

SUCKING HISTORICAL HORSES**T OFF

BACKGROUND RADIATION

Work life considered and, although she was putting up a good front for Nick, Vienna’s home-life steam engine, oppositely, was not chugging along to well at all, too busy sniffing around with compulsion, her wet nose of intrigue trailing that puzzling stench of neo-industrial and possible cooperate dirt at rival Gammatec, the almost robotic arm of Shadowless Subnano Systems which she hoped, if verified and peer reviewed, would finally knock them down to size culminating in a large retirement-shaped digicheque from that bighouse enemy of theirs in Shadowless Towers—Little did she know, the afterwork snooping was getting her in turn snooped upon! Proximity wires had already been tripped months ago when she sent sub-contracted CPU jackalteams stepping over into a Shadowless Tracewall, alerting Gammatec mid-superiors of her two pronged cybah discoveries and expeditions of greedyological digs.

Gammatec had been watching this fledgling company Vienna managed, rapidly expand over recent years to become a credible marketplace challenger, noting all underhand and sneaky directive styles, factoring it into their leap-year personnel appraisal and now for Gammatec, reshuffle time had come; new heads were requisite as the annual company shakedown was virtually upon them.

Vienna, after negotiating acceleration of special diversion assets from Düsseldorf parent Maestro Keyholders, into 731, then growing-on from a neophyte branchlet, subsequently this company more than once, had made the front page of Immortal Approachville’s Freesheet as the gong-swiping “Filter Unit”, pictured like a rampaging Killahwhale, exuberantly chasing all sea life from tiny Spurilina to marauding Hammerheads. They even had eyebrows rising further out, actually right through the Tri Kilo yapperatti goldfish bowl, where her determined ambitious strain was craved all over, especially in Immortal Aproachville.

271

SuCKinG HiSTORiCAl HORSeS**T OFF BACKGROunD RADiATiOn

In order for Gammatec to now coax her from 731, Vee had been suggested as a Shadowless candidate, to be personally checked out then no doubt bribed by top dog Mr Rella offering both his tits instead of Düsseldorf ‘s one. The Gammatec overbosses already knew he kept one of the four chambers in his heart open for just such candidates, holding close any particularly corrupted people, using them to further his own acquisitions; these expendable employees abnormally vulturous, deemed deserving of such treatment. Seeing intel files on Vienna, and past her smalltime chessgames, convinced, positive, that daring persons such as this—having the cannonfire as a non-employee, to act on impulses telling her to interfere in Gammatec/Shadowless Subnano in the first place!—were vital on his company’s “other tier”, where he could feed off her, or anyone’s, harassing obsessions of world domination and with his long hands and deep pockets, could oversee the slow fill of their cup, taking his “marked ones” from reasonably ignorant, to higher levels of passion where, if unable to resist, the senses could be hedon-gratified.

272

U DOWN PLAY IT, I GO THERE

Unaware Vienna was about to lead an industry climb-over from her 731 foxhole via German chairmembers and management go-aheads, Nick, from his perspective thought all this work immersion was beginning to change things. So one morning feeling unrested and all mixed-up he unwisely decided on the simple act of hinting to his concerns. He, wrongly as it turned out, chose this course through the start of his day while heavy-legging it sleepily down the hallway, not realizing she’d react with utter love-breaking devastation to hear critique from such a supposed close one. After this they became even less close.

By the time he approached their crisp, closed-plan kitchen, yawning and wiping away incrustations of eye-matter, he’d already as usual begun the deep regret of pointing this out to her, sort of assuming Vienna would respond differently . . . rather (like any normal person?) like him—just look puzzled and say “point taken, yet again, and your request is being processed, yet again” or something similar . . .—(I mean daymn, he was only trying to enlighten in the name of “I gotcha back, but you’re best to watch ya front” . . . Thanx Maximillion)!

Slamming down her coffee cup Vee’s back was turned when he entered, almost sitting on ugly Kubrick! This was not a good start. Burnt toast scrapings in the sink? Compact glossy supplement pages separated on the floor covering the dog piddle? ‘I asked you to let Kubrick on the balcony last night’ she wrenched, throwing down the sponge in the sink. He was starting to sense it must be her cycle of the moon or an ill-timed choice of topic, but across the breakfast table he persevered with the assisting thoughts, saying to quietly himself . . . “I’ve started so I’ll finish”. So he spoke—over the tinny-sounding radio—telling her of his observations: She was taking on a “I told you so” swagger around the flat, radiating “attitude” with him, and bringing too much of her work through the front door. Any request to take it easy can always be articulated better that’s for sure and her reaction was more synonymous with a persecuted prophet! So she missed the palpable fact that he was also expressing pride, a pride which could’ve probably matched hers!

273

u DOWn PlAY iT, i GO THeRe

Nick invariably did his best to partake and share in Vee’s success, taking care at any weekend assemblies to look exquisitely vintage-Bond, and supportive, at her joint-account-taxing dinners of self-importance.

That’s where the cloak and dagger rules crossed over late into the pm and the two fronted at their clandestine best, gliding through the series of evening protocols slowly playing out, “tryin’ it on” like classic wide-screen movie roles or something.

These impeccable young loves were introduced with modern bleach-gel smiles, and shook hands over crystal glasses as the get-going twosome, Mr and Mrs Edison, although Vienna outside of these gatherings, wherever she could, always used Miss Vikingson for negotiation leverage, her distinguished mother’s maiden name.

With equal amounts of all-cheekbone and eyebrowing beauty the diners saw an evidently solid couple. They were both tall, dark at that time, and together had a very “now” look about them. A match made in heaven most would have thought? Confessional pillow talk about life, love, and kids happened early, years ago in fact, when both of their passionate ambitions pointed only one direction.

That same night Vee sprung a terrible revelation. Tearfully, she told him about what scarred her psyche to this day, and was the reason behind all her passive-hostility. For hours she lay, under moonlight, giving sustenance to reality’s non-substantial nature, describing to Nick how she was witch hunted—(cetchin’ a universal beatdown in the process!)—and then ostracised at college: This was one big sun-tzu-style-designer-lie of course; her reflection of an illusion but still, it (understandably) struck Nick right in the compassion-box. She made him promise never to bring it up ever again, which he agreed to, so when the deception finally faded behind younger life events, it had no significant effect on their future partnership.

Many years of grating pressure on Nick from Aubrey were fobbed off, denying his seed-sowing hormones—yearning time which passed its way up to the present and steadily, the urge came though, from before marriage, and even now, recently . . . and this Vienna knew! She was aware Nick had been pining for kids and was more than ready to incorporate the event into his future projections. Those picturesque visuals over in the tiny playground of legless toddlers stumbling towards Mommy just compounded things, it had Nicky boy pressing that trusty hidden pendant, his old rose coloured healing quarts onto his temporarily aching chest and dropping off into a momento of wishful thinking.

274

MOVE, OR ILL LEAVE NO CHOICE

BUT TO MAKE YOU

Vee made the jump from her Public Relations lane to Nick’s highway a decennium past and was not about to go putting the career, in which she was already playing catch-up, on hold to raise any adopted kids, especially when she knew the time now was coming to drop him, mind leaning much more towards family these days. This was a “change” for the worst, “too costly”, and to Vienna, the constant pining for—presumably until acquired—considered a mere “bad habit”, she claimed after a heated debate. ‘Given the choice’, Vee pointed out blankly one night both coming in from a bar, she’d, ‘refuse to bare that pain’. At this, Nick at the time threw himself down on the settee and looked weirdly at her, knowing lots of women came out with this nonsense contumaciously, out of fear from all those childbirth and labour-pain-licensed war stories.

‘No way, no no no uh-uh, I can’t, I’m a busy girl about town too you know, besides’ she said ‘as everyone probably already assumes . . .’—(she blatantly doesn’t care), they—and her—considered herself, ‘a person who dresses way too fly to push’. Unremorseful till the end she declared this in stiff defiance, brushing off shoulders, standing there waiting in anger before taking off her shirt n’ shall then heading off to bed, her whole outfit having this Mexican horseback-ranger twist for the night, including matching, barely legal Alligator boots!

This frozen-solid stance of hers on the subject was interpreted by Nick as merely the rebelliousness of youth. With his mind edging more to the lines of patience he left behind his disbelief, convinced surly that if time itself was given time, it’d make her more fluid to this stomach cramping but almost religious concept, ultimately raising her bio-maternal volume to unignorable levels. Jaw retracting, almost off the floor, he couldn’t even bug-out over what she was saying—Maybe it was the shock but Nick fully expected over time for that (increasingly popular stance nowadays) to buckle under the weight of pre-destined nurturehood.

275

MOVe, OR ill leAVe nO CHOiCe BuT TO MAKe YOu

But the real glitch upcoming, was, he didn’t truly innerstand just how focused she was on her extending innings at 731—in due course though, Nick would find out, as her wardrobe, as well as her position towards all things work orientated had metamorphosed by now, into an alter beast, equipped for extreme-life on the harsh air-pressure planet of obsession. A preoccupying fixation, only partially hidden, unfortunately misconstrued by Nick as just a prana-deferring over-eagerness for current undertakings.

276

BITCH I’M EXPLAINING

THE WAY TO MY HEART!

Having all the disarming looks of an air hostess, and with ex-boyfriend Gerard-sponsored veneers, Mary soon acquired status at 731 for being pretty big on office gossip and actually, come to mention it, pretty big herself (mostly on the upper arms, thighs) and visibly sucked in by miniskirt round the gut (due to those among us claiming to be civilized man and our flesh-eating diet, which unlike real flesh eaters, inefficiently breaks down in the gut for 18hrs compared to a lions 4)—deplored by that glossy sticking out her handbag but still, by way of this slaughterhouse-convenience-thing we all seem to have, proving a real struggle to phase out, especially when walking home from work along the high street with all its temptations?

Most of the men of course, inebriated with mike-pon-cock would over look this wobbly detail but not our Mr conceited ex of hers, a Gerard Wilks, him being half Thai and megafit (a fiscal industry demand nowadays). He couldn’t bring himself to breach the subject of sag during their brisk professional romance, so, with the intricacies of English mannerisms not being that well understood in the first place, he fell back on the issue, cultural graciousness barely holding like a dam to the ways of, not just the flab turning him off, but inside trading data and outside office—the more in shape—trouserskirt chasing of cool digipaper.

Young Gerard, hard bodied and hard working, was lured to 731 by aromas of Maestro bonuses which Vienna kept advertising in those freesheets (which killed spreadsheets and hopefully conventional journalism altogether), or in aggressive emailing tactics to competing houses in the ville. She always made grand promises to potential employers, and with a handful of cybah-soldiers already working over at 2nd rival Wirecom, he, and others, were drafted into 731 where superficial looks (low moral standards? nah couldn’t be) played quite a big part on the housefloor.

277

BiTCH i’M exPlAininG THe WAY TO MY HeART!

Unknown to Nick—and power-bar-abusing Mary—Vee had already slept with Gerard back when he first signed up with 731 over a year ago. Now Gerard and Mary had, regrettably for him, gotten it on while drunk behind The Mermaid, the main noisy pub after work, sparking more than a few rumours and ruining prospects with any other 731 women, each finding out in due time through Mary’s unfortunate confirmation; something braggable like this would be impossible for her to avoid, Mary being the big juicy office gossip that she is.

Things were seemingly fine between the two of them, that’s up until one evening at Rendezvous Hotel, where they met up as usual and Gerard’s vanity got the better of him while admiring his, and her, work-renowned physical assets. On the way to the toilet (swilling off his dillz) he began worrying about “that gut” of hers, pissing and thinking back to when the lights were on and the clothes were peeling off—(Gerard loved racks of lamb while not realising, as a young geezer, that if she lost the gut n’ butt, she’d most lightly lose the wine rack also!)—Therefore, being ultimately unsatisfied in the brief romance he called it off. She was upset at first but Wilks, the constantly gardening charmer, wormed his way onto the more useful (and comfortably appropriate) friendship platform, while always praying she’d be merciful on him when dishing up the dirt and popping off sexual revelations in the workplace, like he deep down, always knew she would.

Mary Quadra, Anita Berkley, Nadine Nicholson and other, more younger gizzard-heads at 731, often met in the staff smoking room, or at the watercooler for a gabfest, scrutinizing and picking apart anybody in sight, or mind. These girls except for stuffy Vienna, pubbed, lunched and talked multimedia steez, (mouths and ears totally interchangeable), from when they started work until they’d finish and if Mary (or any of the girls) saw unlucky Gerard walk by, she’d be left virtually unable to resist such tittle-tattle regarding the short proprietorship of his short tickle-tackle (get it)?

But of all of them Apollonya Devlin was nothing like this. She did her thing out there yes, once with Gerard, then once with his Bubble-headed upper-colleague, Evan Richards; in fact she’d been putting it about to bosses all over Tri Kilo since secretly arriving from the Prussian republic, and that’s partly how she got so close to Vienna’s position, sent from Maestro to keep an ambitious eye on Vienna, Vee even to this day, still made unaware of the Düsseldorf recommendation that she observe for

278

Celine Flux

recon and then report back. So now, a snugly fitted-in surveillance-ops Apollonya was on the man-eating network also, but different to Mary or Nadine and Anita, her, rather, working from the restricted westward-facing office area as part of Vee’s management fleet, just patiently laying in the cut, serving the Düsseldorf Keyholders covertly, exercising patience and waiting on a come-up for her own chance to shine.

At first Vee never had many reservations about giving Mary, an over-sturdy but cheerful and enthusiastic girl, the job of secretarial assistant. ‘She’s pretty enough, hell, if I was a man?’ Vienna thought during the interview, ‘I’d probably be sleeping with her myself ’! So Vienna—unusually for such a sharp-sinewy-nose-job—broke under Mary’s impassioned pleas, about east Zone4 being more like prison, and how her family indulged in daily wargames due to whatever inconsequential incident of the day that wasn’t to be granted, probably components of happenings so lowly and mundane, as brother Antonio’s decaying clothes causing a health hazard somewhere near the laundry basket.

These sharp scalpels of embellished woe somehow cut into Vee’s hard interior and Mary was allocated the position, but only after her new boss’s pointing out of the lamb-rack hoisted up to the cheekbones, and being warned to “discard” 30lbs of voluptuous-contemptuous curve, soon, or she’d be discard—“ed” from greeting clients on the front desk.

Since then, although real sociable, bubbly, and never at her desk—an unacceptable amount of times now—Vienna or Apollonya had caught Mary leaning against a vending machine drabbling improprieties, chewing on trans-glutamates and kilocals of lab-sweeteners. When other times Vienna picked up the phone to the reception area, all too often she’d already skived-off, and once caught, Mary would be placed on her “final warning”, then still, either through fearlessness or ignorance, she’d often not be found with her broad bum where it should be . . . on her desk chair! which often left Vee having to hang up, after ringing through, to go waste valuable time looking around lower floors, time and again finding Mary flirting or fiddling about with somebody’s hair, or if not that, then in the toilets with Nadine and Anita squawking about on black marble tiles in vulgar-red heels, applying matching lippy over clashing foundation.

The Quadra family consisted of Dad, whose band-of-brother-co-workers, all presently fighting redundancy over in the large car plant

279

BiTCH i’M exPlAininG THe WAY TO MY HeART!

of east Zone5, was anti-immigration, social club beer-swilling, and unaware people were yanking monoliths across peninsulas before Anglicizer Norsemen with Grimaldian blueprints (huh)? Mary also had an award-pinching anti-housewife as a Mother, lobster-tone. And can’t leave out or forget knucklehead Antonio; the eighteen year old would-be army marine, with a collection of meatcleavers and ninja stars nailed to his mutilated wallpaper (unfortunately right next to Mary’s own bedroom).

Antonio was still manifestly primitive, unmodified, and enjoyed nothing better than hanging out on his street corner with “the lads”.

Mary and Antonio’s rooms hadn’t been decorated since kidolescence, and thus, both in corresponding colours of boyish blue smelling like iguana piss, and until she can afford her own place, she’s still stuck in her little dolly-pink sanctuary, of course messy and unkept, and just like the rest of the house, blatant sponsored-chaos theory.

So with Vienna only half knowing about Mary’s distractions at home, all this amateurish timekeeping at work—an ongoing problem—had begun to occur with too much regularity, but the last thing Vee wanted to do right then was find a replacement—the “ongoing problem” as described, had her cursing the day she bypassed instinct and granted Mary the job!

Apollonya had saved Mary’s vortrekking-de-boer on quite a few occasions, so lately considered more than a nuisance (considering such poor attendance) and now, our miss Mary Quadra and Vee hardly got on at all anymore . . . well not now, not since that charge of office inefficiency, when Vee caught her stealing inkjet cartridges and copying Conservative youth movement posters in her lunch hour, by the kilothousand!

* * *

280

“SATTA WID YA BALL AND CHAIN”

(TALES OF THE HOCKLEY HANDCUFF)

Being completely submerged at 731 with irrational deadlines, trying in vain to hit Maestro targets the overworked Vienna—fending off constant natterings of sexually slack Mary—as Operational Spearhead, was this year feeling heavily under the cosh. But after satisfying her silent superiors, sufficiently displaying those human passion-driven qualities (hopefully recognized by the reader of this scribe as undesirable, yet useful, especially for the determined type; yeah those qualities that get the job of completing objectives, done) she had thus proved herself and unwittingly graduated, “broken off ” with a pass, a recommendation that, if fortunate enough, gained one entrance to a coextensive arena in the form of Dragonfly Clearance, sharing confidential data with a more connected fold. In this equidistant place sporting stripy white collars didn’t necessarily qualify, or get a candidate with hankerings of inclusion, any kind of access to this Netherworld of secretive and illegal work activities.

One evening without informing Nick of her covert invite to what became some strange parameter inquisition, the boss within the Shadowless Society of Freemovers, which included Shadowless Subnano Systems and therefore Gammatec, personally sent over his gunmetal grey Stretch-Japo to go pluck Vienna while he ate, him, mellowing with his orbicul of Shadowless Societarians, she, scooped up from 731’s car park where she now worked late consecutively. From there would begin for Vienna that familiar, product of one’s labour, membrane-piercing greasy pole assent up to the next card, an experience synonymous with all fruitive action for par-essential comfort-: Labelled as “wants and needs” these can on occasion have people of this class including her, entering some pretty dangerous places.

The moment she stepped into that vehicle her hoax-inauguration began. The door popped open slightly as she halted her approach,

281

“SATTA WID YA BALL AND CHAIN” (TALES OF THE HOCKLEY HANDCUFF)

partially showing sleek, invitingly warm upholstery, agreeable to Vienna’s taste.

She continued in, mentally noting the decorative stylo as they pulled up outside the low-rise Dragons Arsana II, a casino and restaurant complex built to replicate its older Amerindian-based brother in the gambling quarter of Santa Monica, over in Mohawkfornia.

Vienna looked through the car window and saw him; the vastly influential Mr Aum B Rella, fully fed, looking polished (courtesy of his concubine personal assistant fluttering about with clothes brush) being handed his half-smoked Doncontra Panamanian Cigar. Vee cleared her long throat as she bounced across to the other seat, nudging her famously fragrant but thin-from-over-styling, highlighted gone-blonde-lately hair, in preparation, trying not to observe his incalculable, immortal approach.

Mr Rella ducked, entering the threshold, holding his phone with Shadowless logo, emitting low, neat sound from his voice box, like some news network correspondent with an earpiece, hushing speech on stand-by. Straight away he noticed rich indulgent purple velvet cloth, then tiny chrome-dusted belt, the only feature on her slick, minimal mode dress, sitting back, nodding to the driver who then began to float this long Limo-like car down the road.

He concluded his call, flipping the clamshell-moby shut before revealing anything too juicy on the topic in discussion, noticing Vienna, trying to lock his quietly spoken sentences onto her Killbox, ready to dispatch an enthusiastic missile, popping forth ideas she could later use to her advantage. Checkmating and subduing any crafty ideas Mr Rella leaned forward, flicking his highly coveted brand of cigar into the ashtray like an expert, while relaxing music—Shadowless Omni-Movements Concerto—an orchestral force he personally bribed into amalgamation—played adeptly in the background. The streetlights flashed by during their journey to his veiled Penthouse.

Relaxed, he uncrossed his top leg, fixing upon her a bullet-proof stare, measuring her profile against expectation as they travelled through town, appearing to twinkle under navy-blue shadowsplash. Assessment initiated Vienna was now scrutinized by a sequence of Shadowless sentences, beginning with the sending of a few expendable and enticing pawns. With no shadow himself, using neuron-lingo modus operandi, Mr Rella established his authority cleverly, blitzing the rational map, bringing his chin down toward his tie before speaking to make Vienna

282

Celine Flux

feel like she was doing something wrong. It was working, and with head atilt measuring pauses he spoke, softly, zenfro, on her requirements.

‘Seeing, as you were recommended by one of my Shadowless trackers, as, an astute overseer, of fiscal investitures, and of course, assuming you want to be included in this parallel campaign of mine—Gammatec Mirrorless PLC—then you and the rest of my, personally selected fund pitchers, would be required to customize all other incoming org-appraisers’. Smirking, to which Vee responded only with micro-movements he continued. ‘It’d be your job to make irrefutable offers. So once settled, with hands on the steering wheel, utilizing all the best merchant accounts as backative, I’d want part of a team to go in, modernize any under-performing or diluted firms at least EQ equity before off-loading, that’s at minimum, then it’d take you Vienna, to submit everyone’s quarterly balance blankets to Shadowless Superiors’.

Vee’s excitement made her cheeks red when Mr Rella concluded. ‘As long as you live up to your previous banking repertoire, then, this’ll be the way to triplicate more Barbedwire Bond sale sheets than you’ll ever get to sign for them lot, over in Düsseldorf ’!

283

LABELLED-EGO, AND DOLODELF,

WELL . . . IT’S THE PLANE OF LOVERS?

Mr Rella, lean slick and irresistibly mean, flooded the passenger section with musty smoke, tyrannical aroma, unfamiliar and oppressive. It sat above cooler air, disguising her intense enthusiasm, high off presex hormones, shifting off her tricky underwear, it—her G-buttonmorph—mushrooming, legs together, hip bones, up to breast and collar, associated tendons, cartilage, fibres, all in tangy, acute command.

‘I’ve been hearing useful things Vienna’, he muttered slow, exhaling, softly clicking down a switch flashing multicoloured on his armrest, reaching over at qikung-speed with the other arm, to meet a see-though plastic cup, being pneumatically pushed out from the built-in H2o filtration device, engraved with tiny characteristic Shadowless hallmark. Vienna—looking around, metaphorically tasting the rind of personally dispensed medication—was beginning to feel a bit like a baited shark, finding herself in this uncanny situation laced with lots of potential: The taste of zest was an overdue punishment showing on her face, insufficiently veiled by receding smoke.

She began to lose reason, and finding all this pretty hard to take in, starring out once more through the one-way window, onto phantasmal eerie-blue carriageways leading to Zone2, and 3, the roads criss-crossing outwards south west from them on the busy Highwind Hill Street, then right out to the horizon.

Like fragmental matter in transit the vehicle moved on, stately-like, out to his place he named his hallowed Citispot, situated at the eight top floors and known commercially as Shadowless Residentials, many degrees above and separate to the Gammatec section of shiny, imposing, Shadowless Towers. Moments extended; latched from his previous words Vienna was stunned, unsure how to respond to the choice of “useful things”. With his ears half on the speaker above, spurting regular forecasts and projections of ominous pre-storm warnings, Mr Rella carried on with his current strand of thought.

284

Celine Flux

‘Surly you know Vienna; your skills would be better served over with us, at my baby project, Mirrorless’? Slipping his phone into his pocket the second barrel of his question burst and spread wide like pellet-buck spray, ‘People with useful ideas, who know how to be cut throat upon request, they can be used in a . . . well let’s say . . . a more recently acquired, annexed area of my corporation . . . Think about it’. Just as the car pulled up, sitting poised, straight and effortlessly from the obliques Mr Rella uncrossed his top leg and got out.

He took Vienna’s hand and escorted her from his own personal car park, over to a tiny Flemish retro elevator only he, as proprietor, had access to. A bell sounded then the elevator hit ground floor. Vienna took her gaze off his freshly-fragrance-embalmed lips and placed them on the entrance. After taking only a couple of steps in and turning around to see Mr Rella following, his inner torch shining on her fleshy seat, she tantalized him, swiftly reversing to enter fully, grabbing the long, stainless steel support handle, leaning her upper back against the dimly lit tiny cubicle wall, her femicage, raised, shoulders, pinched down and hands behind the waist, revealing great conditioning. A slender smile arose as she called his name, ‘So . . . Mr Rella, those sharp edges . . .’, without moving her neck Vee rolled her eyes up to meet his own, ‘I guess all we can do is, feel for them’? She expanded her smile.

Intrigued by his smell, his look (and that his money came in the form of digital maliaplastic) Vienna willingly allowed herself to be tugged into this extensively groomed ante meridian scented garden, an upper echelon, where abusing trusty out-of-hours expense accounts can take on a whole new meaning.

Brighter, stepping through the shifted door, it exposed his short and sleek hair, greying at the sides. Two, large, moon-lit Agassi vs. Stefi-sized spaces came into Vee’s view, bordered by massive welded sheets of glass making up fantastically crystalline walls—As she followed him looking over her shoulder . . . two tennis court-sized areas more!—Nearly every fixture or fitting, except for black screws, were created out of glass and buffed to apparent excellence. To clash and bare their form, the doors were machine-sanded to appear opaque, while the ceiling, walls and partitions, were left transparent but glare resistant, and because, Shadowless Towers was by far the tallest building in the static-charged lively night sky, there was no use for any curtains.

285

LABELLED-EGO, AND DOLODELF, WELL . . . IT’S THE PLANE OF LOVERS?

With one raised aquiline, stingray-like eyebrow Vienna aimed her clear-glossed finger nail downward, ‘Is that yours too’?

Fiberopto-flirtations, a mere sport now, Mr Rella looked down with a grin and popped his collar. The impression was of floating, lit to mirror heaven, see-through beneath them, which led the eyes to spiral steps, many metres deep, also made of an ultra-thick glass, twirling down to his pool, gym, and beyond, with other decadently-lit areas just in sight beyond that—walking across something so transparent underfoot, felt weird; some perilous, novel sensation.

A large wire-lynched plasma hung down from his temple-high roof where everything sparkled, with a pulley-like network up in the centre, partially catching, bending lightwaves to their weight, metallic, like a web above, suspending clear picture frames and electronics, the wide interface screen, dominant from a relatively long distance, displaying rolling Bloomberg coverage on mute, with moderately roaring fireplace section directly beneath, barely shimmering, it’s representing light, elemental, more noticeable, coming through sheet after vertical sheet of glass, twisting various reflections as she walked by and stopped, to look around some more, taking it all in. There, adjusting the eyes lens, posed one single lotus, in a small pot on the mantelpiece, beside a politically dissected globe, held up by more chrome wire, lit by two electrocandles.

Peeping his “glide ‘n’ zoom” (thanx Mr Xcitment) these two breathtaking floors Vienna was witnessing sat like icing upon the very top of the main Shadowless Tower—It must have been the worlds illest, self-contained, temperature-controlled bachelor pad ever conceived of for a middle aged secretive Thrillseeker.

Prolonging his cooperate glide out of sight, over to the other side of the apartment, Mr Rella clicked his fingers to adjust the heat, slowly stripping off his suit (along with untouchable superhuman feel) to walk through his hydrasystem goggles in hand, consisting of racks upon racks of showerheads, another exclusive facet, installed, all along one portion of cloudy vinyl-like surfaces, of a corridor now turned bathroom. He looked through to Vee and pointed to his far right, kicking items of clothing towards a nearby basket while making a request, rather loudly,

‘Two icewaters please!’, then, leisurely, he stepped in, arms stretched, tree pose, before his yawn and twirl into torrents of spray, cleansing and

286

Celine Flux

forceful. Vienna, feeling over-honed n’tuned-up beyond a shadow of a doubt by this, watching Mr Rella completely chizzled and dimple-arsed, step into his massive steamed hall of showerstreams, decided there and then to abort her life with Nick, with immediate effect.

287

FROM UP HERE, I CAN PINPOINT D EXACT

LOCATION OF SPACE!

Mr Rella stepped out of the hydrasystem, dropped his goggles onto a hook and then briefly stepped into a silver-plated deodorization cell.

Fat-and-body-hair-free, Vienna couldn’t look; when he disappeared she peeped trough into his kitchen. Bonsai trees, two, ornamented the counter either side of a big oblong vase—a bold feature, with a slim wine bottle neck, holding only a few flower stalks to penetrate the eyes, striking them for effect. Walking over now, through quaint corridor, introducing more to amplified intrigue, a massive north Africasian fruit-tray appeared also, antediluvian, decorating another large, apparently unused, spotless surface. As she stepped in looking at the trays contents, a small pyramid of waxed limes lay displayed with spring onions parachuting outward from the gaps between, like fireworks—altogether, a brilliantly unusual stack of deep green shades that posed rich and proud in the room, attracted onward, stepping around the kitchens attributes, viewing the whole scene as it boldly contrasted against the conceptualized blank canvass of clear walls, bordering all in total.

Industrial grind patterns graced the aluminium-shine, dual-door fridge-freezer, set like grandiloquent Kamun chambers in the corner.

Large panels lay opposite kitted out with built-in oven, a separate extractor unit above, a H2o filtration system and television, complete with popular Amerindian right-wing talkshow host providing aesthetic chefroom-glow, all other appliances too, framed in well-chosen, gouged, scoured, metal-grain design. An old oriental cast-iron teapot, blackened, and matching griddle device lay on the central station beside an unused wok—All this, his debonair choice material taste, plus being Shadowless Superior, CEO-commander, supreme puppeteer of Gammatec Shareholdings, certainly helped later, in melting Vienna’s stockings and increasingly clammy undergarments entirely off!

Nearly dry and finishing up Mr Rella called to Vee, still looking, around the place, then on, out to other skyscrapers in the zone, city

288

Celine Flux

windows randomly lit, open palm, just short of smacking her own half-open gob! Mr Rella had her dizzy inside, ensnared by wonder, and driving home had expected it; now indoors but a few clear rooms apart, he made allowances for Vee’s obvious all-round impression. He stepped out of his custom-spec Bodidrya and added to her peaking sense of awe, proudly indexing aloud, in an otherwise silent house, through all his acquired firstworld artefacts neatly organized about the place; treasure, from pre-herstorical myriad nations, lost, either via climate or conquest, and now hoarded, in possession of men such as himself who rocked multi-lock briefcases. He skipped, like a broken slate, across his plenitude of interests in sub-high branches of knowledge, as well as artistic disciplines, including his leanings for highly refined neo-classical (grafted from ab-classical in turn grafted from classical) culture.

His scantily bound activities, unrestricted in the (relatively high) stirred-up state of desire, from the mini-macroview of Vienna’s captive imagination, stretched and pushed out into the distance like an arch over all passion-driven fruitive workers Gaiawide. He seemed to have extended his cooperate-share-cropping fingers everywhere—although sadly, these spindles of interest, reaching far from Mr Aum B Rella’s metaphorical corona, didn’t leap over the urban world from human spirits highest possible pinnacle . . . not quite . . . no. But still, those futuristic limb-like tentacles of curiosity held taut it’s corrupted and then sacrificed, soul-absorbing company skin, way above the features of Zone1. Big neonred illumi-curves, shot out from that lofty apex point like wondering knuckles of inquiry, downward, from the highly irresistible plane certain people like to call somesthesia.

289

WHY VOTE WITH BILLS OF A

CHILD-GRABBING RING? (I DONT GET IT)

A Fire department Chopper swerved and mumbled through the post-storm-clouded sky. No longer listening, with Mr Rella sounding preoccupied, Vienna’s attention turned with her body to face the long glass counter over in the distance. So shoes in hand, she slowly headed to what appeared to be a bar area, mentally feeling her way through corner after sharp-edged corner of maze-like glass shards fixed permanent.

By the time she reached, Mr Rella, tall, duly moisturised and waxed from the neck down was already half dressed. He joined Vienna, lifting her coat and purse off his distinct designer workstation along the way, OCD-style. Wearing just a thin Burmese sarong and babypowder his shaved rucksack appeared to be swinging lower than his semi-hoisted lance, due to the heat of the shower. Vee looked slyly down her nose and noticed his groin area through multiple puncture patterns in the material as he mounted the unusually high stool, one palm on the bar counter, and one on the stool, simultaneously chin-dipping up to sit, contracting triceps in order to swing up to his seat.

He moved in closer, covertly noticing Vienna’s underhanded peek. So, slowly leaning in, purposely tantalizing, he reached past his and took a sip of her tall, misty, translucent beaker of icewater. She watched on, moist, perturbed from sensations in the deep deep ocean of her flamboyant, gutsy femininity, zenfro, just watching, low-cut purple Parisian Noirish dress, assisting the contours of her body, her forehead propped up, thin hair leaving her face, straight, then feathered, cascading down, dictated by gravity towards her elbow planted on the counter, one temple gently suspended against her two finger tips, letting her medium sized chain drip with links of varying lengths, oval, medium, then smaller still, stretching in a random fashion to hold in the centre, a petal-like star of Ether-opia, and a smaller Zarconallah starstone, each point of this

290

Celine Flux

dangling quasar round her neck, filed-down and rounded off to give a curvy, bulbous look. As she semi-faced him it swung, a few times, like a pendulum. The games began in Vienna’s dome; she was wide open, receptive, and determined to catch his deep pass.

291

ALL DRESSED UP 4 A PACKET OF NOODLES

SO ENGAGE THE CORE

Mr Rella (conveniently smelling once more of spritzy shower gel), was awake well before Vienna wearing only a pen in one hand, and writing on some printed paper held in the other, sat in crunch position against three grey pillows, the matching sheet swept over his knees forming a makeshift desk. ‘Good morning’ he whispered in a deep mellow voice to Vee slightly rousing. As she turned over in the bed he closed the plastic file on his lap and slid it under the pillows, throwing the pen down on the floor beside him. Her mind drifted off briefly, replying with a scratchy sounding ‘Hi’, onto her usual early morning mascara tracks that would no doubt have spread, with liner, across her eyelids and most likely out to her cheeks, not forgetting flattened tether-waves which had all but disappeared by now.

She looked up through the ceiling-turned-immense window. There seemed no point of reference out there except for planet Ra, and, unsettlingly near cloud-like trails left behind by planes on their way to Five Terminals Airport, jet smoke expanding like fluff into the sharp blue morning sky. The brightness outside forced her to exchange an exemplary standardized waking frown for a defeated arm-shade-seeking squint. A strong gaze diagonally down through the floor and downstairs wall brought into her focus, yellow rotary heli-pad markings on the handful of rooftops outside. Catching the sun, like peaks in blue sky, lay transmitter-antennae and receptor-dishes, mounted on all immediate buildings of Tri-Kilo.

‘Let me tell you exactly why you’re up here Vienna . . . I’m sure you’ve been wandering about it all night’. Vienna’s wig flashed back, soaring high over the previous few hours. ‘Don’t worry’, he said with a smile, ‘Shadowless, rather, Gammatec, had an eye, tracing you. They like your management practices. For this reason you were nominated for a line of work which includes many, many, attractive perks, but’, he

292

Celine Flux

concluded, ‘there’s more to be done than just last night to exceed my, criteria’?

Vienna was stunned but certainly keen. He detected this, so disregarded any potential dawn-breath, swooping down with his face to kiss her quickly on the mouth, forcing Vee, already engaged in calculations of trajectory regarding what was just said, to pack up and move upstairs to the comfy political gain in her head, body control now substituted to auto function.

Kissing, there, both slowly blinking, her lightly holding his jaw, internally pre-creating a spin-angle-zone in her mind, a mental typhoon eroded all seabound soil off her land called ‘Why me? What did I do? . . .’ and to top it off, she was expecting to hear inner sirens. Most certainly Vienna was astonished by the fact, they, her inner bugles, were completely silent.

Repeating his words, fast forwarding past the chat up lines, to more accurately judge if she understood all he told her in the car, and now, in his glass cave-like Citispot, he laid his trap of lies, while Vienna on the other hand was primed and ready to hear, or do, almost anything else.

‘There’s an assignment, that’s been tailored especially for the likes of you. Here, take this’. He lay down beside her, calmly pulling from under the pillow a Shadowless file, and a tiny Shadowless-authorized digital electrokey resembling larger biblical keys of Enoch. ‘Further details, to be received downstairs, tonight, from one of my agents at janitor parking level, OK’? Continuing to talk in a soft but detached, political man’s manner, Vienna’s state was awestruck and perplexed; regarding the car park request she had no questions, entranced rather, by ideas laden with cream, manipulation, and potential digicash. Energized by such wonder she stroked his free arm—he felt lubricatingly super firm to touch, ‘and perma-groomed too’ she mentaled.

Far from the elderly chairmeeting desk-beater type she first had in mind and, although he didn’t appear to have those unifying ruthless qualities that characterize her average Dr Shotcaller, he certainly had the lifestyle and possessions, that allowed him to have his way with her, that disarmed her, again, invading her usually classified sensitive spaces like earth into 2012 gravity belts. ‘So I’d like you, to be at section four of the car park, at precisely 22:00 hours’. Eyes on each other’s lips, with his higher arm he grabbed her far side hip, turning it with the rest of her body following, to mirror his.

293

All DReSSeD uP 4 A PACKeT OF nOODleS SO enGAGe THe CORe

Heavy eyes half closed their lower arms became head supports, and upper arms held each other’s flesh, shoulders shielding like sunshade.

He bent one of her uniquely soft, curvy legs, and laid on top of it, creating for them a beautifully artistic embrace, including access. Mr Rella paused. ‘Tonight’s assignment, probably, will determine the quality of your career downstairs, at, special, Gammatec floors’. They joined hips again, like they’d done for countless motions before daybreak, but waiting for tantra’s influence he stopped, pre-entrance, to move his nose closely along to her earlobe, tickling the wafer-thin bed sheet down with his free arm, near her collar bone, letting go when he reached her firm, responsive abs. Iceberg motion, speed of incense smoke, he then inserted his hard copper-plated plug, three-quarters deep, into the base of her now gaping, naked torso, limbs apart, both wires live and totally hot, him, and the sheet, showered in June-axis morning skylight behind him, but Shadowless.

He froze the motion, and held, holding, still, just . . . holding, leaving only blood-pumping oscillation, and Vee, with the irresistible option to trace each nano-wave in equal measure, by micro-contraction, following the tidal blood-rush to her, almost zigzagging lust organ, surfing down his wave, in-turn near wipeout behind him each time, laying now, mostly underneath on that bright crisp morning; all eyes closed the trick proved supernatural, and he being Shadowless, the blinding light, provided no shade.

294

LET’S NOT FORGET THE PHILISTINES

RIGHT TO WATER (TEA IN THIS CASE)

A small espresso signal lit up, briefly interrupting his masterfully still, post-atomic rhythm, scarcely the rhythm of his heart beat, that re-pumped every other second swelling his barely moving plug, and by extension her socket, which, when still, quantumly followed, received, then followed, his seismic, geo-telluric, earthly pulse. He reached up and switched off the flashing icon, making sure never to give the, not yet proved sexually worthy Vienna, the final quarter of the conductor, his mind (impressively to Vienna) on giving both a ballet lesson and giving that night’s mission instruction.

‘When you get to janitor level 4, you’ll see a man, posing as an office cleaner, sitting in the driver seat of a silver car’. He spoke, still engaged in his almost unknown mystical technique, kissing her ears, jaw, chin, lips, and neck between words. ‘I want you to take your digikey, open the passenger door, sit down, and give the Shadow Eliminator code on your file: the man in the driver seat will explain what to do next’. Vienna had never ever known a man to talk and withhold like this—it literally took her breath away. The frequent exchange of minute tensions, and syrupy contractions were aligned blissfully, devoid of loving devotion but, Vienna’s now stiff walls of silk, especially those gates, beneath the, as yet untouched nerve-spiral, deceiving the control centre into peaking its craving, could take no more feather-flecks, she sucked in her pre-natal navel Chi house, tensing her gluts which in turn raised her now swollen, womanly, fleshy pubic bone, up to greet his, gratifying the now infinitely tickled nerve-spiral. From that moment on, the highest form communication possible within the passion-realm had obstreperously started alongside gradual rapture, and although it wasn’t dedicated to the pinnacle of all sensations, both were duly entertained.

Vienna, as she always did, attempted to withhold her final indication of oscillation-magnitude, as a females right, but being a recipient,

295

LET’S NOT FORGET THE PHILISTINES RIGHT TO WATER (TEA IN THIS CASE)

at the mercy of one of the body’s most delicate sense organs why should one bother? First a change in shape denoting sudden increase in lubrication, then the extreme firmness that matched his, along her inner embankments, with the more common than she thinks, stifled grunt accompaniment. This was Mr Rella’s queue to move from sphinx, to cobra, then to plank, and pull on his pelvic floor, lifting his leaner, more exposed pubic bone off from rubbing her top button, and in so doing, retracting his plug with a sucking-in of the abs. He thought of being merciful and sparing his bedsheets, while proficiently reducing the outward direction of his lancet like an expert, then, in usual OCD-style, he turned his intentions off climaxing onto matters of hygiene, optimal nutrition, and fruitive work—after thinking about that for a moment his sword retracted without even pre-spitting.

Vienna couldn’t believe the ballerina lovemaking, and even more, that he had managed a trick of getting his rocks off with his rocks still on!

‘Now’ he said changing the subject, hoping out of the bed after kissing her nose ‘. . . Would you like some special reserve Gaurana tea . . .’?

‘Erm, yes please . . .’ replied Vienna with a camouflaging blackjack face, curling her toes in an attempt to asphyxiate satisfaction.

Mr Rella rolled down his tender enemy, walked around the bed, and across that sensational crystal clear floor over to a long slim hot water appliance containing two steamy cups, which he gently gathered, making his way back to the large, satinwood, Okinawa-imported futon, briefly surveying bustling streets far below, stretching out, along the way into the morning mist.

He handed over one of the drinks to Vienna but took his along with him, past the hanger holding his dressing gown. He pointed to it wide-eyed, ensuring Vienna knew she had something to wear, then with the same hand, clicked twice to again activate the hydrasystem.

Vienna looked at her reflection on the chrome of the lampshade stem, and while Mr Rella shouted, she prepz’d her make-up as best she could.

‘You know Vienna, as a matter of fact, of everything . . . all of my big-boy toys? Showers . . . remain one of my favourite pastimes’. He yelled this after downing his tiny measure of tea, beside silent thoughts of . . .

“Ya’ll scared of the rain . . . you fear weather!” (Thanx Mr I see the abyss, but I ain’t going there no more . . . I’m too old).

296

Celine Flux

‘Would you like to join me?’ he shouted over his shoulder. Vienna looked, through the glass of the bedroom wall, and shards beyond, to him in the shower room about to enter. As soon he did, she removed her puckering lips from the teacup to place it down and threw back her tangled hair, almost skipping through the maze to join him—‘Yep . . .’, she thought approaching, ‘this is more like it, what late night schemes are supposed to be made of ‘?

The water burst out fierce, shooting from everywhere except the ceiling. She placed her hands on the smooth, anti-bacterial surfaces the colour of spacefoil and stepped inside. As she took a few tactical manoeuvres through the spray, edging cautiously more towards him, the special shower heads sealed into the floor over-tickled her two lower plug sockets, making her already somewhat trembling knees, give way, slightly losing her balance. She smiled at Mr Rella, chins lifted above the miniature water spray, him giving her a look of recognition like, ‘you too huh’? He then smiled back, animating a joke over the sound of rushing water, bashing and swilling around in both their ears, ‘That’s why I call it one of my favourite pastimes aaahh??’ Vienna, uncharacteristically speechless, huffed in agreement looking like ‘OK OK, you got me’, accustomizing, while she journeyed her way through the final row of shower mountings, her whole body pleasured, sprayed and lashed with hot, steamy, spurts of water. As she threw her arms around his well cut plant-based, protein-laden shoulder blades, they both closed their eyes tight, and slowly, softly, began once more, to kiss.

297

SATIN SEX RETRIEVALS OF EROGENOUS

VELVET TWIRL

In the taxi back home driving from the sabervik-biznashing, Vienna wondered about her assignment and especially the last twelve hours; its ending was different to say the least . . . and it was that part she had the most fun wrestling with. ‘When Nick and I make love, he finishes with bundles of rapture’?—migration of afterthought no longer embryonic, determined now to act in passion’s field had Vee pledging to do everything in her power to snare Mr Rella in a love trap, abandoning Nick in the process.

A young Horn of Africasian-looking cabbie was up front gibbering away about the days traffic, but she failed to hear, more focused now on weird gatherings of different sounds introducing themselves from the back speaker, creating pounding drum patterns, with a Virtuosovivaldi sample looped on top, audio, which could only be transmitted from what sounded like a pirate radio station—somehow, it enhanced her anticipation for the evenings proceedings.

She felt different, unsure, but positively, consumed by the construction of ideas going on in that devious dome she had underneath her hat, devising structures of which, if implemented correctly, could see her spread open again in Mr Rella’s bed. Wealth was on her mind;

Vienna wanted more of it.‘In a way’, she reasoned, ‘I was treated well? . . .’ For her it was

a question of motivation. ‘Success will bring with it a nice pot of gold? . . .

If I strike lucky and have my head screwed on right that is? . . . But either way as far as I’m concerned it’s a case of, eat morsel, or have morsel snatched away’! The cab pulled up at a red light as she sighed, trying her utmost to suspend tiredness.

That time of the afternoon was noisy, and muggy, especially down on the fumigated street surface; a far cry from the Citispot Mr Rella had so uniquely decorated. ‘Could this be love? . . . It’d better not be? . . .’ She

298

Celine Flux

joked ‘. . . Not yet any way’! Nick’s face appeared via her imagination in the parallel van’s back window, chugging away in neutral beside her own taxi; any sense of betrayal attempting to set she immediately brushed off while traffic revved, preparing to drive on leaving Nick’s image lagging slowly behind her:

Oi listen! The author of this scribe reckons the following announcement is an accurate dart worth interjecting with—(ahem)—: everyone knows, and everybody denies, that, although both fruitful and useful, the path of ruthlessness is nonetheless reactionary work, with a payable fine (now tell ya Whitecoat disciple lab-techs to go disprove that one eh!)

299

DO JAMAICAN FLAGS INSTALLED MAKE

YOUR CAR THEFT-PROOF?

Cruising across the river she looked up at Shadowless Towers, as allied ideas twirled and climbed in frequent circular expansions, prompting her, to let only the most beneficial subjects queue up front of her eager and questioning state. ‘Is Gammatec the company I really wanted to end up working for? . . . Oh course it is . . . and as for Mr Rella? . . . wouldn’t surprise me if he did this sort of thing all bloody the time’! She crossed the river, counting through step by possible step the hours until she’d change clothes and head out the door, later that dusk.

The taxi’s noisy gear change bumped her consciousness, making her pick up a different question and place it in her already spinning centrifuge of putrid defensive guile, ‘But what can Nick really offer me anyway . . . hmmm. Bet he’ll be sooo surprised when I tell him I’m to become a Gammatec employee, but working from Shadow Eliminator floors? And floors way above him, never even seen by him? On the other hand though, it could be devastating . . . he could spot me going up in the lift instead of down one evening, secret time with, hopefully, new Mr Jackpot . . .? Come to think of it, I’m not even sure what excites me more, him, or his exclusive world’?

Steadily seeing her new found position—if played out right—as evermore fortuitous, to Vienna Mr Rella seemed like some luxurious phantasmagorian king of the silent partnership world, or this medieval horder miles over squalid Immortal Approachville tec-servants, a self-serving clan-endorsed dark master, that’s how he moved and flexed, presenting himself, some muscular pre-Kushite Pharaoh, posing above the clouds in his see-through Citispot, black sun but appearing yellow shining down, on his own, personal, heaven’s gate, arms open, triumphant, after measuring star systems from his pre-dynastic penthouse pyramid, measurement details strictly repressed, hidden in some ripper-masonry briefcase, secure and vaulted neatly in code somewhere, way up in his

300

Celine Flux

Ariel-reflected labyrinth—Needless to say, Mr Rella wouldn’t have minded the perception.

She couldn’t really understand how she got herself into this situation but she wanted to see it through, which was of course, calculated into the main part of Mr Rella’s whole plan: ultimately, the complete acquisition of his Düsseldorf challengers and their smaller 731 holding.

Vienna was getting played from high vantage points but all she wanted to get primarily, was a ring, so she could drop the old one given by Nick.

‘For all I know he could have a queen on every continent . . . even here, on this island, off the coast of the Eurasian peninsular . . .? How could I possibly be sure . . .? He can certainly afford it . . .?’ Vee then began to ponder something strange, frozen in calculation for a drawn-out moment, wandering if being Eurasian made her Asiatic too . . .? It was an unusual question to wind up asking, but then, typically, she got pulled back to her old crafty default settings of planning the night ahead, and placing her sights on something much more interesting than root-Anthropogenesis.

Through Little China, deep into her district, she finally reached the car park, taking from her handbag white gloves and matching crocheted beret both with pattern-frill. She pulled down the hat, fixing it like a tilted crown just above her right brow then leg-pressed her way up out of the musty bootleg cab, feeling slightly contaminated by foreign hygiene levels. But still, she proceeded to pay the driver and make her way from the car park beginning the preparation for the night ahead.

Enthused by his offer to obtain Dragonfly Clearance she opened the tall securagate wandering if Nick would be in yet, maybe up on the settee, still pining for “the perfect baby”, and of late, even more alarmingly, giving ever-increasing viewing time that despised Mother and Fostering Channel—With cynicism in his voice he’d often call her from what she was doing (which wasn’t watching telly) to point out some cute child he thought would resemble their future offspring—as soon as Vienna found herself looking at the TV it felt like a trap and frankly, she had no time for it. Other times Nick would slip in a heavy hint, or ten, quite obviously born from growing resentment—itself a bratish child of unceasing invariant opinions. Right now she really hoped he wasn’t home.

301

DO JAMAICAN FLAGS INSTALLED MAKE YOUR CAR THEFT-PROOF?

Ideas formed as she called the lift, pondering potential gain while elevating up to the flat, a journey which couldn’t end fast enough.

Through Mr Rella, the possible access to a distant power as yet unlocked seemed distinct, it appeared alluring. ‘As long as I follow instruction; get in the car and do what the Shadowless agent says I’ll be alright. After I do that, looks like I’ll be faxing my notice of resignation at 731 in no time’. Exhilarated and eager Vienna played with the prospect, but just in case Nick was in, she adjusted her attitude so she could deal with any attempted probes, huffing and thrusting straight past the answer machine, her eyes still burning from the tiredness but sensing Nick was more than likely in the bedroom.

She crept about, checking other rooms first, eyes watery, feeling far from refreshed but still, adrenal, wide open. Once on the landing, locating Nick asleep on the bed, firstly she hid last night’s underwear: two part lilac and mauve lace, frill-tipped French knickers with stockings.

Nick was slowly drifting back from sleepy-land but luckily for Vienna not into any waking state of awareness—if alerted by anything, not the loudness of the music but just how cold he was. ‘Hi honey’ he purred yanking the quilt over, breaking his rhythm of snores. Vienna, crafty and incognito, watched, as he sunk away again, then, steadily cruised her way through the walk-in wardrobe to undress, selecting dipped-up dress ideas to take into the bathroom, all the while thinking such slick-sh-t to herself . . .’ This is all very cloak and dagger stuff but what’s gotta be done, I guess, has gotta be done . . .’?

She slid out of the shower with her mind back on the clothing racks but by five-thirty she was well-nigh ready enough to ring for another cab, all power dressed in black shirt buttoned and rolled up just below the elbow, one extra button undone at the chest, exposing more juice than usual.

Grabbing her phone she headed back to the hallway cupboard to de-fluff her stripy black pair of thigh-swelling trousers with medium width dark-sheen leather belt, wrapped twice loosely around her waist, the second of the two loops diagonally drooped on one side of her sassy hips. Covered boots were of the same tone.

Next, she fastened the strap of her bulky watch, the face sewn onto a large thick cow hide strap by a bold creamy coloured thread that followed right round the strap forming computer generated patterns. Brushing

302

Celine Flux

off her shoulders she checked if it complemented her chic-stylo well enough.

She went for conference room make-up, and switched from contacts to ample frames, trying to change her face somewhat for the coming late-evening rendezvous. ‘Skull buggery indeed . . . head rape if you ask me’! She threw up the speculation like a coin to be shot down in her mind. ‘But I wander what this covert mission actually entails’?

She heard Nick, get off the bed, go over to the wardrobe area, and then came sound that through a lapse of concentration she did not pre-empt; Nick fiddling about with some papers. Vienna began to panic. ‘Oh my god’ she immediately thought. He opened the door, and in his grip was the large Shadowless sleeve left next to her old clothes containing mission data.

Initially thinking it belonged to him he looked inside, not realizing that Mr Rella, who he obviously knew of, but definitely did not know, had given it to her. ‘Where did you get this from Vee’? He asked, completely flabbergasted by a rush of uncertainty. Her voice packed in on her, she couldn’t speak through an intense bile-surge, briefly overcome with dread-inducing enzymes. ‘Hey, give me that’. She leaped up off her seat to swipe the file from his hand but failed. ‘I don’t understand, what’s this about, what is it Vienna’? He propped a single sheet of the printed papers out and looked at it, holding it just diagonally-high enough above to realize from her mock-clambering mannerisms that, with a few more moments to assume and judge the impact of this, he’d somehow tangled himself up into a www of marital fraudulence, as one critical moment in that front room with Vienna, moved breath-stiflingly into another.

He looked once again at the paper; the only thing noticeable to him was the name, Mr Aum B Rella and the words “Shadow Eliminator” above numbers. Motionless, Nick began to descend into anger. Vee witnessing, and far more familiar with that coping mechanism, rather than the fear she was feeling, instantly followed him—But Vee passed Nick, while he fought inside himself to regain control, stopping his downward-negative flat-spin from going any further into a crash n’burn where no person currently alive could rescue him. She carried on down farther still, breaching her inner gate of fury; a tried, tested, and better state to be in if she was to win this particular argument and plus make her impending ten o’clock appointment.

303

DON’T KNOW BETTER? THEN SUFFER YOU

DON’T . . . THE MISSION OF MOTHS

The switching of positions was swift, she, exploding up in his face, flying right off the handle and raising the gauge too high for Nick, with his now overriding inclination to just cool. She knew as always her overreaction to his action would by at a hyper-hysterical level, where his fists can but his voice cannot go, at least, not spend such a long time, not as long as Vienna’s rage can anyway.

At near enough Nick’s height of six foot, she squared up, practically collarbone to collarbone, pointing up in his face, a virtual dare for him to physically regulate on her. Standing opposite, feeling himself also going berserk by witnessing a quite obvious, insulting display for diversion, Nick desperately tried to find his scissors of intelligence. Thankfully he did and backed down, internally appealing for calm against the fire which he—being the more emotionally intelligent—started, and plus, being that person with the said ability, felt himself responsible for his deceptively uncivil wife.

But his world was shifting. He could sense a fresh treachery behind her eyes. Although his body did not want to he sat down, and took those inwardly stored, symbolic scissors. Without another moments thought he cut his emotional connection to his wife before going into a semi-withdrawal, summoning universal Mr W Inter into the room. As she continued spewing flames Nick’s stares at her began to get cold, more and more remote; icy stares, from a place where vast mists of emptiness . . . and the evils of dehumanizing dispassion, dwells, inactive until . . .

When she finished her paragraph of offence, he leaped from oblivion into neucliosis. ‘Something ain’t right’ he kept on thinking. ‘Why is she dressed like that, its six in the evening not six in the morning . . .?

She would have invited me if it was a work related dinner . . . told me if it were a 731 function? . . . What’s she up to . . .’? The all-round

304

Celine Flux

sense of ‘Explain yourself Vienna!’, seemed to condense on the window, running like ruby lipoid down the walls felt by the both in equal measure as they faced and read each other, looking for victory, succumbing to loss, picking up destructive weapons usually restricted for these one-time intense symbiotic young lovers.

Secretly desperate she found herself dancing, verbally sticking and moving, bringing up outer, more peripheral issues into the central situation, a difficulty that placed them in face-off mode, not yet walking out for good, but for critical moments now, enduring, through these unavoidable, volcanic ruptures, and the shimmering, thinning air of immediate time. This concealed desperation motivated her next cloudy outburst of excuses.

‘I am older than yesterday right . . . Nick . . . Nick! It’s a bloody yes or no question, duuuhhh’! Here, Nick, wrongly, cut off his deeply aggravated glare, settling it instead over on the table, not remembering his options were in fact triple. ‘Right or wrong Nick . . .’? She continued, fidgeting and tapping her feet, a physical manifestation to asking childishly obvious questions only meant for distraction to the bell, signalling the rounds end, ‘Well that’s the reason, the best reason I can give right now Nick.

It’s not because there’s someone else or anything, it’s just . . . because I’m older than yesterday, because, of, how I’ve been feeling lately’. Nick was unmoved by the exercise.

‘You may not like my answer Nick but I feel I’m changing . . . You’ve for sure changed’! He noticed a slight modification in her stance as she continued. Suddenly a small transformation had occurred: He knew that “You’ve for sure changed” was an invitation for him to reply with the usual

“What’s that supposed to mean eh”? He’d been through that spin-cycle every day since they were together, be it a spiralling conversation about politics, religion, or the impracticality of nail extensions (of which the latter, he won out, showing her—or rather her nails, the light—a rare yielding for Vee and small victory for Nick given her “let’s get it poppin’” tendency towards resolution and he and his sisters . . .” above the belt or I’m off to the darkside” rules of engagement).

She had the raging stag bull firmly by those lethal horns—so to speak—and imagination threw upon her a brilliant gold-dusted blazer.

There, Mediterranean skies and ovating crowds fuelled the flicking out from beside her leg, a matadors rag. They both knew she was throwing

305

DOn’T KnOW BeTTeR? THen SuFFeR YOu DOn’T . . . THe MiSSiOn OF MOTHS

a regular tantrum, switching from whining to eye-bulging expression according to her inner estimations of his bullish sprint, a snapping-point that could so easily turn into an argument-deadin’ and beef-squashing male trump card of a fly-kick!

The terpsichorean movements carried on up to the point of her major gaff; an own goal, leaving her accidentally pinned, some serious karmic realignment for what looked like playing too much to the crowd, not taking care and talking all reckless (try it at home folks and see for yourself ). ‘I don’t know what it is you want from me any more apart from . . .’ She stopped herself right there, before she touched too far upon the most important of core topics . . . children! But it was too late. She’d moved from the Glen of control to this, retracting tidal Coastline within an unfortunate heartbeat, and there was no turning back. Nick returned his gaze upon a frantic Vienna, drowning in her “doh!” moment. Face flushed, she re-pumped herself up, recovering to spit a fatal statement that lay hidden inside her magic hat, waiting to be pulled out like smoke bombs in a Ninjitsu utility belt.

Tight, stubborn, and now mistakenly put “out there”, once declared in this scenario, the two year-long refusal to childbare would also be unequivocally put “out there”, and future intentions would be unmistakable. ‘Nick, I’m not going to have children . . . I’m not. And I’m not going to take my foot off the gas either . . . Not when I’m so close, to that digicheque needed, then leave this tiny-arsed Tri Kilo bowl we’re currently swimming in’! At this point Nick was barely, but successfully containing his emotion, aware this mimic of his dream was meant for swift appeasement.

‘Save it Vienna, OK’ he dumped in a beyond caring moment, ‘What are you trying to sound like me or something? Huh . . .? Is this “I’m older than yesterday” crap supposed to be, you’re kind of lordliness or something . . .? Hey I don’t know where you got it from? Or what you’re trying to pull? . . . But let me tell you this . . . Leeaave, the farout oddities to yours truly OK . . .? It ain’t you . . . There’s a time for your usual audacious, and brazen, too tight n’big for ya boots talk Vee and guess what . . .? I think it’s that time . . . Don’t let all your lip fail you now’?

For a moment Vienna felt exhausted, Beethoven’s sister syndrome, or an athlete racing against her personal best lap time. She felt put in her place, and wanted out of that spot, pronto.

‘OK then, but I want you to concentrate Nick coz I’ve got things to do tonight’. Near the workstation she picked up her phone. ‘But . . .

306

Celine Flux

Why are you in such a rush to close the conversation?’ His eyes skimmed over to plead ‘Just sit down, just listen to me a minuet will ya’ knowing that she may walk out at any moment. ‘Before you go I want to hear me out, just for a couple of minutes alright . . .’ Gravity of circumstance threw down a hook only he noticed; amidst rampant hatred, recognizing the need for some sort of salvation, he grabbed onto it for dear life and spoke on.

‘Wait . . . I don’t think we’ll ever have the marriage we both deserve, if you’re gonna start running around town, feeling your individuality, to the impairment of what we have, or had. Vows aside Vee—and I’ve wanted to say this for a while now—when I speak, really and truly, you just act like you can’t hear my particular expression, my style of delivery . . . If that’s something you intended to try and change about me once we were wed’ he highlighted sagely—an ability she never could demonstrate—’ then it failed . . . you’re not the only one who had things they wanted to change in their partner, you have some less than desirable ways I’d like to iron out too you know!

Yeah, I indulged your crapping on the lower social order thing, the Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie-slave thing. We would both “ha ha” and poke fun at bummy skateboarders crossing Wellingtonloo Bridge, but at the end of the day, all I know is what keeps me in good stead.

Maybe I was wrong; I thought it made me a good husband. Blame my Grandmother from Celtasia . . . all those things she told me the day I left home and ran to hers. She’s why I talk the way I do most of the time Vee, she’s the one who sat me down and spoke to me, now I’m gonna tell you’. Vienna tried in vain to listen over insurmountable irritation, and thoughts, prodding her to check again the time on her phone.

‘We don’t have to plug away, work ourselves nonstop for king and multinational, into the graveyard, there’s a need to remember the gap between going hard, and too hard you know . . .? Life ain’t about just securing wealth in order to reign for a thousand years’! She half-tutted, trying as best she could to profile, aloof-catwalk-style, for a few moments more before getting seriously jarred again, looking at the door like she didn’t want to hear anything else.

‘Are you hearing me Vee? Look at me, if your thinking this is a lecture then listen up’. Nick slid his short messy fringe aside and spoke some more. ‘You don’t have to spend all your time geeking about the apocalyptic like me neither, simply perpetuating centuries old beef on the bone . . . It’s pointless, because the innocent remain in the right, and

307

DOn’T KnOW BeTTeR? THen SuFFeR YOu DOn’T . . . THe MiSSiOn OF MOTHS

never can . . . never will never be, in a metaphysical sense, ones in the wrong.

When Greatma spoke I was always taking mental notes Vee! So I don’t run around assuming I won’t get lead astray, with me and my Peter problems or whatever, and nor should you with 731, coz you will, even by those you supposedly hold dear, as I’m learning now, you know, with that Wirecom lot, it will make you emotional realizing, and in that state not only the abstract or cautionary people but, even the most concise sentiments, get misunderstood, like now!

Having a wife and a family won’t necessarily stop us “Earth’s children” in a sense, from being bewildered once we grow. Growth and development borne’s complexity, natural. So when teenagers more like me pass adolescence, ponder things, why forms of life struggle to exist?

Why such variation in forces? Looking to the heavens on elegant nights, contemplating all you know about up there, we should all expect a bumpy ride Vee; expect a turbulent time through all life’s difficult stages.

I guess, I mean I know, walks in the park, a fallen leaf, or, appreciation for the cosmic dance, out, within, just laying back counting your orbits, while Seti-scopes thank lucky stars on our behalf, just ain’t you, and you know what, that’s cool!

Contrary to your belief Vienna, it ain’t just me and family against the world . . . I already know if I want happiness I can’t expect it between the cause and effect of other women’s thighs . . . that’s why I got married in the first place. We loved each other? I quit spending my nights throwing money at skirts-wrapped-round-shaved-legs coz of you! From the right perspective, all wins, losses, of this life we transmit through, must just look like one big draw, you know’. Nick was launching his thoughts, Vienna, true to form, caught none of them. Still, the gulf between them was widening. He aimed again, in hope, and while expecting less, just for the mere sake of it he maintained the endeavour.

‘All kinds of help’s out there, that’s if you want it Vee? OK we can speak to a professional, it may help provide recognitions, ideas to crystallize, stomp through your wig, defrost and within microseconds, bounce right back out again, slamming the door behind them, like a dude, a neighbourhood Deebo that just keeps on bullying.

You tell me I’ve lost my hunger, lost touch with what I do at work, but, I’ll tell you this paradox . . . One thing I do know about our work,

308

Celine Flux

progressing from lack of exposure, to over-exposure Vee, is . . . it can leave you feeling, pretty exposed’.

Vee was unsure what to say, his final sentence threw her. But Nick considered all he just expressed supremely serious, important, and wanted a reply. He folded his arms, paused, for her to say at least something, anything. He waited, determined to stand there, for as long as it took.

* * *

309

THE KERNAL-KONSEPT FLOWED,

BUT THE REST WAS AGONY

Neon and Niv regularly went to the movies, Quetzal too. He’d been out the English speaking loop living back overseas in Sun Paulo. Still, whenever quizzed about flicks, then Hollywoodization in general, he always gave it a thumbs up—But not Omni so much . . . nah. It’s a heavily-used spectacular word but, he really did hate those blockbusters Neon and Niv usually picked out from commuter throwsheets on the way home, pleading with Omni from his intercom to come and watch it, then racing up the stairs to bombard him with even more reasons why he, as a guy, should enjoy all those explosions, car chases and CGI.

It so happened, Niv especially loved all that visual stuff. She could even go by herself . . . rago! Although, when it came to the art of persuasion to make her would-be fellow-cinema-goers watch other choices, combined with a little lip quivering for effect, it was Neon since back in their hopscotching days who’d always been the relative pushover.

They in turn, surprisingly for Omni, couldn’t stomach the pretentious laws of the so-called stellar costume drama.

Often Omni tried explaining—on behalf of the films motivated producers—the merits of (ahem) “Reworked classics told through a ethnocentric view” especially to Neon and Niv, only this time described after first duping them both into following him, on a freezing, diabolically outdated and uncomfortable routemaster, out to a small North Zone1 picture house he’d found back in summer on Ovenbaker Street. On this particular night Quetzal hung back at Blackfriars; stuck up in Niv’s room with an ever-worsening head cold.

While boarding the bus Omni slyly regained their interest, throwing sticky webs over their suspicions, gnawing away at them with merriment while heading up the stairs.

‘Yea yo, but I hear this films a banger, like, it’s got something for everyone’!—With no doubt more evangelising zeal on its way the three of them sat down on the bus which rattled and growled with its lopsy,

310

Celine Flux

rugged suspension. Omni took in a deep breath of life and blew it over his gloves, ‘And you know me . . . I accept critique . . . so no matter what the genre, five stars and award-nominated eyebrow sculpture? . . . Then I’m usually willing to go peep it . . . They say it’s heavy on the action and heavy on the dialogue this one’. None of them responded. ‘Oi take their word for it not mine’!

‘Mmm . . . So what’s it called then?’ asked Neon on behalf of a frozen Niv locked and snuggled into her arm, face swimming around in one of Nick’s now confiscated winter coats and refusing to give it back and half assuming he’d forgotten all about the thing. ‘Errm, Oh, You know . . . That new one . . .’ although he was improvising a little, Omni hated these types of films so much he almost wanted to spit before saying it, ‘. . . Err I think it’s called “Meercats Rocking Bombvests at 40,000 feet”, or something’? Neon and Niv looked out into the snowy shop windows passing by, puzzled, but luckily for Omni it soon rung some kind of bell in their wondering mental rolodex’s.

That September 10th was record breaking. Early foreign winds had brought though strange ongoing freezes, to join forces upon even deeper ones—‘It’s the winters of old’ one of the alkie’s begging outside Wellingtonloo Station called it.

They each stepped off the bus at the busy Youston Station and trudged through the thick snow down Ovenbaker. Before long Omni lead them up to the young woman at the kiosk. ‘Hi, erm . . . Three tickets to see . . .’ he took a quick looked across to check the girls—(doing the usual, nattering amongst themselves still arm in arm)—‘. . . Yea . . . Three tickets to see . . . ahem . . . The Other Minoan Girl . . . please’? Stunned and straight gaffled, they both stopped chattering as Omni—giving a reassuring half-smile to the young Ozzie girl behind the glass (who also couldn’t conceal her surprise at his choice of midweek flick)—turned his ears and eyes, but not his head, towards Neon and Niv. ‘“The Other Minoan Girl”? . . . What’?? Neon rolled her eyes to the lighting above

‘Ah no . . . You gotta be joking me about . . .’!Niv—either terrified or nauseous—bit her lip footgazing, already

taking a mental sledgehammer to the rest of her evening. Holding Omni’s hand now Neon nudged her pal while he paid, pointing with facial gestures over to the poster slightly behind them to the left: The two it-girl actresses standing with the hunky star in the middle were instantly recognizable, also instantaneous was the realization they were

311

THE KERNAL-KONSEPT FLOWED, BUT THE REST WAS AGONY

about to sit through a Trans-Mediterranean period piece; not in the slightest their cup of tea.

With two glum faces of defeat all three they made their way down dark, sparsely lit stairs, pupils dilating, retinas scuffling about with photons for light, past the tiny informal bar, pretty much a novelty in cinemas nowadays. Niv opted to blank out the film—(which appeared to her more like a history lesson!)—with sparkling rosé in a plastic flute before Omni and co, already offering his salty popcorn and sugary drink with the gang, entered into the unusually small, intimate screen room housing maybe . . . thirty seats.

The film had a while to go. Being early gave them choice pickings of where to sit so Neon eyed up a spot and Omni funnelled through to it, all-avid and gun ho, sitting down first, smiling at their lead-foot approach devoid of enthusiasm. ‘Oi, don’t trip you guys, I mean, damn, I went to see your “Powdered Buildings and Incinerated Terror Pilots” movie didn’t I’? Neon and Niv couldn’t respond to that one, ‘. . . Well then, don’t trip . . . Look, it ain’t that bad jeez . . . trust me, I tell ya, five stars yo . . . It’s gonna be banging . . . Plus look’! Omni pulled out his (until then) hidden CPU-printout. ‘Look, there, the ambassador of slang’s making a guest appearance! Don’t bug, it’s gonna be bizznangin trust me Niv, yo . . . truss’!

Light showered through as a couple of people came in and found their seats while Neon exploited the low turnout to send a quick text, before shutting off her phone’s annoying screenlight with noisy text-reception catcher, quickly hammering away on the tiny keypad with her nails. ‘Hey Niv’, she whispered after, finally putting the phone away, ‘You wanna come shopping with me tomorrow? I’ve got to get some make-up, so, figured we could make a date of it, what do you think’? ‘Sure sure’, she replied, ‘I’ll hit the gym, cycle to yours with my stuff—weather permitting—and change their OK’. They both looked at Omni, hardly listening, much more engrossed in another movie trailer with an elderly cast, this one called “Ladies in Linseed Oil”. ‘What you asking me for?’ said Omni, in complete darkness, the trailer cutting from scene to scene in slow motion between highlights, ‘Of course it’s alright’!—He was quite taken aback by this sudden rise in etiquette and attention to protocol, like Neon and Toltec weren’t always guests, usually sat cross-legged with the remote in either his or her bedroom now rented out as Niv’s—(not too) private—own living quarters.

312

Celine Flux

So Neon and Niv continued quietly throwing other ideas into their afterservitude plans but happily for Omni, the ongoing conversation became impossible, crumbling beneath thunderous opening scenes that slowly built into a roar, as barrel chested riders on either horse or chariot prepared themselves for field collision, each steamy breathed round a semi-permanent tent housing a shield-rocking old guard and grim faced war assembly, and all (as the newspaper review inferred), for the hand of a young princess played by a lucky fly-weight midstate’er actually betraying the Africasian coastal-basin-beauty that legend declares “. . . launched a thousand-and-three ships”.

As the dramatic soundtrack and stereo effects bullied their way from loud hidden sub-barkers below screen, suddenly, a sweet lamentable symphony accompanied big budget pictures of slain cavalry and post-battle smouldering forts, with dramatic sound variations, and although the spectacularly wide toggle-shots were of pre-confederation Greek locals and all tiny dots of CGI—not resembling the ab-original Aegean seagoing settlers at all—a biased Omni for the most part was quite enjoying the experience, except for the debauched homo-incestuous undertone he swiftly swept aside as bums-on-seats-scandal posing as mid-high art. For Omniversal—(as he intended to expand upon in lavish and boring detail later on the bus)—intense quixotic costume dramas in a Shadowless cinema room was as close to the “Victors Version” of history (class 101) as it ever got, and usually on such a bus a bored, aroused, and oscillating in her knickers Neon, would be far more interested in discreetly molesting him, only when Niv, most lightly bloated off toxic accelerants, ended up falling asleep with her intestines on textbook shut down.

313

THE ACTUAL LIFE OF A MODERN

MISCIVILIZATION CRITIC

When the film ended Niv was awoken from her first, more enjoyable slumber with a nudge, startled into awareness by her pal as the final credits rolled. Omni, fly unzipped, swollen in his polyelastix, stood feeling warm and fuzzy (but not from the film if you know what I mean) and in the mood for experimental twin-merged candle-flame love, practised from the deep-breath pelvis of Neon’s little hard stool. They’d use it whenever he stayed over at hers; it sounded like great idea whose time had come round again—being it was she that’d just lit the flame now rising and pumping within his undergarments. ‘You know what’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t mind stopping at yours tonight, I ain’t tryin’a catch Quetzal’s flu’? ‘OK babe’ Neon answered. None could tell from down there but late evening was well upon them also.

They each strapped up coats, scarves and gloves, all tummies a-vigorously complaining. ‘Hey guys, we should go eat something’? suggested Niv, as Omni helped pull her out of the chair on to her feet—She then hung back a moment waiting for her phone signal to come back on and tell her the time. ‘Why not’ replied Neon, off the cuff ‘. . . but if you’re coming to mine, then we can’t miss that last bus out from Lord Nihilism’s Column’.

Niv put away her phone and devised the food plan, ‘Well, we can all chip in on a cab and eat near there . . .? It’s late anyway . . . I’ve got to get my work clothes together and wash my haaaiiir!’ Niv and Neon grinned, sharing a chuckle as Omni finally forced the screen room doors just ahead, blasting him with passage light before the trio together, stepped through the second door leading to the hallway dotted with more rows of delicate lamps, each arranged to highlight the mixture of classic and modern promotional posters hanging on the walls.

The hallway widened onto a bright snack laden foyer and then on out to the main entrance doors. As they stepped from carpeted over to the tiled area and the thick circular support pillars moved slowly out of

314

Celine Flux

view they began to hear a commotion. They kept on walking. Then, out of nowhere, a Tom and Jerry style food fight, already under way, darted across in all directions around them: Some loutish girls were causing an ultimately unwelcome scene, being reprimanded for an indoor game of Snowball Attack which sounded as painful as paint balling! The kids howled as staff gave chase across the foyer floor growing with messy jelly beans and dolly mixtures, some flying through the air, only to then end up with the rest, around a fallen decorated Northman’s tree from the eurodarkages with—by now—faulty bulbs.

Neon and Omni skipped their way through the crossfire positively astonished, while the rowdiest of the 10-strong clicka ran around hysterically, dipping into the large open display column as they ran past it, blasting everyone within range with festive confectionery. It made Omni Niv and Neon feel their age watching from the open doors, kids dipping into tray after tray of assorted sweets and using their peers and potential subduers as moving target practice.

Omni and Niv watched this shocking but fun entertainment peak, plateau, then decline, and for Neon, the sense of impropriety had at last begun to override her car crash moment. So she pulled Omni’s arm through the main doors leaving Niv a few steps behind. As Niv finally forced her eyes away from the disruption inside and caught up with them, inspired, she picked up some snow and moulded it into a ball, throwing it into Omni’s back. Omni returned fire, welcoming the audacious challenge from his now long-term flatmate, using a car as cover. Even Neon grabbed herself some ammo from the seat of an empty moped chained near her, pelting Omni, lifting up lapels and getting busy while Niv—on the re-up—was going all-out, kamikaze style, well shielded in her brother’s duffel coat. But alas, the sensation of ice on flesh and the all round cold combined got too much for them before long.

So Neon called a truce, which the other two shouted out their terms of agreement to, and then, before some hilarious pretend-amendments—like Omni and Neon deciding to call in sick the following day—so they could meet up at Maccabees Artificial Intelligence Museum—they ceased fire, and made their short-cut detour the mile or so to south Zone1, searching for an on-duty cab as they walked along the streets, but, to no avail.

315

IZ DAT Y U SHUT ME OUT,

COZ U DONT BELIVE?

The nights unforgivable cold started to creep into everyone’s cheeks and digits, although the effort it took to gather speed through the snow had the three of them panting pretty hard in that sharp, dry, frozen air. They stopped at a brightly lit spot—after Neon’s continual lobbying—allowing her “The Verve’s Lucid Dream Food” from the tourist’s favourite, The Soggypizza Hatch; not stonebaked; and if offered to Vishnu playing his part as Krsna, probably graciously refused. She opted to choose Omni’s favourite of the bunch (even though all were barely tolerable)—the triple cheese on triple cheese with kidney beans and grilled cheese on top of that. ‘Bet Italians wouldn’t be too happy with this topping Omni?’ she said placing the box on the high bench in front of him near the window, Niv ready to dip into it first. Neon then unfastened her coat, pushing back through queues to get the three cans of . . .—(I’ll avoid copyright . . .)—sugar water she left beside the tills.

‘My friend Maurallah Bianco, he was born in Naples, defiantly refusing to call himself confederation Italiasian’! Omni said. ‘Well I don’t know what that statement’s supposed to be but he’s got a sexy name . . . I’ll give him that’. Niv tore into the slices. ‘Bianco . . .? Mmm . . . got that right!’ nodded Neon in agreement, tucking-in also. ‘. . . He told me, that Italian people never eat pizza like this’. All three knew now, where this was going. ‘Give it a beak Omni huh’? ‘Can you believe this guy’?

Omni didn’t acknowledge the comic request, just pressed on with his memoirs of a homeless life that Neon and Niv knew little about.

‘Me and Maurallah, coz our hunger pains knew not of ethical dilemmas, we’d steal mopeds from outside Madam Waxworks to be reconditioned by one of his peoples’ ‘Oh my god I can’t believe you’d do such a thing’! Neon dug him in the ribs, her mouth half-full, ‘No not me, him, nah . . . I’d just watch while he did it . . . got paid, and fed himself only . . . while I starved and withered away on the subway floor’-: (their spell on that subway floor representing the base of any

316

Celine Flux

social order known to miscivilized man—yet with sufficient space to grow). ‘He always said he found our British adverts stupid, depicting Mediterranean lifestyles or cowabunga kids who think pizzas are “cool” and “funky” . . .

You know once right, what you would call our blood money, paid for studio time in a ditch way out in welsh speaking Wales; we couldn’t speak the language but it was cheaper than Allzone prices, and like you guys he hates the music, still, he’d come along with us, quite often actually, that’s when he saw tinned spaghetti for the first time; and you know how Italiasians love their pasta’—(taught to Marco Polo by Northman so-called Mongoloids). Neon and Niv bust-out laughing.

‘He thought Heinzlers was blasphemous, saying we were all going to hell for eating stewed spaghetti’. Trying not to cough they chuckled a tad more. ‘Now you mention it . . .’ Neon recalled, ‘. . . tinned spaghetti does taste a bit rubbery . . .’

Niv then said to Omni, knowing he loves the films she usually hated, ‘Hey I wander what your Gwyneth Paltrow Diet and Mr Ripley would have to say about that one’? Omni coughed up a chuckle with them, biting into another slice of pizza, answering her question in his mind, already knowing Neon and Nivja wrongly thought Dickie was a sexual deviant unworthy of reply. He set the scene in his imagination, with Jude Law looking at Ripley in the jazz bar, considering taking up the drums after just singing “Americano” on stage, spending his dads ship building fortune on whisky and soda, declaring a new year’s resolution to stop de-humanizing local women left suicidal and preggerz in his wake! By the time his muse ended, and he’d returned from an imaginary yacht on the Italy’s south coast, Neon and Niv were off talking about the hair clothes and make-up of The other Minoan Girl, finishing up the last of their food.

All stomachs were temporarily satisfied now (basically filled with oil, bleached flour, and sugary carbonated bubbles). So barely visible in Nick’s coat, Niv said her goodbyes and broke off to the flat while Neon and Omni, realizing a lot of what he said in life wasn’t modern English after all, took the remaining slices, in a semi-cardboard bag, over to Neon’s home.

317

RAINS GONNA COME LADY . . .

YOU, CANT, DUCK IT

By luck or supreme arrangement Neon had rented herself a nice compact place not far from the Oval cricket ground. Some new scheme of affordable housing land allocated by the mayor a few years ago had her placed in an apartment block quite desirable by key workers in other sectors. It was a late stroll for them across Eastmunster Bridge, past classic icons all along the river in both directions. Neon and Omni locked themselves into motivational speeches after he mentioned an argument they had the day before, which at the time, did little more than fray nerves for a few hours—he now took it upon himself to twist those frayed ends into a plait, intended to grow ever-neater the more he talked, being much calmer now than the day before.

‘I’d hate to think we can’t communicate Neon, serious, and like obviously, I gotta draw the line somewhere, for my own sake, my own daily tool application. Hope you want these tools too coz, seeing that’ll motivate me to get out of bed no matter how tired. Which leaves me with, this . . . problem’ ‘Not too much of a problem I hope’? ‘Nah’ Omni had been holding this in for while, choosing now to reveal a sense of unease previously held back.

‘It ain’t nuthin major. It’s something I know, but don’t wanna know’.

He said it and then smiled. ‘What is it’?‘It’s like, I know, you know I know, that, girlfriends need regular

communication, especially when apart from loved ones, it’s like flippin’ oxygen or something’! Contrary to his expectation Neon didn’t say anything. ‘I’m assuming this—what I’m saying—applies to most, but not all women. I mean Niv, she ain’t nuthin like that?’

‘Yea you’re probably right but . . .’ ‘What do you mean “probably?”‘ he asked cutting in abruptly,

knowing his opinion to be fabled truth (based on them Powersex in the Municipality characters). ‘Now me’, he continued, ‘I don’t need to

318

Celine Flux

communicate more than once every two days or so, weeks, on some monastic order shit so, I’m stuck, coz, you know I hate small talk, although I engage my sense organs in it, it still riles me; an inconvenience; it stains my hourglass, it rises up and I spend my time trying to bleach the stains, running out this little studytime I have left’. As they picked up the walking pace he talked on.

‘Yea call it melodrama if you must, over-sensitive but, talking about small things, after hearing about big things swishing about in my head? . . . well, mildly irritates, but mildly only cause I push it far away, and you know how I get, that’s exasperating enough in itself ‘-: Omni really did want them, as a couple, to clear this unresolved mess up once and for all, homebound, stomping through slushy snow of the political square mile together, past government offices, all lined up south of the river, the tallest of which cast a shadow, blocking out the moon as they walked through what now appeared like a concrete jungle lurching high over them.

The three-way sun starvation (namely buildings, earth and the moon) affected this mainly one-way conversation. ‘To me irritation’s for the demonoids and I’m often irritated so what does that make me?

I shouldn’t associate but there you go, that’s life; sooo hip, sooo happening city’? Neon looked around, seeming also, in a much better mood (and moment) to hear Omni’s two-man (well, her and him, so two-person)-army rally-cry. ‘It’s because I love you Neon, why I’d rather swim in bile than so elaborately detail, bursts of negativity, negative subjects, incidents, thereby off-loading, transferring some magnified issue that coz of engagement to bullsh-t, mushrooms out of any sense of perspective; and at the end these details, which I don’t deem intriguing to world thinkers, end up actually wanting, expecting your share in my disgust also! Nah, I don’t want my peoples, my closest or dearest, there, I don’t want you, or them, there, helped by actions of some generic other; guess it’s inescapable as long as we chase what were chasing though’. Omni really felt for the sake of calcification, (or better yet, communication), that he should continue on, try and get this splinter out, although on his part it was merely cyclical bogey, which he already confessed, doing such a thing like this . . . irritated. They walked on, holding each other for support, determined not to slip on the ice crunching underfoot.

The tallest of the nearby buildings sweeping up clarinet-like, gave way once again for its neighbours, each downscaling in size, eventually revealing the moon as they both carried on over the bridge homeward.

319

RAinS GOnnA COMe lADY . . . YOu, CAnT, DuCK iT

And as Omni spoke his mind, throwing his (to him anyway) sharp, lucid notes, only as accurately as his grasp on the language he no longer considered English would allow, the subject matter, an effort in itself to dispense, seemed even to him, dense, dense like the concrete zoo around him.

Arms wrapping around each other’s thick winter jackets, walking the busy salted street bridge they stopped at intervals, grabbing themselves a quick, tranquilizing kiss. ‘You know Neon’, Omni plucked something else, deemed important, out of nowhere for urgent description, refusing another kiss till they’d walked a bit further, ‘. . . in my favourite flick the lead woman walks out after fifty years, fifty years of servitude to an aviation genius, slamming the door behind her while he just looked out the window. I think it’s set in the thirties? She packs her suitcase saying he drove her to the gin, how she could never communicate with him’—(Now this was Omni trying to apologize—in his usual long-winded way—for calling time out on yesterdays argument when he was acting like he didn’t want to talk no more, because of emotion, thinking it best to now iron those familiar creases of remorse between them while he had the chance). ‘It’s when we find ourselves sharing in each other’s upset, I feel like, it’s anti-useful . . . inefficiency in our lovestream’. Neon didn’t agree with the parallel, feeling she’d listened enough, proposing instead . . .’ But, ever heard of a problem shared’?

She looked up, big old blameless eyes again, always crushing rebellion within, every time.

‘Mmmm okay . . . see where you’re coming from . . . I heard the saying yea but . . . visualising two problems just traded like that, without an insightful response, and I mean deeply insightful, it’s like waste material, easily forgotten. I don’t often find myself later on in life referring back to what someone, incidentally said about some stupid sh-t coz, to me most info’s useless! I’m saying if . . . If I make you feel like you can’t talk to your boyfriend about thing’s, especially when you girls get together and talk about, your men, and that frustration makes you sound different later on, then I’m sorry, now and previous’—He meant it to come out as a joke, but it was ill-timed, so unfortunately it stunk. Now, trying to come off sage-like, he filled the gap left by his, as usual—(even to Neon who understood him best)—new load of nonsense fresh from the tumbledryer under his wig. ‘You know what? . . . Dissolving, or even

320

Celine Flux

shelving if possible, all that “guess what guess what, and guess what else” . . . stuff . . .? It’ll make me a slightly better person . . . and kisser’!

Omni felt like, what the hell, so just smiled at Neon, glad that things had cut to the chase, to where he wanted to be, able to come forth a little further with his restricted love, both sensing he’d gotten something stored up until then off his chest, while that other woman, observed, closely, from underneath the bridge, getting jealous. Feeling her stare fixed upon him, disgusted, he turned Neon’s attention and pointed at the embankment, all its grafted classical buildings, scenic decoration of odious intellectual aliens mounted on high, midgeted malovent monstrosities etched into pillars below, pronounced by industrial strength torchlight, constructed back when Zone1 was the largest and most disease-ridden city on Earthplanet Asia.

321

SHALL WE JUST ACCEPT HE’S BRITISH

(PLC) AND EXPLOIT THE FACT?

She blinked slow screwing-up her face, creating two skylines, observing a different, more heavenward clock. The river, feline—apparently polluted, barren in the mid-section—cut her eye at Omni. He noticed; feeling somehow robbed—Omni’s smile was stolen. He mean-mugged right back at her as she left his sight while Neon none the wiser, holding onto his arm, watched where she was going along the slippery walkway, ever vigilant not to lose her footing just as Omni turned his attention like ‘b*** f*** y** too’ away from that other woman, the River Engle, choosing to address inanimate parliamentary structures, present, still in sight further down, jarring most days, tall, throwing reminders over her icy hydrogen-mix below like fireballs, clearing Zone1 and landing many blocks away.

Below the bank she shimmered up at him, reflective spotless film covering swift, swirling depths moving underneath. Dark and chilly, she gave Omni a thoughtwave to grace more speech upon. ‘We’re both swimming in cold, cynical waters, this, grey, unnatural town . . . it feels unnatural. But yet I’m here, swimming, deep down knowing better, and it’s still me and mine, swimming . . . If ever I try to save someone? I end up nearly drowning myself ’!—Dude was reaching; back to falling in the canal with Miguel.

‘Hey, remember one morning I came down to your workfloor with papers to hand in, and you whispered something after we snatched a quick moment to talk, remember, you promised you’d never leave?

Well since then I’ve been thinking, how I can change the shape, of expressions I hold back . . . its boiled down right now so I’m just going to say it . . . You see, you?, maybe it’s just you’re more innocent than me perhaps, younger, less corrupted by what you witnessed, than me, coz I’ve been chewed up by mechanical jaws and spat out on more than one occasion’! Zoomed-in again unnecessarily, Omni was catching feelings,

322

Celine Flux

but inwardly still adamant all these invisible bird droppings on his chest were worth all the crapping out.

They turned off Eastmunster Bridge and walked down the long Kennington Park Road, its broad carriageway stretching out through all the zones, then out to Zonelimits, then the sticks.

This was the road Omni crashed his bike but he wasn’t in the mood, so never brought it up, trying not to magnify any associated intensity as he noticed the second set of traffic lights far ahead, just outside the park entrance—the exact spot.

‘Neon, I try to keep what I labour with from you with not much success, not because I’m trying to be some moody tough guy, I know your trying to navigate those same waters, universal waters, and because I already know how hard it is to swim, no one in the digipaper chase is immune, so, I see the struggle, torn to shreds by my little displays of descent, or some miscivilized grump in the queue, acting-up, ruining a lovely day or whatever, I don’t want you to catch a mouthful of water do I?, no, I want you to swim, so I salute you Neon, is all I’m trying to say, let that be know . . .! Nuthin’ of mine should weigh you down’! When that dart completely left and hit Neon, she walked taller, just like he hoped.

‘I don’t mean to get all bugged from your bugs, so if you tell me how your devastated by some friend’s behaviour, and I react like I’ve just finished a pranayama session or something, it’ll look like, like, like quantum computation over cosmic’! Once again, this unique translation of Omni’s barely grasped but innerstood, just enough by dint of it being Neon, made her chuckle in admission, stepping over dirty ice, brushing fur trim on her coat tickling her rosed-out cheeks.

‘I don’t really want to be attached to the next knob’s behaviour but, when it’s towards a loved one then of course I’ll get furious, which is against the chanflow, physical harnessing of, the second most noble thing I’ve seen a human stand up and do, literally, them lot, waving their arms slow, like they’re stroking something us fools can’t perceive, moving and swirling something, whatever it is, around; now why can’t the tiger or spider get up and do it . . .? Definitely makes us different, for sure’. Behind the words, she was there, willingly, reaching out to meet him, for regardless of listener, Omni’s efforts were nearly always hit and miss, but presently to his relief he noticed her, there, at least trying, and, convinced she detected guard lowering, he felt such frustrating yarns a success, which burst out of him as she acknowledged in silence. She

323

SHALL WE JUST ACCEPT HE’S BRITISH (PLC) AND EXPLOIT THE FACT?

squeezed his waist through his coat smiling, in a new position now to listen out for gestures within gestures, more and more each time his reconstituted, plagiarized concept darts were aimed, intended from his sturdy dam of false pride, to repeatedly hit her wig.

‘You’re the love of my life . . . you don’t react with “huh?” to insights, believe it or not long-winded as they may be, meant to empower the one I love, you . . . The one I let in! . . . As soon as I saw you let me in I did the same. Yep and now were on the path to some sort of unison, or at least, feeling real close, like your with me. I felt the change at the bar in Mumbai, felt it when you passed me my trousers with that smile, we let each other in, yea that morning, hungover, I told you things great minds consider old news, just to test the waters, to reach out. You didn’t react with a face like “What?”, so, right then I knew you could be plugged out somewhat; I think I reached you then, or at least the potential to reach you was there . . .’?

324

“BABIES WID FLIES AROUND DEY CHEEKS

IT’S HARD TO GO TO SLEEP”

Omni looked across the road seeing the actual lamppost he smashed into years back. He decided to stop and take dictation from the omen, a quick assessment of the time since, feeling, as ever, too real for his own damn good. His glove meshed into hers, exhaling onto the hands squeezed together, holding it, looking everywhere but the lamppost.

‘It ain’t a question if I’m afraid to be vulnerable with you Neon, we often are with each other. You know my secrets yea, but what about that priceless commodity inspiration eh? I mean, this is meant to be empowering talk, me, spilling this, connecting through that fizzing space between. Even knowledge of that gap, sublime connection through, it would, if possible as painted before, pull covers off us on winter mornings . . . ah forget it yo. Just know . . . I love you Neon’.

Both surprised his pride dam finally let it out, he turned her around, and as the cars sped by he looked at her, trying block out the associated hell across the street and the sound of the fireballs mid-air, some at their apex, and some, raining down on the park behind the rails to illuminate that row of lampposts. They kissed each other with a gentle lust and sense of romance surpassing all previous, his thought-sanctioned wings bursting through his coat, opening proudly with minds of their own, each white feather, stretching out then back with the wing joints into a protective-house formation, sealed like an X around Neon’s back, her inner-light, and kiss, completing the dual beacon of resistance.

‘All this is, it’s, a motivational speech right here . . . for myself and you’! Together, they stood still for one more moment before resuming their journey, feeling a little closer, warmer, reaching, earthbound but, trying to make that connection, Omni’s attempted speech, below divine guidance, yet still, tall, like the buildings not far, peering all around them.

‘I’m upset, then, I tell you why, while wanting you in some weird way to be just as upset too . . .! Nah that’s inhumane . . . breaks my sloppy

325

“BABieS WiD FlieS AROunD DeY CHeeKS iT’S HARD TO GO TO SleeP”

moral/circumstantial code’. Imaginary wings still out, placing his cheek above her ear, he spoke a joke into it. ‘Moral codes don’t get your butt to heaven’s orb. Check the sutras. But, we’ve got that special intimate thing you and me, when we try to reach, not just when we talk, I mean when we kiss and look at each other, it’s me searching, reaching for you, I’m asking with my kiss “are you with me Neon” that’s my silent language, cause I need to know if you’re really swimming with me, well if so, let’s hold breath, close eyes, plunge for a while, block it all out you know what I mean’? Neon wasn’t sure if she should respond but the meaning behind Omni’s words we’re the same as he always emitted; there was no quelling his soul’s intention, now, or ever.

She had no reason to notice they were standing in a spot that held special significance for him, so as he folded back those Icarus blades and started walking, mixed feelings, like wax near The Suntoucher, as if the crash was meant to be, shifted Omni’s scope outward, viewing the subject like mid-hi-inquiry, and him posing questions into stuff way above the inter-individual, passing it through his confused-philosophers lens.

‘You see earthbound everyone is an island . . . the cliché’s a lie . . . I personally know the darkyears of space between one individual and another, trust me, even if they share similar views, two people with similar worldviews, stuck down here?, in our matrix-conceptions?, our perimeters?, nah yo, it’s just one person, a part,—ic-le, moving within the complete whole trying to reach out to someone else, well someone apart from a saint, or sage, or devotees who exist in higher conceptions, near the supreme matrix. Yea them individuals, they all appreciate concepts outside our perimeter, this post-movie karma-matrix where we all rest and wander, swimming through this passion-plane thing, trying to reach a reachable individual, trying to make that connection through the vacua, like now, across to you, right, now, by me bringing up most pressing issues, in our, how can I put it, in our earthly entrapment square, where correct me if I’m wrong, all labour-fruits taste of babies with flies around their cheeks? . . . You taste it too right . . .’?

326

THEN YOU’VE GOT THE UNREACHABLES

(O.A.A.M.)

Neon’s building wasn’t too far now. The leaf-strewn car park beside her block lay at the bottom of the street just around the corner. She began to unzip the heavy coat she was wearing as he asked her another question. ‘Remember I joked once in India I’m looking for someone to tell me something I don’t know, to enhance my own aimless-aim-theory, anything, remember’? ‘Yeah, I remember’. Receiving primitive flashbacks of how great she looked that evening Omni smiled, squeezing her shoulder as two cars, both full of yobs, drove past, switching lanes all recklessly in the slush. Half distracted, he joked over the noise. ‘Yea and I remember that wispy sunflower-shade skirt you changed out of that morning’. Omni’s recovered memory made her blush. ‘Keen eye Omni . . . keen eye. Everyone was on “all-company-expense-systems-go” by evening though right’? ‘Huh . . . and remember we came late? And split off to chat . . .? I was trying to lay bread tracks, to within me.

I couldn’t back out, especially as I got more and more drunk, shit I can’t hold back my sentiment even now dead sober! It must count for something coz for me always, it’s a case of saga continuo, inquiries still remain, then, just like now’. Neon took off a glove and dug around each pocket but listened still.

‘I needed help spreading light on the origin of man, remember, all that tipsy talk . . .? Well, for some non-apparent reason that I don’t know yet . . . confidential info, animates regions in me office politics simply can’t, so I reach out if reachable, in hope, turning membrane-oscillation theory, and all that pre-Herodotus disciple-pooh into chat down lines, because I’d always tell myself, if I ever met a woman who doesn’t react with a subdued “huh?” or that vacant stare I see so many times with old friends, and family, then there’s a possibility of connection’.

Neon had played Omni’s shrink for years and vice versa but unfortunately for him, only after a tiff did he, after which, like now, do what Vee always barked at Nick for . . . re-hashing. But Neon on that

327

THEN YOU’VE GOT THE UNREACHABLES (O.A.A.M.)

cold midnight actually felt glad to be of service; it turned out Omni couldn’t have chosen a better time. Privileged recipient of the contained gestures conveyed, semi-successful until then, gave Neon a lump in her throat. It was long-winded but fashioned unique to her. Aware of being outside still, but, wanting to show that his theme had registered, she swallowed the warm emotion arousing off his words, hidden from the environment principally for his sake. So, instead, with a mushy smile she got her keys ready, main doors in reach just round the corner, allowing him to continue.

‘And you know, generally, that stare just means a failure to connect. It just reaffirms for me the space between people, friend, family, or lover . . . just keeps on teaching me that lesson I need to be reminded of, that although it’s a honour to be with you, me and you Neon, we ain’t snobs but ain’t slobs either, we vaguely know the meaning of honour, I still believe there’s a land out there where honour exists, in some amount. Having a girlfriend I concede can’t save me. Having a boyfriend won’t save you! Actually, we can’t “save” each other. We have to save ourselves. But I just came to help, something I remind myself periodically, and which I’m sharing now in my, as usual long-winded way, not to make it seem like I’m some lecturer or something but to let you know, I’m tryin’a inspire wit this bullshit, that’s why we search ever-expanding regions unknown, together, now. I’m in your life to assist not hinder Neon’! Pretty much astonished Neon had just been touched in the most appropriate way possible, eyes slightly welling, stunned in her stare, so, right then at that moment Omni tried to match her love, reflecting her breathtaking levels of all-round passion, stopping to kiss Neon with almost all his heart, but even after everything just said, a tiny part wouldn’t, couldn’t be relinquished, as much as he tried to give it.

The buildings around Neon’s area were much shorter than on the banks themselves, making space to view the crisp, moonflushed sky above. So there, on the corner for a moment, almost home they stood, Omni allowing Neon to break down his pride barrier some more, but now entering each of his O.A.A.M. frontiers, unannounced, and him, the essence of his intention defying gravity, omnimmortal, now unspoken, each letter O . . . A . . . A . . . M . . . travelled up to the moon, one after the other, his lips being kissed, intention, stranded aloof in the sparsely clouded Zone1 clearing. She opened her eyes, stroking the side of Omni’s face with her glove, while he wondered if he actually deserved to

328

Celine Flux

effervesced by Neon’s light, barely satisfied in the hope of any successful darts he yarned lasting until their next earthbound disagreement (due to inconceivable conceptions beyond sensory organs). ‘Omni’ she said kissing him repeatedly. ‘Don’t worry . . . You . . . Are . . . Loved . . .

Finally . . .’ (but Tibetsujin loves him more)!

329

“WAIT A SEC; GOOD GUYS DON’T KISS LIKE

THAT?” “OH YES THEY F***ING DO!”

Omni had a thing about shower gel. When he and Neon crossed the car park complaining about how cold they both were, she remembered to mention something in relation to it. ‘Hey I’ve got these new ones you just have to try out . . . got them from the Physicalbody Shop! . . . “A totally different bathroom experience” it says on the front . . . Soon as you smell them you’ll want to eat them! . . . Bet you can’t wait can ya’?

‘Actually . . . I can’t!’ said Omni . . . unsurprisingly, ‘. . . A hot shower’ll thaw me out kinda nice’.

At long last via chequered path, dotted with low-bulb posts and even lower shrubs they approached her building, understated, and featureless, but clean. Unlocking the main door entering she checked her mailbox while Omni went on to called the lift. On the way up, he asked, kissing her softly. ‘So, we’re gonna meet outside the museum tomorrow then right . . .’?

‘Yep, in the afternoon’‘Cool. I can call in sick on the way home, get some stuff, and meet

you later then; its back and abs tomorrow’, Omni groaned at the thought, kissing again just before the lift door opened. ‘I hope you’re gonna get in the shower with me . . .’ he asked ‘. . . this time we can “freshly squeeze” juice out the gel before producing some! . . . We ain’t done that in ages have we . . .’? ‘I will, promise, just gotta upload some files so it’s in Murphy’s inbox before I pull this sickie tomorrow’.

They exited the lift and walked the short way down the hall into her small flat, cold too, of course, and everything whitewashed but more than sufficient; a nice little place to call home all the same. The first thing she did taking off her shoes, was blast up the thermostat. ‘Drink? . . .

Omni . . .’? ‘Please’!He hung up his coat touching the radiator, hoping to warm his

hands.‘OK just a sec’.

330

Celine Flux

The moonsplashed, snow covered Zone1 view outside Neon’s window was world renowned to most but, to Omni (who’s seen the seedier side) she’s just a multi-tiered pre-Edwardian woman sprawling out from the old city who’s lost her figure, still trying desperately to hold her illusory world status and looks.

Now Neon on the other hand, as he turned to look at her, black polar neck, matching corduroy trousers exposing the softest juice on middle of her body, right at that moment reaching up for plates and teacups, upper-cheeks still red from the cold, had Omni straight coming out his built not to last bleach-cotton boxers (the way disposable underwear should be!) Stiff at the sight in the kitchenette, he limped, dragging his third leg over to the CD collection on the low shelf which stretched from wall to wall, supporting everything from Lappy connected to an M-port3 and CD player, to pictures, paperwork, and ornaments. Two pigeons fluttering from one stone, he figured while defrosting he could learn something musical, so selected an early James Brown; instrumental mode: When it came to soul, funk, and even reggae Neon really knew her stuff, and all the bars to go and hear it too, often referring to Omni’s old flame which refused to burn out—hip-hop—as “musical mutilation”.

The room was warming now. She came back in carefully holding a plateful of the microwaved pizza, soggy, hanging over the edge, two nutmeg-dusted mugs, and a big hug; if there was one thing Neon loved more than phone calls and kisses? It was hugs . . . no fingers, no tongues, just uncorrupted, straight hugs; really, truly, overwhelmingly, Neon’s levels of affection could never be surpassed (or so he thought . . . before the concept of “even higher tastes” announced itself ) if anything, in this, the passion-realm, only equalled.

Omni sat on the leather two-seater, ready to assault the oily pizza heavy with different rancid cheeses. Remembering his mother’s warnings about rich food at bed time he knew it would give him some vivid dreams—which it did, of course. Sufficiently full, slices already eaten at the Soggypizza Hatch, Neon didn’t want to eat any more. She took her cup over to the chair facing her Lappy, quickly finishing off what she’d been doing that morning while Omni ate his food then went for his shower. ‘Meet you in there babe’! She shouted to him, eyes still on the CPU screen.

When he stepped into the bathroom, shiny and bright, (familiar to pre-fab hotel users), there in the cubicle stood five cute little bottles of imported shower gels all packaged neatly, arranged to stand out on

331

“WAiT A SeC; GOOD GuYS DOn’T KiSS liKe THAT?” “OH YeS THeY F***inG DO!”

the store shelf, each in a variety of pastel hues and housed in a wiry chrome-plated basket, “Intended” (said the small card, shaped into a tropical leaf!) “. . . to Revitalize and Reinvigorate”. He put the barbecue chicken flavour one to the side right away! Ah, but the others: Bayleaf and triple-zest, Aloe single-bible with nano-particles of Siberian stiff bark, Passionflower and akeeseed extract, Ginger and algae-paste “cultured to latch on to odorous or dead skin”, and one “with 50% Soursop pulp and desiccated coconut”? ‘Daym’, he thought to himself, ‘Ridley Scott’s daughter could evoke a flippin’ film about these aromas’! To Omni—already spoilt for choice in all those futuristic supermarkets and over-lit chemists—they just smelled nice, girlie ones or guy ones—When it came to perfume inside liquid soap? . . . he didn’t really care . . . Omni can shower in washing up liquid if he must (you can take the kid out of Metroaux but . . .)

Thick, dreamy steam-clouds swamped all around the tiny shower cubicle, and the extractor fan was struggling to deal with the case in hand, but all that heat was a welcome difference to the outside chill just experienced walking all the way from Ovenbaker St. Completely stripped, shaved and ripped, he held on to the glass door and slipped carefully inside.

‘Oi, you coming in or what yo . . .’? Almost ten minutes in now, and Omni was getting impatient (and over-indulgent) combining, then deciding it better to just adopt his favourite fragrance after killing-out the runner-up. He stepped one leg out briefly, grabbing his boxers, smothering them in gel, before stamping them out on the grated surface of this small shower and its knobbly cubicle floor, then, afterwards, flushing the underwear underfoot with water in some strange god-body rain dance, and moving his arms about in a cross-country ski motion like some inner-Mongolian grape-crusher.

Omni lathered up, and up, rinsed off again till squeaky, then did it all again—and again—Coz she needlessly bought so many Omni always loved blitzing-out Neon’s shower gel. He killed one bottle more pinching spots, and time, admiring his penis, looking at his old Klan tattoo’s remorsefully, recalling how half the country had now unfortunately adopted a trend remixed by Amerindian gang members, and now totally overkilled by the whole neo-americanized world.

His lungs could take it no more. If he didn’t breathe in some cooler air he thought he might faint. He staggered his step over to the towel

332

Celine Flux

with his eyes closed, opening the door so cool air could help dry him a little quicker. Then, thinking about sex on a bedroom stool he placed his now spotless, fly-smelling boxers on the electric towel bar, replicating his favourite female album cover (but with the groin area hidden for a tasteful, less grotesque look). Neon could hear the shower and bathroom door open, ‘Ohhh! I thought you were gonna wait and soap me up’?

‘Couldn’t wait no longer girl . . .!’ he said as she approached the door.

Using Omni’s steamy back for support she stripped down to the necklace and stepped in, thankful for the heat surge. ‘So you liked your surprise? I got another one; you know that moisturiser you and Niv showed me at your place . . .? Well I’ve been converted, it was going cheap so, thought I’d try it’ ‘I told you’ sounded Omni, smiling from the long mirror (and grossing outward, hard like a tree branch).

Pulling on his hand for support she crept partly under the shower, as he then stepped close and began to rub her hips, up and down, cupping his hands, smothering her softest parts, round at the rear, foaming-up the shower gel, ‘You just have to keep on using it . . . Stick with that one . . . you notice a difference after a while right’? ‘Mmm’ she purred, wrapping her hands around Omni’s dilz, enjoying herself, the thick veiny branch poking out, pressing it up off her solarplex, ‘Yea!, I do, it’s on my bedside cabinet’. Steep and subdeliberate she pushed it flat against the two of them and kissed him, holding each other close. ‘Oh! Before I forget . . .! Your stuffs in the middle draw now . . . did a little change around’. The cubicle door was still open, him, stood, half in, half out, appreciating her naked, full form, leaning in some more, another kiss, one foot still outside, tiny particles of water bouncing of Neon’s neck splashing him, and the floor, both smiling before he rinsed and left, brief stares, a loving moment more of confirmation, just body language, her eyes bold, sterile blue, like the mouthwash over her shoulder.

Before the floor completely flooded, he headed out to the bedroom as she spoke, shouting out, him feeling kinda hot, and a little woozy.

‘Hey since you’re in there babes, can you pass one of my hairbands and a fresh towel’? Omni made it to the bedroom and fumbled around, shaking out his clothes for money and keys, noticing the sex-stool, while that new discovery for him, music by James Brown, shrieked “Do the mash potatahh!!!” to elated solo trumpet accompaniment from down the hallway.

333

“WAiT A SeC; GOOD GuYS DOn’T KiSS liKe THAT?” “OH YeS THeY F***inG DO!”

When Neon skipped in also, Omni was still completely naked, killing a tub of overpriced body butter (on his feet!) for no particular reason other than he himself never had to pay for it. ‘So Neon’ he said, ‘. . . Chicken flavour bodywash . . . What’s up with that’? She pulled a bemused face before both laughing. He then kicked the cream under the bed, mock-ruby-charging to grab onto Neon’s hi-scoring hips and fall onto the bed for a tri. He found plank to kiss her necklace, and lips, and face, feeling wasteful. Then he keeled, from between her open legs to beside her, still kissing, pecking, looking up into eyes and down their noses upon each other’s faces, and bodies, like owners, kiss after pleasure-delaying kiss, no tongues (yet), he rarely does, she already knows, and when Neon can’t have it, she takes it, and he already knows this.

So he spread his palms round her shoulders and stopped that next kiss—(Neon really loves his kiss). He pressed all his bodyweight onto her shoulders which doubled for a sec, sinking her into the bed as he thrust himself up on first one knee, then the other, taking off one hand then the other, to go turn off the light, naked and comfortable with her, proud of his “single nunchuk” as he describes it (to Neon’s ongoing enjoyment), ‘. . . Yeah, the one Bruce Lee busted over a footman’s head after breaking free in Enter the Dragon’ he joked after they first slept together, ‘. . . Guess you ain’t seen it’.

Nearly always shaved too, the feint corridor light down by the front door showed her on all fours for a split second, abandoning her towel for the thick comfy duvet, climbing in as Omni also approached the bed for the night, his silhouette hardly concealing a quiet giggle which made Neon automatically giggle too. ‘What the hell yo! . . .’ he cut through remembering the brown colour and beige label, thumbing towards the bathroom and hopping past open blinds which cut clear strips of moonlight across his body, just before lifting the quilt, ‘Daym girl . . .!

Chicken flavour to-ringping’!!

334

THE THEORETICAL REALITY OF ATHEISM

Omni first, and then Neon, which often made him a little envious, awoke in slow motion the following morning, feeling taxed from the night’s fat-heavy fraud pizza. Apparent, simultaneous to all in the zone, the sun was up outside, so, with both their eyes closed for a while longer they made un-deferred love once again (for Omni’s morning phoenix- urge-thing he had going on). Afterwards they stayed, just stayed, united and self-satisfied before it fleeted, their limp bodies totally merged and relaxed until other sense organs (the tongue and belly) called out for breakfast.

Neon stayed in bed, unable to shake off the sex and sleep hormones but Omni, feeling similar, pictured himself on the gym mat shedding of his sluggish start, projecting this notion while brushing, splashing, and using the toilet. So his early rise, planned with water and ginseng at home would hopefully make way for a zesty hi-speed day; somehow, as Neon mumbled response-arrangements face down through her pillows, he got himself dressed and began enacting this projection.

‘Just call me when you leave the gym . . . Love you’ ‘OK . . .’ he replied shuffling off to the lift closing the door behind him, and joking, typically evasive, ‘. . . Gates of Rome on elephant-back to you too darling’!

It was cold outside, clear, and yesterday’s traffic-stopping snowfall was all but gone. He headed down the street for the bus stop wandering how Nick and Peter were doing at work: Something was up with those two for real: Slyly redirecting Gammatec profits . . .? Shiftee-ass operational judgements . . .? Defederalized reservations . . .? It all sounded rather umbrageous to him though; Omni wasn’t informed, he, unlike them, having no personal stock to play with, but it was about time he mentioned what he’d been noticing he reckoned: All their hushed conversations after hours at the Approachville bar, accepting firewater from media barons tied to rival agents, open competitors based over at Wirecom, plus, inappropriate words, too close together, like “Secret Investments”, “Peer

335

THe THeOReTiCAl ReAliTY OF ATHeiSM

Funds” . . .’ What peers?’ he thought. Tomorrow he was determined to ask Peter or Nick for a plate, or at least a slice, but today, there was a sickie to pull, a workout to do, and then a date at the museum to go on. Hoping the ginseng shells would increase output like other behavioural medicines—which to his experience was off and on, depending on electrolytes or B-vits found in assisting mountainwater—he reached his pad and made some tea with oats before packing his rucksack, popping his composite pills and heading off to the gym, making sure to buy some metal-rich water along the way.

The lunchtime bus ride back home, though it was expected to be uneventful, true to form, frequently defying conclusion, seemed oddly incongruous. So fighting the morning grog and now gym exertion he leaned his head against the upstairs window checking his watch. ‘Mighty quiet for twelve thirty?’ he ruminated to himself as the bus carried him down the long-arsed high street. (It doesn’t matter, rush hour or not, Zone1 and its 24hr car wrestling activity, even from the window of a bus’s top level, always stayed chaotic—seemingly no amount of mayoral zonetax or council remedy could relive all the congestion inefficiency, or such a high roadside-pervading smog altitude)!

On its way to SE1 the bus took him past a few electrical goods stores with TV’s in display windows. As it grumbled by, looking around he noticed something quite strange, (well, for so-called hi-paced Zone1’ers anyway). Sharks, couriers, traffic wardens, all outside the shops, bookies, barbers, any spot which had a television. The blue and whitecollars were being joined by other pedestrians, all gathering to watch the screens, standing together, dead still like mannequins: the elderly, mothers with prams, and even more people observing as he continued to do just that.

Omni’s curiosity alone noted all this, straight bamboozled, arousing a rising degree of suspicion, hard scans through the window, deciding it better to evidence all this while travelling onwards to southzone rather than gratify his growing impulse to get off the bus.

Motorists, including cabbies and their punters, no words, just hopped out of their cars, one after another to peep over shoulders. He looked above his eye line up at buildings, maybe third or fourth floor, and saw workers leaving their stations, all going to join colleagues, directing them to something on TV that Omni couldn’t quite make out. He looked down again past another, then another shop with a TV screen—He was

336

Celine Flux

puzzled by the behaviour and all-round tempo of the town that day for sure. Falling back into his seat he slowly began to counter the refractory impulse, then disregard it.

Then on came the gasmask and supply-tank of rationalization.‘Maybe it’s some cricket event . . .’? Among others, which took the

rest of the journey, this, he posed to the maze in his head, while having absolutely no personal interest in cricket and its sporting calendar at all.

His stop came. Omni hauled himself off the bus into his building and up the stairs, ready to cook himself a post-workout meal with a Brazil-nut protein-plus-fruit-and-spice-smoothie. After that was done, tummy again silenced, for two hours, swollen solely on behalf of the famine stricken, he decided postpone the next part of his schedule (of quick wash, change and Audi5000!) to crash for the twenty minutes it took for the food to move from his stiff, uncomfortable stomach, down to the large intestine. Chilly, Omni fell back on his bed and turned on his portable heater, grabbing the remote to catch up on some not so mundane news.

He saw the WTC buildings on the screen, and underneath it “Crash at towers”, in bold type, written at the bottom, alongside the sentence,

“New Amsterdam terror attacks on pre-1st nation soil” running in cycle mode underneath that. One of the two towers had a big, rugged hole in it, with a massive plume of unbroken, deep greyish-black smoke rising up into a blue sky so perfect that Omni, for a moment, thought he was watching a morning who-done-it (which he and Neon flippin’ hate)!

He sat up to check he was watching the right channel, then leaned forward, in shock at the images. The newscaster in the studio sounded bizarre, professionalism, all but gone, as he exclaimed that another plane was possibly heading towards the towers with a disbelief in his voice that can’t be recreated years later for the reader of this sentence now, today. But as soon as Omni fully absorbed the magnitude of what was being witnessed he immediately excused himself from any external involvement, or concern for the epic events he was watching; call it disbelief, like he was watching a surreal movie or something, and the news network with barely contained astonishment was somehow part of the script.

The only thing on his mind at that point was all those postponed Armageddon prophecies from nearly two years before, at the millennium

337

THe THeOReTiCAl ReAliTY OF ATHeiSM

celebrations with Neon; infected by such prophecies first at school mass, and then Sunday church, and all regarded the 2nd coming of a man known by some cultural late-pass holders as Heyzeus. He opened his blinds—the noticeable difference in outside activity on the way home made immediate sense. All the soft politics within big sci-fi blockbusters that scared him (and society in general) with their depictions of nuclear wipeout came to him next, along with the increasing possibility of anarchy and mass pandemonium on the streets! In fact, as he looked back at the television to watch a second plane unbelievably crash into the other tower, everything Omniversal was told to prepare for by subjects to the crown, appeared to be coming to a head. He told himself what he was watching couldn’t be true, but after the best part of an hour there was no denying it.

You see now; Omni’s main problem regarding concepts like Freedom, Liberty, and Navel Bases in foreign lands was: that he’d heard too much, meaning, he heard enough to know that he had heard nothing.

Next, as a couple held hands and jumped to their death on screen, he thought of Israel, mentioned so much on the TV before this apparent terror attack, and all the associated problems, and how the entire world had been hating on them for some unverifiable reason dating back to King Charlemagne, Romeasia, or even Nubegypt (Interest rates, Inflation-theorem, Iridium value . . .? I’ll stick these circulated charges on my studylist shall I?)

The buildings looked as if they would stand but before long they began to fall in what seemed to Dutch demolitionists afterwards, to be a very unexpected way—Omni was already thinking of them bearded men known in the ignorant brackets at work, as “them Paki terrorists”, who weren’t from Pakistan at all—At the time, that’s all he could remember about turbans, AK’s and arid mountains as the word “Terrorism”, was one of the top ten scariest words in this Sanskritic German-derived language spoken most widely in our world today. (Actually all the top 10 worlds’ scariest words have been mentioned by the author somewhere or another in this scribe).

338

WHY THEY BANNED KITE FLYING

He knew she was asleep, and indeed, this needed to be seen. Excited, Omni called Neon to put on her TV. ‘What do you mean what channel . . . any channel . . .! And hurry . . .!!! Maan you’ve missed it’ ‘Missed what?’ said Neon already up—(just about)—busy doing something else so not wanting to go turn on the television. ‘You’ve missed all them bloody Jews and Muslims fighting again, taking our jobs and women on TV’! He was gonna make the joke funnier; swap the word Muslim for Ismaelites and Israelites for Canaanites but well . . . you know . . . it would have been lost on a politically uncorrupted, blameless woman such as Neon. ‘Oh my god . . .! Is this for real . . .? I can’t believe you find this funny . . . What about the Gammatec offices out there!’ remarked Neon, off the diving board, plunging into the worldwide shock ‘. . . I’ll call you back’! She hung up the phone (to Omni’s zenfro surprise).

Neon kept on starring at the screen in total shock, watching more people jump from the buildings to escape the metal-melting fire inside.

She called work, then, called Nivja already watching things unfold, leaving the X-ray room, now at the foot of the nearest patients’ bed. ‘Yea I’m watching it too . . . It’s terrible isn’t it’ ‘Did you hear what they said about St Paul’s cathedral’? ‘No, what did they say’? Neon asked quickly looking out the window, fearing she could be caught up in the blast site.

‘We’re watching it on cable over here’ ‘Wait up, I’ll turn it over, I’m on the Licence Tax channel . . . Why, what have they being saying’? ‘Well put it like this . . . good job you never went in today; there’s been red alert security threats issued for the cathedral, and Phallic Tower in Immortal Approachville’! Neon changed channels. ‘In Now-Why this morning they said in mid-town and on Linconton bridge, bearded demonstrators were arrested with rucksacks containing explosives, and that bombs went off at 9:15 in the WTC car park . . . did you see that’?

‘Uh-uh, No I didn’t’‘They’ve stopped talking about that now, and haven’t returned to the

story because ash and debris, causing total blackout for reporters’.

339

WHY THeY BAnneD KiTe FlYinG

Everyone, including Neon and Niv knew, that the event playing out before them conquered the mundane, transforming a typical morning into what felt like a rather extreme occasion. Relative magnitude thus swallowed, under close observation they spoke on, debating, eyes narrowed, stuck to screens intensely as bystanders on shaky camera climbed from underneath cars to give live eyewitness accounts to press; patients, staff, all watching, making comments, Niv and Neon too, both trading sentences of guesswork, pushing each idea through split attention, some placed on possible planes tearing into multiple government institutions—random targets—hospitals included!—plus other people approaching the TV, inquiring, total cinematic-like astonishment going on around them still, with fresh news coming in, inconclusive, scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

‘Guess we should speak later? And let’s rain check the, err, the shopping spree . . . Way too risky now!’ Neon suggested this to Niv who, for the time being, just like most people on the ward and those now standing around her, we’re failing presently to refocus on all of the other day’s engagements. ‘I’m heading to yours now anyway that’s if I can get away from the bloody TV . . . I’m sure me and Omni’ll be skipping the Museum today so, speak to you later then Niv’ ‘OK, speak to you later’.

When Niv pressed the red button on her moby ending the phone call, right then, she received a text from Omni which read . . . “Just tried to call . . . Quetzal too . . .! Couldn’t get through . . . Checkout the news . . . See you at home xXx”. Omni for his part didn’t go anywhere, Neon and Niv also. Like everybody else on that side of the planet awake, each set of eyes stayed glued to their sets as ongoing events unfolded, while differing political and terror analysts speculated via all means of communication available.

So, after watching the Taliban Towers come crashing down (due to either pre-planted charges, empty remote-controlled planes, or so-called Paki’s from Pakiland dreaming of punny in heaven) Anytao, then came to Omni, the conspiracy info overload, already adding to his sensory overload, and all the countless concepts behind them, which came from a web with unlimited tracts of incidental root-conflicts, which drew nourishment from their surrounding historical constructs stretching back to indo-indigenous myriad men, on supercontinents with long-extinct beasts, folding material limbs to experience omnified

340

Celine Flux

appreciation bliss theory of the whole incomprehensible, while Brahma leisurely experimented with high explosives (ahhhhhhh what a day, what a day). Yes, to Omniversal, even pictures of Lower Manhattan as seen by a skycopter flying across the Hudson river, taking rolling shots of a smoke and ash-covered skyline, in somehow, and some way, because of his poor fund of knowledge, appeared such an aimless spectacle of slow-drip Armageddon; well just as mundane as, badly written, indirect poetry alluring to nothing in particular (get it? Ah too bad nevermind, here we are now).

341

HOMEOWNER, HOMEOWNER, SCREAM IT

FROM THE ROOFTOPS, HOMEOWNER!

All in all Vienna was behaving strange, not conducting herself how she should be under contextual issue. She knew that Nick was thinking this while musing on the current circumstance and the sense of betrayal. To him it felt like some unresolved stalemate envisaged years ago, his mood, textured like an earthbound being, misinformed about his station (thanx Xenomorph). Nick didn’t want his marriage to suffer, although he always did feel he was punching above his weight with this particular healthy and, crispy, specimen. Still, her tantrum seemed puzzling, suspiciously non-specific; in the hits of argument her hammer-blows were not quite hitting the nail as cleanly as they should.

Vee at this stage hadn’t regained her composure and Nick for a mixture of reasons had. This made him wander if he too could play to win at this game with malleable rules and one time salutatory precepts.

Regrettably, the opening of the final stages of any effort by both of them to remain married now had begun with a sequence of slimey events.

Nick had many choices. He opted for payback.

He headed back upstairs to bed as Vienna was ending her eldritch act of the woman scorned, near the front door so any nearby neighbours could hear her apparent persecution. Waiting until she heard Nick deep in the other room, she carefully walked over and shredded the Shadowless file, cautious, one eye surveying behind her shoulder shouting out a reminder. ‘I’ve got places I need to be . . . and . . . Your grandmother’s “aural tradition . . .?” or whatever . . .? Don’t apply down here . . . Not at all’! She smashed her fist down on the workstation, trying her utmost to smother the bump n’grind of the machinery, sensed by Nick—still frowning his way into the adjoining bathroom—as curiously . . . inappropriate (curious being the 9milimachine-tekable word)!

342

Celine Flux

He heard the old lady from next door knock, like expected, asking if everything was all right, so, he stopped, came back and sat quietly on the bed, intrigued to hear what Vienna would tell her, considering he felt he’d done nothing wrong in this instance, to warrant anything but the truth. Vienna with deceptive pleasantries ushered the old lady back across the corridor then went to call the lift. No door completely closed, Nick heard heels step slowly over, cease, and then wait. As she went down in the lift, puzzled, and shocked, he thought about all the reasonings accumulating behind why.

The sound of the car park was inaudible from up high, but the concierge guard, summoned by the old lady after hearing earlier commotions, came through the rusty communal garden gate and out onto the square. Now in flirty reassuring mode he and Vee starting talking a while before he headed back across the car park to complete his rounds. As all this happened Nick slid, leading with his shoulder, a slow creep, up to the window, like Dr Malcolm Z Von York (but without the ten thousand men or the Soviet assault rifle)!

There, careful and curious he peeked through the curtain, noticing she had her bag, yet never properly closed the front door. When he saw her watch- checking, looking up at the widow, acting shadier than Slim’s second LP—he decided to put on his clothes while Vee looked up again, walking along the car park path but, heading out towards the adjoining high street. She had now deemed herself worthy of suspicion. Nick grabbed his keys and followed her, holding a determined attitude like T-800, ripping punters away from the phonebox scanning through postcodes in the Yellow Pages.

* * *

343

“I GO THROUGH ALL THIS, B4 U WAKE UP”

(ASK BJORK THEN)

One real-fly summers day Seattle went shopping with Evelyn, who she made include a little excursion. First, they got all the everyday staples from a German hypershop, fruit and veg from the market, and since moving to the zone Seattle had found herself a good couple of places to eat and trade things she no longer had any use for. One of these places included an open painters club established centuries ago. Artists of different styles and abilities entertained themselves, either interacting with totally impressed tourists, looking around pointing, deciding what to eat next in their tucked-in T-shirts, or they sat near the river’s edge sketching renditions of glimmered-up town features.

Speedy and skilful chalkers further down absorbed themselves in floorwork creation while more curious bystanders on the walkway browsed down upon slash florescent markings underneath them. Weird and wonderful team efforts arranged on the pavement, one after the other, guiding viewers to political websites alongside a hastily assembled anti-war Muriel or two, with large written messages—rushed, but stunning bold and evocative images, striving to raise awareness of perceived injustice in far-off regions where unfortunately, like David often reminded his brother Peter, “street rules” still applied.

Further along the embankment was a Swap-and-cotch. There laid rows of flimsy portable tables where Seattle did her monthly book exchange, while Evelyn, gazed over book spines on the makeshift benches fanning herself, trying to counter the increasingly firm midday heat.

‘Look! Neil’s into all that Le Mans stuff right . . .? And it’s only 50p’? ‘Oh . . . go on then, grab it for me, sure he’ll never read it’!

Keeping herself cool (primarily for anti-bacterial and presentation purposes) Evelyn always stayed well dressed and today was no exception.

Lightly dipped in a white on white loose fit dress, it draped down to her Ethnosandals; perfect for such a bright and jiggy day-cycle.

344

Celine Flux

‘You know he’s has a room full of them almanacs, old calendars and yearbooks, manuals, merchandise? . . . Not too sure we should be adding to them’? Seattle paid her no mind—based on price—reaching over to the back row pinching the slim grubby handbook between her ribs and elbow. Under glorious solar effulgence and a busy river Engle behind them, Seattle continued to scan over the book spines while Evelyn looked on. Although covered by an imported sun hat, her deep dark roots advised by her stylist to let grow, webbed down through faded peroxide highlights, replacing over time with—if conditioned and not blow-dried too often—a much stronger and healthier incarnation (et voila, your generic female TV-exec look).

With the kind of loose change Seattle would call bread-making dough wrapped up in business, she never had what could be called vast amounts of digicash, but more than enough to flash a little on garment ideas, and place her accessory ideas upon that. Even though Evelyn’s nightwear stayed extensive—and some would say overly considered-then- practised—her overall style combos for the most part, worked.

She’d been holding Seattle down while those monthly pay cheques stopped vaporising on efforts to settle Otho at the local catholic school, and also blocking (and then returning) threats and counter-threats with Adam.

Thankfully over time, those painfully brisk high seas of separation and conflict at last were subsiding, buckling under the thick breezeless season the nation was catching from Brahma’s dayshift.

Her and Adam’s uneasy alliance (which saw usually her mother or his—who had no beef—take Othellenius down to Satelliteton for the weekend to see his dad, who himself once in a while would drive their son back but preferring, more often than not, Seattle’s easily bored and energetic mother do the deed instead?) Well this arrangement allowed, with Evelyn’s support, her digicash to stack a little and soon after, for her and Othellenius it was arranged she took over the reins proper, renting the place all three of them currently shared in Hoeswater, this upon Evelyn’s hara-deflecting request which Seattle recognised as divine snakes and ladders, life, and opportunity.

That lucky option extended from Evelyn, graciously accepted and timed to cause as least life-damage possible was complete fortune once

345

“I GO THROUGH ALL THIS, B4 U WAKE UP” (ASK BJORK THEN)

again, straight from the inconceivable Complete Whole residing within every particle, therefore able to witness Seattle’s intention to leave the south coast and start over again. Presently, looking back on the situation between her and Adam, she knew, and as the family on both sides now know, things between them could have turned out to be a lot, lot worse.

Now carrying alongside something for Neil and Otho two bulky reference books in beaded net bags, one entitled Views of Pre-Scientological Shambala, and the other called Central European War and The Conglomeration Years—plus some other bits and pieces of theirs deemed surplus to requirements and eligible for trade underneath all groceries—in total, had her hands beginning to ache. Evelyn, reluctantly helping out, began to feel tired also. She wasn’t too happy about sharp plastic handles of hypermarket bags sinking into uninitiated skin much either, and now her palms were starting to strain.

Seattle had been eyeing up this beautiful antique mug up the hill in Holy Covenant Gardens. Delicate it was, hand crafted, endowed with a unique attractiveness so irresistible that Seattle, not exactly getting money like Evelyn was, just had to have it and not just for display purposes either. The grumpy owner in-store let her hold it once, thinking he was about to make a sale; dirty glasses, even dustier shelves . . .? Dark wood and a musty atmosphere . . .?—Talk about doing the same old thing for too long!

He appeared to Seattle to despise his trade, and if this odd, almost mug-sized mug wasn’t reaching out like that to her then she would’ve rather not spend her money with such a rude and hurried, un-healthy-weight man. Oh but the design, it grabbed her, no doubt, and whenever she went past to check it was still there, the mere sight sent her off for a time, trying to imagine what it felt like to drink out of.

Sometimes to her, the most unusual and random objects seemed to contain at first, a distant fascination which would then grow by passion-power, and yep, this mug was no different. Originally from the Emerald Isle its circular wall, crude, and thin, like a coin, even thinner in places, when held to the light, almost opaque, parts of the lip, knobbly, and the handle too, decorated with feather-flecks etched into the sides for texture and grip; 150 years old and for Seattle a must, to be snatched up, by, any, means, necessary.

346

I’M MR UNIVERSE . . .

SOME, BODY, MURCK ME

Without impractical complimentary sun hat to provide rest bite from the nearest star which was by now at its apex, Evelyn, bless her, was way too girlie to perspire unnecessarily. She suggested, and then decided regardless to get a cab home, as Seattle wanted instead to walk up to the Holy Covenant Gardens for her mug and favourite anti-takeaway from The Protein and Pastry Shop. She took the locals short cut from where they were—at the Paint n’ Book-Meet under Skywheel Bridge—up through the back streets running behind two decrepit theatres that international tourists never get to see, then up the hill along pedestrianized cobble, past the line of noisy flower market traders culling buds from stems all over the floor (trying to beat the Dutch at their ongoing medieval game) and on into the square. As she walked in she noticed a bunch of people having some sort of commotion.

The queue at the food shop was long, stretching out past the door.Standing at the end of the line as she waited, and from her safe

distance she watched with other onlookers at what appeared to be a pretty heated debate in full swing. At the doorway trying to both listen and decide what to eat, she began to hear fragments of jeers, her senses engaged in deciphering the topic of such barely restrained, quite unbritish echo-culture aggression—but it did sound interesting. By now only a handful of people were in front of her. Even the team of food sellers busy waiting tables, rushing back and forth between the tills and kitchen in mock fast-food uniforms, were attracted to the ruction popcorning just a stone’s throw away from the large shop window, with vintage style company font, in keeping with the other early industrial revolution-era surroundings.

All too common nowadays, probably always on this island, the bickering far from civilized, became some sort of strange entertainment for bystanders stunned by the volume level, pitched to one side of the central group like some violent hose spraying sound for all to hear.

347

i’M MR uniVeRSe . . . SOMe, BODY, MuRCK Me

People stopped for a while to look, then, confused and somewhat bewildered, they walked on. Even from Seattle’s position which was now being served at the glass food display, she could tell one side was making more of an effort not to seem so foolish, or so unmeasured in their expressions which Seattle, fresh out of a tropical downpour with hyper-passionate Adam had a heightened appreciation of. She learned from her tedious experiences living on those eggshells with him, and his trademark bullet-proof conviction, highly prized in this overpopulated society where everybody felt the squeeze (everybody!) that it’s really used just a tool to get by: This tool bubbles up in Seattle too.

While Omni fantasized behind Neon’s back of place where rural peoples closed hands saluting the imperishable within, Seattle would do something similar with Adam; dreaming of that place her old body boarding buddy mentioned; describing with a sad lump in his throat while they partied on the Isle of Wight once, all her pals, lazing around a makeshift fire during a beach all-nighter, speaking about a little known nation-state in the equilateral Orient, where the country folk don’t talk with their eyebrows like life’s a processional bop, and clasp their hands together upon greeting each other too, saluting divine essence within all manifest and unseen matter also. Seattle—the woman Omni already knew from hospital and Harbourton, reflected his dreams, virtually identical—buried it deep within, in order to now select her meal and once again temporarily satisfy her sense of hunger.

348

“MURK, ME, PILLZZZZ . . . NO, BODY,

CARES, GIRL, FRIEND”

She stepped out of the shop holding a small tub of veda-broth, rosemary lentils, and a fluffy, moist, beetroot and spring onion Mawashi bun to lap it up with, while gathering more intel on the minced beef being so dramatically cooked up ahead. She slowed, following the sound across the square being careful not to venture too far in, choosing instead to circle; not wanting to crunch up such noble food or lose it to the floor.

There, a female bystander glanced over at her, head tilted towards the interior of the argument, looking at Seattle with a face like ‘I wouldn’t if I were you! . . .’ but Seattle, too intrigued by now just couldn’t resist the aural reception, appraised with an increasing interest.

What had seemed to have rapidly rolled out of control, was an exchange of views with—depending on your position on such matters—one side more worthy of attention than the other. Nonetheless, anyone approaching, then disregarding straight after in order to go about their business would merely dismiss this melodrama as one of the most ludicrous, and pretentious public displays ever held this side of Soapbox Corner, of two men and their supporters forming a human stadium, knee deep in moving tectonic factions, subdividing the subdivisions of delirium-inducing salvation-theorem.

Seattle heard a roar of laughter, as some young frustrated lady tried her best to defend the ideological waterfall of some other female friends shouted down for setting out their verbal stall, being sooo audacious as to speak on a topic entitled “Art Ascetics vs The Sensory Ascetics of Art—Only thing missing now was some baroque music to provide the backing soundtrack and your arse wouldn’t fail to be moved by the vein attempt to quiet the crowd as she brokedown the hidden messages and magically constructed conspiracy theories regarding the massive, triple-faced, multi-rotational billboards on every available rooftop down the hill in Theatreville, each one visible from where they stood, straight bombarded by commercial advertisements surrounding everybody

349

“MuRK, Me, PillZZZZ . . . nO, BODY, CAReS, GiRl, FRienD”

on the square where all were temporarily gathered, locked-in by their disputatious passions, expressive, costly (and when its summertime and so hot, this verbal violence seemed somehow to swell city-wide)!

It appeared futile but the girl speaking tried to match the man in uptight conviction stakes, attacking the “superficial insatiable nonsense of the advertisement industry”, singling out the nearest, and therefore most visible, tent-like, bright, bold, eye menacing society-pitching poster, holding it up for her unique review. Most of the crowd drawn in and present for a while now, were silently impressed though unwilling to engage or expel so much emotion actually declaring it.

After she stopped for a well earned breather, body language directed towards her co-canvasser like it was a team effort on their part, Seattle realized—through her half engagement and subconscious head movements in defence of the young lady being treated (she thought) unfairly—that first up, her position had drifted more or less to the centre of this group, due to feelings of emotional involvement (and big back-bucks, necks and shoulders in the way blocking her view), and secondly, that the woman in the middle, englo-angelic, constantly smiling at everyone along with her female friends, all with a collective beauty that stood out among the frayed tempers, were in fact, some sort of evangelising oldage 13th-epoch cult, completely enthused with reppin’ for their belief-supersystem.

Such philosophical observation-arrows being propelled by the two girls were unfathomable to the most amped-up objector, veins bulging with his team—That alone was fascinating to watch. The young women, their physical attractiveness, and all round unified steelo, fluid, with responses infuriatingly aloof to all opponents (each turning pink through a combination of passionate fury, alcohol, and no sun block!)—But, conversely for Seattle and others listening on, the subtly within those multi-layered expressions came across as ripe, tropicaryan, and elastic.

The apparent opposition leader (beer belly, skinhead, last season’s Arsenalvenga top) constituted the frontline in an exchange of opinions and views in which he, blocked by his own sense of anger was projecting points, some would argue, all incorrectly; pumped up with a chief offence: the audacity of a pretty temple scout daring to give him a leaflet without her personal contact details on the bottom, him initially trying to holler regardless of how vile he came off. Luckily they’d gone way beyond that matter by now, and had been going at it for a couple of hours, progressing trough, adding on, building higher and higher, until

350

Celine Flux

some poor soul motivated by a particular issue would take the reins, butt in, and end up digressing around sharp edges where others would get scratched trying to “follow the leader” so to speak.

Those sharp scratches made the opposing supporters angry, frenzied, and even more chaotic than before, their loud leader—St Georgia of England (& Turkey) tattoo, lax prison arms—then responding unreservedly, mashing down the more measured pleas of the main preacher woman, flowing gown underneath strong lengthy silver hair, and a wicker basket containing presentation packs at her feet, who, whenever she could get a mild word in edgeways, tried her best to tactically condense, re-interpret and summarize what her spiritual daughters were putting into the humid and clammy circle, which was beginning to look like that first ever videogame made with digitised graphics—(What was it called again? Oh yeah Pitfighter, that’s it, ah remember that . . . ahhh)?

This centrally-positioned woman was a skilful rhetorician in the face of immediate torrent-like objection. She soared high with the elevation, catching shimmering updrafts, assured lady-like steez, her generic global village accent calling for less verbal violence, and then twisting the wings, tweaking a pivotal feather over the muggy Zone1 heat, sweeping down like Martin Luther with southern Dictaphones in his face.

She had impressive dart accuracy, slightly curvy yet athletic, measured timing, like a self-taught academic, emotional control, unseen in another woman (other than Seattle herself ), used in a defence to such aimless aggression, varying the chantension of her verbal bow, before choosing the best time to release an arrow at the shield of the uninformed populace, practically snarling up front, flanking them on both sides. But return fire accusations like, ‘Go get a jobby job, Yea . . . toil for comfort like us!’ and more personal attacks born out of semi-literacy, like ‘You’re a bunch of d-ckheads!’ (Along with other similarly inappropriate and disrespectful charges) just kept coming which seemed to Seattle and others, quite unjustified. The brave resistance of these beautiful women propagating their own “omnified technique of liberty” was impressive on the eye just as much as the ear.

* * *

351

REQUIEM LOVE ETERNUM;

TOO CAREFUL . . . SMASH, EVERYTHING

It took a while to sink in plus Nick was already in a surreal state, where weak legs, bend, propelling body out from the lift and across the car park as the mind kept saying ‘Impossible’. The sound of the man’s running footsteps faded, and now, Vienna, had gone? He walked from the wall back to Neon; more than just his colleague . . . his friend!—Nick knew Neon literally as the girl next door. Years ago she’d come down the hill to his childhood home to play, or meet up and usually leave with Niv. Most times all three even, would make their way to the small village school together, only for now, after all they’ve been through, to see Neon lying dead on the floor. He felt detached, way beyond the point of shocked.

Vienna was somehow involved, he knew it, so too was that guy running—he knew that they obviously witnessed something. It was unbelievable, but, all the disbelief jolting through his facilitated reality had to wait until later. So, he brought himself back from that remote place to sense if it was Vienna, and her self-serving aura he could feel creeping away between the cars. He wasn’t sure if it was drifting litter, or rats, or, was she going to actually walk off the premises . . .?

‘No way’ he thought. ‘If so, why’d she feel she should run for’? He shouted her name. ‘Vee . . .? Vienna . . .’?? The echo was drowned out by deafening sirens making their way up via the stack of gravel-strewn access ramps, leading right up to the fourth tier.

As they made their ascent Nick did some mental arithmetic. ‘Vienna can be a nasty piece of work sometimes, I’ve witnessed that myself from time to time, but, it never turned out to be no union breaker? Did it?

She’s distant, secretive in so many ways of late, but so am I . . . right’?

The significance of Vienna’s choice—to flee a crime scene containing her definitely now estranged husband, and a girl she knows to be a friend of her sister in law—instantly became apparent when measured against a few more memorable moments Nick recalled over the past few months.

352

Celine Flux

And especially, ever since her manning of that 731 ship, overseeing its navigation—she always stayed so absorbed. ‘Yeah I’d voice my opinion’ as a much-needed rationalization he remembered it to himself ‘. . . But I never once spat my dummy and got all childish about it? Not once did she recognize my restraint by not going below the belt? Maybe, I felt more for her, than she did me’?

Nick was made aware of how she acted at work, well aware of all her differing borderline-illicit vocational tactics. He also accepted the possibility it could take her higher in the field than any woman before her. It seemed nothing could stand in Vee’s way when it came to pre-targeted desire.

‘If she ran from any other scene of an accident and kept it from me, then there’d be a reason, I’d trust her in that sense . . . but to run from this . . .? Why . . .? She must know I didn’t think it was her . . . she was standing on the passenger side of a car . . . that obviously ain’t hers . . . Maybe she doesn’t know I saw the driver pass me? Was he driving? I’m not even certain’?

The questions vortex only stopped when lights from the ambulance and police shifted onto him, then illuminated Neon’s lifeless face as they drove up the ramp and turned the corner. He looked down one final time at Neon, already approaching another huge block of concern about telling Niv . . . Omni even.

He stared, and sent a silent prayer for her soul in relation to the all-pervading supersoul vishnu, before briefly telling the medics what he saw over the last half-hour. Nick then followed officers to the station to give an official statement.

In the back seat, engine starting, he cast his mind back to their falling-out earlier that afternoon, when the monolith he thought up until then he represented to Vee was reduced to rubble. The fact born of her behaviour then, and especially this, now, was too much.

‘If she couldn’t stay long enough to talk to me when it’s someone I know, and she’s met before? . . . Lying dead on the floor? . . . Then fk her, she can talk to the police’! Angrier and noticing it through an anodyne shell of numbness, he wandered if they had caught her yet. It was raining heavily, so, she couldn’t have gotten far.

* * *

353

FOR MORPHEUS TRILOGIES AND HIPPIES

WHO DIDN’T TURN BACK!

Quetzals English was much better, but, it shouldn’t have to have been though, should it? Did anyone Quetzal meet in England ever speak good olde English, or any Portuguese at all for that matter . . .? Yea exactamente!

Moving to Britain at fifteen, then taken back with his parents just a few years later only to return by himself as an adult now was like, he felt, some curtailed business over here on our declining sodden isles.

Quetzal, Virachocha The Frequently Googled One, or Toltec as Omni and Dublin called him (sometimes just Virachocha alone), looked as exotic to a Northman as exotic could possibly get, a real immigrant foreigner, or as Omni liked to so articulately enunciate with claimed ingenious and erudite sophistication . . . the neonigguh.

He kept his thick black hair long in a healthy-sized ponytail (tackling most women on the sheen and length front)! And if he were to take it out, which he did whenever he crashed over at Niv’s, where one of his two rucksacks are stationed permanently, after he throws his big Barca top on he comes off just like that midfielder Ronaldinio or something—talk about face-favour!

Like Dubz, but unlike Omni, Toltec loved Zone1 and the local SE1 club scene, where he partied to thumpin’ jams and sniffed adaptation drugs that even the young Meryl Streep and Jeremy Irons ain’t never heard of!

Speaking to Omni one night up at Dubz’s place, dressed in an almost permanently crushed Bermuda shirt from that said rucksack over at Niv’s, also wearing long shorts and sandals kicked over in the corner, he spat what villagers further inland—from his native Sun Paulo—spat to him as an experimenting youth years before (more like dribbled under wailing connotations) how that this method, is the best way for him to approach his ancestors, who—so the story goes—“commune with the greater spirits”, providing Toltec with regular directions in life, to somewhere or

354

Celine Flux

another as yet unknown; an event, maybe? But with real-time data for Omni to run his unscientific observations over (basically Toltec buzzin’ off his face) it would appear Toltec was trying unsuccessfully, as his reports would often suggest, to touch the (apparent) eternal void where Siva turns up before Vishnu’s causeless inhalation—(oohh spooky).

This for the time being only reaffirmed Omni’s all round cynicism on the technique, for like so many other toxic doses from caffeine to codeine, it seemed to tax bodily organs so much you ended up looking terribly ugly and hungover the next morning, and Omni, the self confessed “fortune of goodlooks cat but pity the pretty” was way too vain to mess up the most superficial organ—the skin—in such a way, well, not more than a few occasions anyway.

But Dubz was definitely up for it, them both sharing the same love of strobelights and head-pounding musick. ‘Go on then ah geez, I’ll have some’ he shouted to Quetzal, selecting from his collection under the decks yet another house music vinyl. Dublin had hundreds of tracks about the place, all up in the front room and in the spare room (called his get-tanked-up suite), where the guy’s, sometimes Niv, Neon, and Rachel—Dublin’s wife—all hungout if not over in Omni room or Niv’s.

On this particular night the kids and Rachael were asleep. Just the three of them were up, playing tracks and drinking Gaulic beer till dawn; that’s when Quetz and Omni would stagger their arses across the street to the other block where Niv’s bed awaited the former, and if Neon wasn’t there, a creaky futon awaited the latter.

‘Yo . . . so what . . .? Is it some sorta priceless ceremony thing . . .’?‘Used to be, and no, it’s not costly, not really, although the process is

complicated . . . plus old mate, very old; provincial clans’ve been doing it since they were taught by Preolmecz’

‘Who the heck are they’?‘Trust me you don’t wanna know’—Omni butted in looking at

Toltec smugly, also knowing the answer. ‘Nah I do wanna know . . . Just don’t want you to tell me that’s all’ ‘Ah OK, cool! Tell then him blood’. He opened back up the Auto Tradeslist he was looking through lustfully, as Quetzal, laying on the threepeice with his massive feet up on the armrest, switched them over and with his hands behind his back, spoke.

‘Yea . . . they sing hymns about it and everything out there, about how, when Alaska was frozen to Siberia, they came and settled alongside

355

FOR MORPHeuS TRilOGieS AnD HiPPieS WHO DiDn’T TuRn BACK!

people who said their ancestors arrived to long-emptied cities, built when Atlantartica bridged Africasia and Amerindia together! Then at the end of the hymn, some disgruntled village sorcerer guy battles some treehouse shaman guy . . . They both sniff some powdered silver . . . Chant the wrong mantra to the wrong semigod and boom! . . . Something called the Yucatan Extraterrestrial Bellyflop. It splashed down on Mexico and wiped’em all out. According to prophecy another outerspace bellyflop’s due soon . . . 2021 I think’? Omni looked up and started nodding. ‘Yea, scary stuff ennit . . .’? Turning to flick the crossfader and sync-up the next tune—(to Omni they all sounded the same)—Dublin’s eyes had glazed over ages ago, his attention more on spinning the decks, ‘Nope, not that spooky really’. Mere heartbeats later Quetzal added, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it was completely unavailable over here’!

‘Why . . . does that mean your gonna charge me’?‘No, but unlike back home, over here it’s a rare commodity’. Omni

had an enterprising idea. ‘Well then you should start charging, that’s a hustle you got right there’

‘Yeah your right’ said Dubz, ‘dirty money’‘Huh, what money’s clean’ replied Omni.‘So where is it then’?Quetzal reached down into his sock and pulled out a small wrap

of grease-proof paper, ‘I got it here . . . I keep it on me’. Dublin was still spinning tunes standing opposite the coffee table. He took his ear from the large headphones hung round his neck after cocking the next track on his classic SL-1200 turntables. ‘What is it’? ‘It’s the seed of a fruit, dried and powdered that’s all’. Stretching the cord running to the audio-jack plug, then into the mixer, he turned over his shoulder and took a step back to scrutinize while Omni spoke alarmed. ‘What do you mean “that’s all”?’ He was up on his feet now, checking the substance up close also. Toltec emptied a small amount of the blue powder onto the turntable paused, not yet spinning. Then, he whipped from his shorts pocket, his masstransit card and began chopping the tiny heap up into four little lines. Omni and Dubz bent down.

A tiny built-in light from the decks shined on it as Quetz, leaning in also, finished what he was doing, resealed his wrap with a quick flame to the clingfilm, and then took a sniff. ‘Oi you know what, it comes in like Spurilina’, Omni went to crack a beer and left the two dance-drug experts to it. ‘Shall I . . .’? Dublin ripped a flyer on the coffeetable in two and rolled one piece up into a straw. ‘Sure’ responded Toltec, already on

356

Celine Flux

his rocket ship, ‘But I will say this, once you come here, through this window, you can’t completely come back’. Drunk and fearless Dublin was like . . .’ What do you mean come back, what, like alkaline-tabs?’

‘No no’, Toltec chuckled, ‘this ain’t to make you dance, although you may wanna, no, it’s to receive instruction from the elder spirits, OK’?

Dubz smiled, put down his beer and got busy—shotguns through the nose. Back over on the music crate with the magazine Omni watched them both max-out on the settee, staring up at the lightshade above them. After a few seconds, an urge came over first Quetzal, then Dubz, to close their eyes, which they didn’t bother to open again, only swinging back off the planet’s field—like Sputnik 2—at comedown-sunrise-time (and boy what a comedown it was).

* * *

357

THE DISTINCTIONS OF EVOLVING SPECIES

‘Oh my god . . .!’ Vienna thought running, ‘I’m an accessory to murder . . . Of my sister in-law’s best friend’! She couldn’t make out why the events of the past few days had panned out the way they did but Vienna knew she’d made a mistake and was beginning to regret panicking, wrongly choosing to run over staying to tell the truth. She stopped to hide, leaning against an office wall. The falling raindrops intensified. She became flooded with questions.

‘Oh, my god . . . what do I do now’? Eyes everywhere, hurried in contemplation, she began to think back. ‘. . . The taxi, to the car, then the crash . . . of Neon? Why has Mr Rella done this to me’? She stared down the street both ways, deciding to turn back but then, unsure if she could anyhow, dragged from wandering in what way and how to do it, she retracted on suggestion. Those fifteen minutes worth of the barefoot dash hadn’t paid off and now exhausted her feet felt cold and numb.

With the increasing likelihood of entrapment not far, Vee was confused, straight stuck as to why the man in the suit didn’t speak when she got in the car. The possibility of him not being a Shadowless operative was taking on more and more importance in relation to handing herself in, and considering she wasn’t sure one way or the other, the wrong choice of fleeing, alas, had already been made.

As she tried problem solving quickly, to make sense of the complicated, fluid angles, constantly growing and changing in her lobe, a searchlight came down and swept suddenly from her far left, clear down the street, and made its way towards her, dwarfing the mounted lights and rain. Then, a strange sounding and looking chopper with four tiny propellers, came low, fizzing across violently into Vee’s view from behind the office buildings. The tiny chopper coordinated the movements of a team of Dragonfly agents from Mirrorless wearing wireless earpieces.

As they searched, creeping from around the opposite corner, directed via broadcom, Vienna squinted her eyes downward from pounding droplets of rain. The mechanical movements of the mini-chopper and its powerful beam zig-zag-zigged from pavement to pavement, scanning

358

Celine Flux

the ground, slowly, propellers stirring up debris as telluricbolts of light flashed and forked, touching the clouds from the earth.

The mini-chopper hovered, and then approached, noisy, like a windy steamroller, stopping directly above her. Its light consumed all it touched, showering an already drenched Vee, frozen against the wall, with a focused beam.

Eyes hurting from the brightness and rain, still half closed, the Dragonflies crept, then pounced on her, as thunder clapped in the sky, immediately marching her to the nearest available shade as the small aircraft veered its way upward, and disappeared as fast as it came. Scared stiff, she was then cuffed by her foot to the back of a skinny Korean stuntbike which sped off, screeching as litter sent high up into the air from the mini-chopper began to settle on the wet, lightningbolt-reflecting streets.

Swiftly couriered out of Zone1, she was taken all the way to a one of Mr Rella’s safehouse’s where the motorcyclist parked up, turned to Vee still holding one handle bar and spoke, in a foreign accent. ‘I have a message from Mr Rella; this he wants played to you before you’re handed over by anonymous individuals, into police custody, and formally interviewed’. With that he hopped off the bike and stood behind her, taking the earpiece from his helmet placing it into hers. When he finished he plugged it into a gadget bulging from the pocket of his bike leathers.

He turned it on and pressed play, beginning a recording of Mr Rella’s voice, then, switched off the engine and frontlight so she couldn’t get anything he was about to say twisted.

‘You surprised me Vienna’ the poor-quality recording which didn’t sound much like him alleged, ‘. . . This is the race, or should I say, the sprint of the living entities; you are a very competitive woman, don’t you agree? . . . Deserving of a little prize, but, it’ll cost, time maybe, money even . . .? We couldn’t have such things as important as time and money, misspent now could we . . .? Allow me to explain’. Vienna felt something on her ankle, and while noticing the rider unlocking her cuff her attention returned to the recording in her ear.

‘Vienna, for the ascertainment of your ability to follow, my orders, the electrokey I gave you, had a built in microphone, tracking device, and Brainvessel-Anuriza, each acquired from differing government sponsored counter-terrorist branches. The first two of these features were activated, and although we didn’t expect you to run dropping your bag

359

THe DiSTinCTiOnS OF eVOlVinG SPeCieS

on the way, if you want, what I know you want so badly, I’ll be needing you to take this, for want of a better word, “pinch”, for me. Therefore, Mrs Vikingson, or is it Miss Edison hmm? When you are handed over to police and have your time to speak in court, don’t mention any of your interactions with me last night, or Shadowless, or Gammatec, because if you do, I’ll see to it, that it’s published not public opinion that’ll make its way to the newsdesk . . . It’ll be causing your own downfall! And by the way don’t worry about 731 Filter; I’ll have it “refrigerated” for you’.

Warm rain slowing, partly reducing in noise, the rider looked down at his watch and disconnected the fiber-optojack from the machine, its black top, flashing ultraviolet at the corners from underneath his pocket flap, and then, ominously purposeful, he lifted her off the bike.

Shoved inside she made a forced conclusion for her immediate survival; First: set up, according to the msg, possibly for 731, and she had no reason to believe she could evade this one with her life in tact.

Vienna felt little responsibility for her situation, even though all her professional life she’d been playing her part in the destruction of others. As far as she was concerned past deeds from years back upon that excruciating desire for recognition and success, to lord it over something apparently, theoretically tangible (a genetic trait in all beings to “have some too”) came from a causal ocean of which she had not the sight to perceive, more than just a documented concept preserved by men who practiced the funnel-cultivation of ever-expanding consciousness.

360

ESTEEMED POETS . . .? BE SPECIFIC!

While shaking at the thought—being used, discarded by a man so powerful as Mr Rella—she was nudged along through the front door of the safehouse and down into a wine basement. Tiny cameras, state of the art, and speakers too, were fixed in every observable corner she could see while being marched along en route until she entered. Inside was cold, un-kept, and musty. The walls were built of subsiding, decaying, cracked brickwork. Metal kegs mostly unused laid covered with long-abandoned spider webs. The rotting, redundant barrels further on back reflected the moistness of dirty moss draping its way downwards, growing like gangrenous encroachments in that repulsively damp environment.

Stacked plastic crates holding up sheets of wood creating temporary work surfaces took up most of the space in the room, cold and uninviting. In the middle she saw two wooden pallets on the floor, joined up to form a makeshift bed base under a grizzly-looking lampshade. Large assorted pieces of insect-infested plastic lay one on top of another, creating some sort of well-used sleeping area that she was pushed towards, and not looking forward to lying upon.

The man, engineered stubble, quite long at the jaw, dipped in all black, told her to stand while he stood a keg upright. He ordered her to take off her coat and sit on the nearest keg while he walked over to a small mounted cabinet. Hunching to focus, far from the single light, he reached to open it. Racks of varying glass bottles with Shadowless-stamped stickers and medical equipment decorated the inside of the doors and small shelves. Vienna watched in horror as he placed a few objects on a tray, then, rest the tray on a stack of crates above her eye line. He told her to sit facing the wall opposite the door. She was then bound, gagged, and injected with the latest upgrade of Shadowless patented Sodium Detonate serum containing remotely discharged nanobombs. Before long Vee felt skewered; already knowing this the agent stood behind her. Frightened, she tried to keep her eyes on him as he walked round a full 180. Turning her head along with his movements, just like he anticipated she toppled off the keg backwards. He caught her and placed

361

eSTeeMeD POeTS . . .? Be SPeCiFiC!

her on the bed. The last thing Vee heard was the sound of the agent on the intercom requesting assistance and the mechanical buzzing from the strange array of instruments on dirty tables . . .

When she awoke she was in the back of a hot and cluttered, multi-screen-lit, slow moving van which kept stopping, and then moving again, as if it was in a traffic jam. She looked around on all the small screens, working out she was surrounded by other cars which she could somehow sense. A portable Anuriza on charge lay with all other kinds of flashing and bleeping machinery beside and around it. That same man with the robotic oversees accent and superhero jawline was there, tapping away on the keyboard with a screwdriver between his teeth.

After an apparent radio order, then unsettling affirmation, he suddenly stopped and swivelled around on his chair to pick up a knife from the mass of sockets and wires on the floor. Before advancing he took out his earpiece placing it near the keyboard. He put the screwdriver into his pocket and nostrils flaring, flicked out the blade. Then, he leaned over towards Vienna. She instantly thought the worst as the man grabbed the crown of her head, pushing it down to her bent knees, exposing her tied hands behind her back. He reached over and cut the tape binding her hands together. Sitting up she started to feel sick, noticing she was still under the influence of the Pentothol Anuriza, or something else; as she remembered that injection, right then the van pulled-up sharply, parking into a row of cars. She was in a built-up area, and could feel the nightime activity. The doors then opened.

Instantly she recognized where she was; the corner of The Strand and Wellingtonloo Bridge, with its three-way traffic lights splitting in separate directions of Piccadilly, Elephant, and Hoeswater. A few meters ahead of the lights, sitting on the pavement crossing with his back to the water, sat a homeless beggar shivering in half-lotus with his dog, and beyond that, way over the bridge, the Southbank Galleria and J-Max House of Wack Movies.

The man told her to get out, which she did, feeling unusually groggy. As she touched down onto the hard noisy street near the junction, her legs gave way, stumbling onto the car behind, parked parallel, in front of a long line of others. She held onto the bonnet and looked back at the man, who closed the van door while its driver pulled off through green lights and turned onto the bridge.

362

Celine Flux

Gathering strength she looked around some more: Behind the punter-pedestrians, opposite the gleaming Australasian Embassy, stood a couple of nightshift dealers from the Zone1 Connection Hostel further up the hill on Piccadilly, lamposting, trying, unsuccessfully, not to draw heat upon themselves, standing in between MuckDonald’s and The Saveloy Motel. The first one, hooded down, was apparently giving directions to some scrawny X-workers while holding his ports, and the other, reverse bandanna and undercover flight jacket, jaws full of airtight grams (of four years minimum CCTV jailtime), spat clingfilmed pellets of food on the floor for pigeon-head-users to then pick up and fly away with.

Vee watched as the van left her sight, its view blocked off as it drove round the Northbank buildings and onto the massive bridge carriageway.

All the commercial-punter, alcohol-abusers staggering home, came into her focus through bedraggled hair which she threw back, leaning off the car, instinct, compelling her to move. But as she tried to walk her limbs went heavy; she tried to talk but, nothing came out. At that point sirens and blue flashes from over the bridge came racing round through the traffic lights and onto The Strand. They screeched to a stop right beside the parked car she was standing near, putting the frightener-fluid in her already busy bloodstream. Three plain clothed police officers, grillfaced, then jumped out heading straight for her, flashing badges, reciting cretancrest imported rights and placing her in cuffs. So on this, the second occasion of a few, Vienna was bundled into a car and driven away, this time, to Hoeswater Police Station.

363

SCRAPYARDS IN ASCOT (PLUS ADMIN FEE;

CORPERATE CHARITY ONLY)

They booked her, took belongings for forensic analysis, before escorting her, wobbly and fearful, down cold perforated steel stairs, to door B of six frigid holding cells. Dressed in a flimsy loose jumpsuit and plimsolls, she entered. Vienna had never been in a police cell before: it looked OK, better than she’d imagined, if not slightly over-used. The main materials on show were cool tiles and cement, apart from the long light and camera, protected by sheets of metal for durability, making way for a small window of orange-hue’d night sky from a few rows of square, glass, tile-like germaninan vandal-resistant cubes. A smell of cheap disinfectant evolved thoughts of public toilets, or some government-run institution.

Sitting there, migraine hardly subsiding, held in custody and waiting for her briefing advisor to arrive, for the first few hours she couldn’t even think straight, but as time advanced, thoughts began to sharpen, mechanically choosing function over form.

‘Oh poor Neon!!’ she began to think, ‘. . . What could she have been targeted for . . . And Nick!! What will I say when I see him again . . .?

How will he react to my just vanishing like that?’ She decided on the assumption of him hating her whichever explanation she tried to conjure up for his appeasement. Now though, running through what she could and struggling with it all, she felt like kicking herself for ill-chosen verdicts so hastily made.

Ideas on what Nick may be doing and how he may be feeling right then wandered through the heavy fog into her throbbing crown, as the come-down from the Sodium Detonate caused a punishing headache which still remained on, somewhat. As thoughts and priorities became clearer still, she began to formulate a story based on only some of the truth, taking care not to include Shadowless and its boss, or 731, or even the Gammatec transfer offer so deceptively tabled at The Citispot in Mr Rella’s bed yesterday morning. ‘Me and Neon . . .?’ she imagined telling the cops confidently, ‘Oh, yea, we knew each other, sure, but not

364

Celine Flux

that well. We met only a few times. There weren’t any opportunities to familiarize or become best buddies . . . past normal pleasantries . . . That’s whenever we’d meet . . . you see’. This practising, of some kind of story for the record was having its desired effect.

Mr H Ard Luck was beamed down to stand in her cell by Mr KArma, Mr F Ruitive Action, Mr Too Egon Spengler, and Mr Too

Faas, all together, shaking their heads, speaking about the space between external evidence and internal actualization but Vee, couldn’t see them, having never heard the subtle words “delicate thread binding everything” before—She still felt completely alone in her cell housed deep under the station.

She was losing track of time but guessed she’d been on lockdown for about six hours now. Tossing, and turning under her grubby sheet, for the first time in her adult life (because of her being such a clean freak) she was alarmed by fishy, cheesy and gangsta smells festering on her own groin area, her bruised feet, and bradpits. Combined with soiled surroundings and the tiring predicament she now found herself in Vee was struggling to not freak out—(unlike the prisoner in the cell beside her). But in time, it was tiredness, that rose to the top of the combination and finally, she began to sleep, oddly drifting off to Pre-contribution-to-European-civilisation-stripped . . . Polskasia.

Later, thrust from much needed rest, she heard footsteps approaching, but without the sound of a trolley bearing meals being pushed along with it, like she’d heard umpteen times before. The footsteps of two people stopped at her cell door holding a conversation. It was her Case Adviser, and a female officer who opened the flap with a smile, then, unlocked the door saying, ‘Miss Vienna Vikingson . . .?’ standing outside it the whole time her and the adviser spoke.

The solicitor introduced herself, beaming motherly, but in good shape, with a yoganeck, obviously a corker in her day, sporting glossy grey hair in a ponytail, and a light-catching shiny imitation-leather draincoat—In a zone where appearance was valued overly-hard Vienna felt reassured by just how smart and slick she looked.

From through that thick square-glass window she noticed dawn was upon them, visible creases of light coming in from up near the ceiling, mounted high in a way as to insult any inspiration—an inmate may have—coaxed, from within the dark-antimatter side of them, from which the rest emerges.

365

SCRAPYARDS IN ASCOT (PLUS ADMIN FEE; CORPERATE CHARITY ONLY)

‘You’re usual brief Mr Goldbergsteinberg can’t make it due to his being oversees, but he sent me, his subsidiary “elucidator” for you.

Don’t worry . . . I’m Mrs Genryusai. How you feeling, did you get any rest’? She extended her hand looking pitifully at Vee, who looked a state, with smudged eye make-up and terribly ruffled hair. Shaken and overwelmed, she shook Mrs Genryusai’s hand timidly, saying ‘Could do with a shower?’ fiddling with a matted lock of hair for emphasis.

‘Sure . . . I’ll sort that out’ she replied. ‘Now . . . I’m going to run through some things with you if that’s alright Miss Vikingson’? Mrs Genryusai sat down placing paperwork beside them and undone her short ponytail. She took off the hair band and gave it to Vienna, who, grateful, had a huge wave of appreciation washing right over her.

366

CELL FLOORWORK TO AMBIENT BIRDSONG

REPRESSING NOMADIC TENDENCIES

When they finished talking the female officer came in and led her across to shower, then into a soundproof interview room where Mrs Genryusai successfully argued for the removal the cuffs. Two officers introduced themselves: One had coffee breath, with the other one, already sitting near the microphone, emitted an overall stench of decomposing kebab and scotch; fresh from the shower Vienna felt ill from the oppressive smell.

‘Before we start this interview . . .’ said the Officer with the carpeted discoloured tongue, trying to open play in this verbal-chess game he’d now begun with Vienna ‘. . . I want you to know we found the janitor, he was wired, and we have transcripts so you better tell us the truth up in here uh . . .’? Frowning, Mrs Genryusai interjected, presuming that to be a mere deception tactic and advised Vienna (baffled but wisely staying calm), to not respond until all formalities were recorded and everyone had been seated.

The fat greasy detective investigator—the one without the coffee cup—was sat nearest to the recording machine. He switched it on, unwrapped and inserted a tiny digidisx. He went through the motions cataloguing time and topic of inquiry, while the other sipped and nibbled distractingly on his paper cup. Before long they were intimidating not only Vienna, but Mrs Genryusai her Court-Prep too. ‘Why did you get in the car . . .?’ asked Officer Fur-tongue again. ‘Who else was in the car . . .?’ repeated the fat detective. ‘Who was driving . . .’? Vee was knackered, as the minuets, by-the-chunk, turned into hours and questions morpheused into insinuations that had her feeling rather claustrophobic, now desperately repressing nomadic tendencies but trapped in a heavily secured building. These guys were hardened experts—Vee wasn’t—obviously—and Mrs Genryusai, by her facial expression it turned out, wasn’t either.

367

Cell FlOORWORK TO AMBienT BiRDSOnG RePReSSinG nOMADiC TenDenCieS

Younger, energized off the coffee, one employed the textbook toilet flush tactic: a bit torrent; spraying questions like a HK general purpose heckler, with extended banana-clip, and the other copper, older and unimpressed, oily, with deeply contemptuous undertones, came with a different assault, spreading his examinations out like a XM4 8-gauge shotslug dogbark. In charge of the case and acting like it, he partially rocked his chair back and forth observing proceedings, appearing bored, and then later waiting for his turn, pumping his widespray pellet bison-buckshot rounds with unsettling precision. And they were by no means done with the questions, covering for each other like shift work while the other had sufficiently and fully reloaded the clip, running up heat a-blazing, smelting swissbullion and classified cylinder-etchings like Operation Paperclip on the Vatican Bank.

Officer Fur-tongue was a quick talker, and waving, from side to side, the rapid rounds-fire HK shell storage magazine full of questions, most of which re-repeatable. ‘He was a janitor right . . .? Then why was he driving? How did you know he was there? What were you planning to do once together . . .? Where were the two of you planning to go, to his place? . . .’ then came in the brawny pump-action rifle assist . . .’ Is that where you spent last night? . . .’ Vee looked at her crime brief over in the corner while the resulting torture ensued. ‘You wanna a drink . . .? How about some coffee . . .? You want coffee Vienna . . .? Vienna . . . you want some coffee? . . . You sure? . . .’ Vienna replied more than once, but he just carried on talking about the coffee; maybe, she reasoned, it was part of a plan, or maybe he just wanted some more for himself.

‘You sure you don’t want some coffee? . . . OK . . .’ he continued, ‘I’ma go get you some coffee then . . . back in a Zone1 mo’. He left the detective alone on their side of the desk going through some case papers, while Mrs Genryusai, in the corner, frantically tried to keep pace doing the same.

The greasy detective placed his elbow on the table and turned off the recording machine, staring at Mrs Genryusai, but talking to Vee, who’s face and forearms were resting on the desk since the incessant Officer Fur-tongue mercifully, tactically, stopped squeezing for a while, easing off the hair-trigger. Clocking her attempt to regain perspective, hopefully prompting the opposite, the detective summarized all information gathered and asked Vee, for the umpteenth time, sticky breath flowing down, breaking on the crown of her head, making her short restbite

368

Celine Flux

impossible to extend any further, ‘Seriously Vienna, were off the record now, so I’ll be straight with you . . . We haven’t found the driver of the car but the vehicle is being sent off for screening—I bet even Shadowless money can’t speed up that process’! He coughed his assumption out with a fading, husky chuckle, ‘The results will be back in three days, which means, if you don’t tell us what we need to know, we’ll be applying to the upper-court to hold you until then, at least, so, if I were you, I’d holler right back at me and my query . . .? OK look . . . Honestly Vienna’, he asked, addressing her while still smiling,

‘What . . . in Yaweloheem’s tabernacle were you both doing there, in that car park . . . and at that time’? She looked once more at her supposed elucidator. ‘Your lack of comment has a slight aroma Vienna’. He was taking the p-ss. ‘Smell that wet . . .? Smell that Vienna . . .? Smells like digicash to me, but from where . . . what, is He paying you . . .?’ ‘Who’s “He”?’ Vienna thought, then ‘Oh!’ came the more dramatic thought right after.

Leaning back and stroking his chin the detective had formed himself some new idea, taking out A4’s from a separate file, cross-referencing between them and a palmistry-pilot on the table, trying to make the connection before his string of notions dislodged from each other and fleeted away. ‘The husk of your finance trail tells us, you took a cab, from . . . Shadowless Towers, at 0647 hours to your house, and Nick tells us you came in with a file from his own place of work—Shadowless-

Gamma—and don’t deny it cause we have that on CCTV also, so, what I wanna know is, after going back, how the heck did you enter a sufficiently secure Shadowless basement car park so late yesterday evening, if you don’t even work there’? Vienna—with little assistance from Mrs Genryusai who seemed disappointingly out of her depth—held the line.

Mock-biting his lip, the detective offered them both a cigarette before lighting one up himself. He sparked up the stem, and then pressed a button underneath the desk. For some reason officer Fur-tongue was taking longer than necessary.

She searched with her psyche to sense activity behind the large mirror to her right, but couldn’t call it for sure. When he finally burst back into the room with a stifled grin for the detective (who by now had no smell in particular), entering, leaning reverse-palmed into the smoky light looking at the detective, saying ‘Were out of coffee’, Vienna then, in a mental sense, ran directly away from Mrs Genryusai’s cell

369

Cell FlOORWORK TO AMBienT BiRDSOnG RePReSSinG nOMADiC TenDenCieS

room suggestions, stopped hedging, and opted to bank on her own plan: The basic idea that Mr Rella’s death threats, which the officers may or may not have known about, were serious and on the life-bettingly really-real-to-reel, and therefore, from then on, that secret recording of Mr Rella’s heard on that motorbike took uppermost importance. She would now definitely keep her wafflicious game-spitting to a minimal.

Life and death now—one, on the line, and Neon’s, lost, about to pinned her way!—the whole situation, she noticed, with merging factors linking Düsseldorf to that new Mirrorless outfit she fell for, had shifted, drastically to political, losing its sense of fun from the moment Mr Rella pulled out the file full of instructions from under his bed and the digikey from under his pillow, and then, regrettably, him setting her this curious challenge. Yet moving forward, considering it was she who, lead by a desire of par-essential comfort took up his challenge, Vienna still surprisingly hadn’t come round to the point of accepting that the active ingredient at fault was in fact, herself.

When the interview was concluded she was granted one more phone call before returning to her cell to eat her dead-cal, meal-in-a-bag. The Sergeant at the desk went into the busy backroom, behind the tall, main counter, built high purposely to look imposing. He returned to Vienna, saying that all the landlines were down and slid across the length of the domineering table into her hand, the chicest flip ever designed; the old Startac Classic.

She didn’t think much of his improvised lie about the land phones for one minute, and neither did Mrs Genryusai, busy making her exit after first apologising, freely admitting to downright impotence regarding the first round of interviews, but intended to be better prepared and on-point for the subsequent rounds scheduled to begin in six hours. So, tired, hungry, sleep-deprived and already recoiling at the inevitably of three days intensive interviewing, they were directed through separate security doors where Vee was taken to stand near the (supposedly) broken, prisoners phone, and after signing out and arranging to see her that same afternoon, Mrs Genryusai headed through the final doors leading out to the foyer.

Vee opened the phone and dialled the number, bending her head away from the cameras and incoming officer with hip-to-the-game Crimey in-toe, both giving off intimidating stares. She then turned

370

Celine Flux

back to face the mounted phone, covering the moby with her hands and muffling as much sound as she could. She waited anxiously as the phone rang, hoping Nick’d finally answer the unrecognised number,

‘Nick, it’s me, Vienna . . .’ She waited for a response. He was taking his time but she could hear people, and maybe Aubrey, talking in the background. ‘I’m sorry Nick, but, I . . . I haven’t got much time’. Nick at first was monosyllabic, just asking ‘Why Vee . . . Why?’ but soon after, the justified probe started.

‘What the fk have you done, what have you gotten yourself into Vee . . .? Is this why you backed out of the Granada/Zurich trip last month . . .? It was wasn’t it?—Oh, my, god I’m freaking out. I was right?

I’m right aren’t I’? He asked this, raising his voice out of understandable frustration. ‘You running off has got something to do with that file and what time you came in yesterday . . .? You know it has, I bet ya . . . You were acting all sneaky and stuff even then . . . Where did you spend last night Vee’? Although she most definitely wanted to Vienna couldn’t speak about anything too gangsta, unsure if the phone was being tapped, to the huge irritation of Nick and family behind him.

‘Answer me Vee, why can’t you answer me’?And that’s how they climbed up the familiar ladder of anger, over

lapping each other like well-trained dogs at the NEC; the most base, pathetic, inefficient, depression-inducing, mega-immature, knobbish, dick-like form off conversation ever to waste time engaging oneself in (Test it out for yaself Tibet, see how close to the paraphysical aspect of another being, talking in this way gets ya, aaiigghht?): Unfortunately, this is the preserve of the desperate to dominate, excitable, hype, youthfully foolish and, of course, those of us consumed by passion.

‘Just hold on for a minute Nick, this is important’ ‘No Vee just, answer, answer this one question then we can . . .’

‘I haven’t got time Nick, just lis . . .’ ‘No, just answer why you didn’t . . .’ ‘Nick will you just bloody listen for a . . .’ ‘Why can’t you answer Vee? Huh’?‘Nick!!! I can’t believe this . . . will you shut up for, one, second

Nick’? ‘Just answer the question’.Yep, and so they went on, losing themselves in the emotion that

temporarily kicks out innate compassion, replacing it with the highly

371

Cell FlOORWORK TO AMBienT BiRDSOnG RePReSSinG nOMADiC TenDenCieS

prized chemical substance on this Asian peninsular; the great fire of lusty misintention. ‘Do you know what you’ve done to Neon’s family and this whole village . . .? Well do you . . .’? Vienna’s breathing went heavy with frustration. ‘Listen if you can’t answer anything, then I don’t care no more Vee, the moment you ran away from the crime scene, following that guy, while I had my back turned! . . . that was the moment you ran from any love and support from us’!!

She was trying to make out who was egging him on, and heard her name being spoken in the background when suddenly, his momz took the phone. ‘You know what . . .? Go to the hellcycle of oldage death and rebirth Vienna’! And with that Aubrey hung up the phone on the advice of Burt, in from oversees on the first flight available, then, after touching down finding out his daughter-in-law Vee was the cause of all this upset.

United back in the village, other local elders came by after hearing the extreme news, while only a dead dialling tone reached the ear of a tearful Vienna, covering her mouth in disbelief, handing back the moby and turning to follow the escorting Constaboloni who came over, key swinging, attracted to the impromptu display taking place not discreetly enough, over in the corner.

After she stepped back into her cell and the door slammed shut, she began to sob, and it continued on into the small hours of the night, unable to realign her systems, or eat her snack-rehydrate.

Vee was in a terrible condition now. For her, the interrogations and ongoing incarceration were quite memorable, negatively, and to top it all off, she was getting little of the rest her mind and body so desperately needed.

372

SPACE-DEBRIS PASSING IN THE NIGHT

Time elapsed and still Seattle hadn’t left as these debates, which were never really concluded, or had any agreed points system, lured her in more and more regardless of the number of witnesses now dwindling. Even the wife of an elderly tourist couple standing beside her visiting Zone1 as part of a world tour, thought no woman should be spoken to in such a harsh, abrasive fashion. As their fancy hotel food beckoned the couple finally decided to leave, elderly wifey, pulling on her husband filming with pictures tongue-in-cheek, (something a compassion-fatigued native would never do, oh no, filming beef on a moby . . .? Heaven forbid).

Amused more than his wife he resisted for a while longer, holding out behind his tiny phone with built-in Fingercam, sharing the ups and downs of recording the regrettable, and sometimes accidental humour apparent in Mr Tuffy’s attempt to humiliate the girls, being totally unable, it would appear, to fall back like a private citizen and act right when out pon road.

The oldboy seemed to be not just tolerating this oddly stupid and discourteous spectacle, but almost salivating at the young things, him and his wife already—(then helpfully telling Seattle)—together working out that this wickerwoman (well she did have the basket) was called Mother Laureate and her disciples were on some weekly outreach tip—The elderly man was definitely enjoying himself compared to his hungry and sweltering wife for sure; pretty off-key for a wrinkly oldie who should have renounced punny for spiritual advancement years ago!

As the sun lowered bit by bit the two main blobs of people arguing, other disciples, weaving around, handing out flyers, with only partial success, had Seattle wanting to engage, definitely tempted, but ultimately she had to resist all these flowstreams going back and forth, cancelling each other out, fraying off into outer regions of human wonderment and flowery abstraction where they remained for all eternity, at the border-limits of our human species imagination where the event-horizon-line, ever-expands, like a bubble inside a superior bubble, inside a supreme bubble of The ultimate imagination.

373

SPACE-DEBRIS PASSING IN THE NIGHT

Meanwhile, back in the wiry mess of sub-passion and marginal hara, earlier agreed makeshift rules of engagement (especially on one side) were hardly being adhered to and from Settle’s standpoint this was why:

It’s because, when compared to more common and commercial subjects like, more food, more clothes, and more consumption—which we’re all invariably engaged in acquiring already knowing from experience, each to be only a transitory satisfaction—well, when compared to that, the general levels the girls were now aspiring to kick it on were some quite controversial-arsed topics.

374

HIP-HOP HIPPIES CLASH GANGLESS

GANGMEMBERS 4 RAP’S SUBCULTURE

Like random, operational clockwork, that fierce protoplasmic orb on high began to set slowly, and her food by now, had gone cold. Two of the scouts, both average height, inexhaustible warmth preceding them, austere crumpled linen tops elasticated at the joints, approached Seattle.

‘Hope you don’t mind . . . My names Abigail . . . friends call me Abi, and this is Katrina . . . We’ve been watching you, watching Mother Laureate tackle those guys’ ‘Wearing them down quite well I’d say’, Seattle joked.

The three of them there, began speaking, easily, not for long, when suddenly she heard her name. ‘Seattle!’ a voice cried. ‘Mummy?’ shouted another. It just dawned on her; she’d forgotten to get back in time for Othellenius and his Grandmother. ‘Girl where’s your phone . . .’?

Evelyn marched up butting into her Katrina and Abi’s conversation, interrupting the flow. As she reached, and then stopped, Evelyn measured the plain beauty apparent, against the neoclassical ideal planted within herself. ‘Bloody Nora’! Evelyn thought ‘Ain’t she a pretty one’ silently referring to Abi, then looking at Katrina, and then other scouts, consciously disguising her levels of both shock and admiration.

Seattle frowned slightly at the injunction, reasoning with Evelyn—which came off like a complaint, ‘All you had to do was let them in, I’d’ve been home soon? Hell, if my mom can’t entertain Otho till I get back then . . .’ Excepting no excuse Evelyn raised her eyebrows, placing one hand on Othellenius’ bipartisan shoulder with ‘don’t even try it!’ written all over her glib smile. ‘Oh c’mon you lot . . . it’s not like I’ve done this before!’ Othellenius seemed happy enough as Seattle stepped across to kiss his invisible princely crown and ruffle his hair, the young godling busy scaling the fortress wall of a seriously unsanctioned packet of crisps—But he was starting his second year of school soon, plus it was

375

HIP-HOP HIPPIES CLASH GANGLESS GANGMEMBERS 4 RAP’S SUBCULTURE

his bedtime, so the volley-point Evelyn marched up and served had to be conceded squarely on the chin.

‘I’m sorry Abigail I’ve got to get back’ ‘No problem’. Abi smiled, while Evelyn seemed lost in trying to make out what was going on around her. She looked back again at Abi; it wasn’t hard to tell—plus, how she saw it, Evelyn didn’t particularly want to hear the sound of Abi washing brains, or telling her vulnerable friend anything else.

Unimpressed by all forms of overzealous evangelizing full stop Evelyn looked at Seattle, talking away with Abi and her friend Katrina like they were old mates, then turned again to the long-running scene near them with its manly grunts against calmer hand gestures, counteraction style.

Othellenius had lead his army of fingers over the wall, enjoying his factory-processed salty snack as Evelyn, arms folded, tapping her fingers, granted Seattle a few brief momento’s more to wrap things up and begin the walk back down the hill to Hoeswater.

She felt concerned toward the level of informality in the discussion, and even more, concern increased further when she noticed, on the opposite side out of Seattle’s view, thick scars, running from behind Abi’s ear, and down behind her shoulder, mostly covered, disappearing underneath her long hair, the rich, dark and healthy locks spiralling down in its natural celt4-ether helix. Her top was low, plunging loose enough at the back to expose what appeared to be either large burn marks, or rows of deep, long but poorly healed cuts. Evelyn was now unduly alarmed.

‘Let’s go’ she said twisting Othellenius bout face, and tugging on Seattle’s elbow with a force that took her locked knees by surprise, making her half stumble into a party’s over—“all y’all get the hell out now, fk rap, I’m givin’ it up ya’ll, I’m sorry”—mode. ‘Gotta go, see you around Abigail’. ‘No, wait’ Abi replied running up to her once more, ‘I forgot to give you this’. She handed Seattle a calling card with some information about their special “Haven”. Here, they attempt to establish the existence of what everything observable transpires from; Once done, by means of a gradual process going beyond mental question, challenge, or cerebral speculation, they develop faith in its convincingly worshipable nature, and like particular souls who received it before them, add to this science for the longevity and guidance of all organisms, remaining unflinchingly conscious of this subtle indo-force, linking up to it, to that which makes clocks go tick to the (Ah) tiggidy tock (you don’t stop, hehehe).

376

Celine Flux

All this far from totally imperceptible to Seattle, she put the large glossy card in her jeans pocket, back warm, and facing towards the orangey-red solar glare. She smiled. A squinting Abi smiled back and said goodbye to Seattle and co, walking off ahead. ‘We’re here every last Saturday of the month . . . Or you could stop by our place of “adoring The Complete?” That’s where we practice our devotional service-skills . . . of worship . . . coz . . . I mean . . .’ Abi shouted to Seattle walking away but still listening ‘. . . no matter who you are, everybody’s gotta worship, right’?

Seattle caught up with Evelyn and Othelenius balancing two thoughts in her wig; first, atheist—that bewildered soldier-philosopher, classically educated by the unauthorised, pictured in her mind alongside other Knights spitting out old darkage slang round a circular table to each other—it was copied on the front of one of her stolen library books, which she kept coz baring heavy swords and compulsive thinking reminded her so much of herself. And the enchanting scene she placed beside this painfully lost, dismal, amour-clad figure? Was the great energy-realised soul of the pygmy shaman, chanting around a fire on the banks of some great lake, completely entranced by radiance, saluting the energy called forth, and what the pious-unauthorised call, everything scientifically quantifiable, into being, the rhythmic beating of his drum, almost surfing on those nanowaves of sound, the repeating of his protomantra, deliverance, to resonate with the energy of the blissful pre-atomic state, adoring the incomprehensible energizer behind those brilliant rays pulsating out, from there, his supreme cribbo. Each thought divided itself in her head, making four, becoming more complicated.

She began thinking about all the ancient cultural practices of, linking to that which is left when the rewind button is pressed in an intelligent/ intuitive persons mind, leaving just self within Superself.

She walked, thinking on about Mother Laureate, Abi and all the “Sisters”. ‘Damn, it’s almost funny, those differing ways of worship, shoot!’ she suppressed a feint grin as she imagined jestfully ‘Hi Fragmentalself, my name’s Superself, would you like to serve as part of the Whole for immaterial reward?’ ‘Eerrr dunnoooo?’ said the character in her little imaginary scene ‘I’m busy, making plans for the future; anyway, don’t I already work in the service sector for things I can buy and touch right now’? Seattle finally defeated her grin as she floated that rhetorical one,

377

HIP-HOP HIPPIES CLASH GANGLESS GANGMEMBERS 4 RAP’S SUBCULTURE

right to the border-limits of the ever-expanding imagination of mankind, or kind of man.

They walked out of Market Street joining Covenant Gardens to the main road. ‘Oh, my, gosh!’ exclaimed Evelyn over Otho’s head, ‘. . . Did you see the scar behind that woman’s ear’? Seattle pulled down her latest upgraded designer visor ‘What scar?’ and dipped her brow, blocking the protoplasmic glare. ‘You didn’t see it? That manky skin behind her ear and on her neck . . .?’ ‘Nah, I never noticed anything; sure you’re not seeing things Evelyn?’ With that Evelyn stopped in her tracks, thinking it better to hold back on further explanation, of which she couldn’t be bothered to go back and prove anyhow, sensing Seattle assumed this was mere dissuasion efforts on her part. So just in case it did come off as playerhatin’ she bit her lip, and strutted off with Otho while Seattle, still in driftzone, tried to process Mother Laureate’s speeches.

Sunlight bounced off spotless towerblock glass periodically, reflecting into Seattle’s eyes, forcing her to slow, then walk up, mulling things that came, seemingly from nowhere, over, dawdling behind a hungry Evelyn, slowing for fellow pedestrians and again, lost in thought, unhurried, regaining presence of mind once more when Othelenius, wonderfully unaffected, shouted something that caused her to catch them up, yet again.

378

AND SEATTLE’S VERTABRE SEZ ‘YOU

GONNA TWIST ME OR WHAT?’

It wasn’t far from Covenant Gardens to a just as busy Hoeswater. On the way, all three now linked by Othellenius’s hands as they walked, Seattle took the card out from her back pocket. It read “The Temple of Ugly People”, but everyone on the picture, and back on the square, from what she and Evelyn saw, (Evelyn it must be said much less willing to concede god-given beauty than herself ), none, would have been considered particularly ugly in anyway?

She put the card back as they approached to cross the street. Thinking about Abi, noticing from memory she had on no makeup—perceived as pious intention—her natural radiance was certainly detectable, from what could be seen. Even Mother Laureate rocked a yoganeck with brushed eyebrows and spotless gown. ‘Good looking enough to me . . .?’ she thought.

Puzzled, she made her way home with Evelyn and Othelenius. But she was now hooked, and certainly determined to find out more. In a gentle way this provided a backdrop to all subsequent activities leading up to one mentally excitable night before bed. Mug in one hand she trunked-on to their website using her netmoby, driven by questions, and the motto “Sheltering the Nations Ugly People”, measuring it against the faces on the card and that first encounter, weeks ago with the other sisters. She remembered the orthodox prettiness of all the scouts, definitely physically equipped for PA and member scouting. It was odd;

Even Abi, straight natural from head to navel and still cats would dribble, or dogs would thirstin’ howl the 3rd! ‘But what could they possibly mean by “Ugly?”‘ she queried.

Scrolling back and forth, clicking through e-pages she found the temple homepage. ‘Nothing controversial here, just that bloody motto again’. All of the pages looked fine enough, with no more than soundbytes regarding the temples actual mission. ‘Maybe they don’t wanna scare

379

AnD SeATTle’S VeRTABRe SeZ ‘YOu GOnnA TWiST Me OR WHAT?’

off the first timers? Mmm, but what if I go there and they’re all into sorcerophilia? All chanting like zombies with their eyes rolled back to their cortex’s’? Seattle over-rid the fear, for a bit. ‘. . . But just in case I get kidnapped while I’m there, or tortured!’ she fortified herself, ‘. . . I’ll pack a razor blade underneath the insole of my smartest shoes . . . you never know . . . you know?’—She reasoned all this according to her fear factor while trunking-offline, heading to bed leaving her netmoby on the dinner table. Later she inwardly giggled at the absurdity of her prejudgement, banishing yet another limited concoction to the bubble-frontier of this, us—the human species—that walked all over our approximately 25,000 mile equatorsphere well over 2.6m years ago ( . . . told ya, pottery still remains), and known to some as the planet Wartaloka.

380

“THEN YOU SIT AND ROT . . .

NEVA EVEN GOT A FAIR SHOT”

On the third day heading to initicourt Vee just couldn’t get over how Nick and his family were treating her. She was expecting to hear offers of, at first, help, and, before any requested answers to family questionings but in fact it . . . came the other way round, and with no help, not even from his sister Nivja. ‘I wander if someone from Shadowless has already been at him with misinfo? If not? Then maybe when he gets away from his parents and settled after the funeral, maybe then he’ll have some time, and space to work it out? . . . That’s if, he really doesn’t love me any more? . . . Nu-uh . . .’ she thought, ‘. . . I’m positive he’ll contact me again . . . He has to . . . I’m sure of it’. Presented with no other useful option worth taking Vee stuck to that idea, using it as a shield not to breakdown as the machinery of court proceedings bounced from her defensive solicitors bench over to the offensive police lawyers team and then later, to a row of preliminary review-judges sat facing the entrance, doing the do, conferring with each other and nodding to various note-takers.

Like in the interview room, verbally the court session just felt like some open-strategy wrestling mismatch. One of the department lawyers stood and spoke. ‘Miss Vienna Vikingson appears before the court your sub-honour, charged for now with being an accessory to murder’. Vee smothered her deep impulse to object . . . loudly!

‘Evidence of fingerprints belonging to Vienna—maiden name Vikingson—and another individual who is unfortunately at large, were found all over the car along with other bodily fluids suggesting fornication, although currently the estranged husband—a Mr Nick Edison—tells us that, he, himself, followed the accused to the Shadowless Towers but didn’t actually witness the moments leading up to the deceased:

Neon’s, death’. Another police lawyer then handed up some evidence to the reviewer’s bench which they looked at briefly and handed back. It dawned on Vee and her team then, that Shadowless influence and will

381

“THen YOu SiT AnD ROT . . . neVA eVen GOT A FAiR SHOT”

had even infiltrated parts of the police department and its representing officers which the legal Condors Vienna had slowly built up until that point, would have considered totally implausible for a rather insignificant worker such as herself.

Right away the Shadowless influence over the police and the investigation results they were in fact fabricating, went way beyond Vienna’s comprehension. Active even on invisible levels, the corporate tentacles of interest which sprouted from Mr Rella had even reached municicourtrooms!

The offensive lawyer continued, ‘Although she protests, these fingerprints were found around the car including the gear stick and steering wheel your unworshipable, making it quite, no, more than lightly, that she was driving’. Over the following hour Vienna who after three days of withholding her version of events, and who already, wasn’t baring up too well, or, was not, it must be mentioned again, yet blaming herself, understood now the possible depths of passion-induced pain still to come, and was increasingly unsure if she’d make it through to the end of a lengthy upcoming trail, which looked like it was definitely going to take place sooner than expected—The apparent set-up Vee was undergoing had now been reaffirmed, and no . . . for her, this weren’t no bad dream!

The judges decided to suspend hearings for a few weeks which meant Vee was about to spend a spell in a remand jail for the first time in her life. The recognition that from the reviewers courtroom she was about to be freeze-bailed, not to her home, but heading in fact for the suspension-pen, had to push its way through other more shocking truths, so as the private security officer charged with transportation of prisoners lead her to a van, she kept the content of her plans for liberation focused more or less upon Nick.

While her and Nick were together she used him . . . granted; but they were a team, or so she thought up until he (backed up by Aubrey, Burt and others) began screaming, not factoring-in her reasons for sounding so distant over the phone, as for all Vee knew, her call could have been monitored. She knew in the main it was the kids issue which enabled Nick’s upset, subdued but perennial, and at the time, regrettably, she left no room for compromise; now those mistakes were coming back to haunt her. There was a lot of waiting to do, and for this unexpected situation bursting out the cocoon onto her moving theatrical floorboards, she had

382

Celine Flux

no hand to hold as they shifted, no guide, and no immediate means of getting off those boards transforming into sand in her mind.

They offered her food but by now she was suffering a severe loss of appetite. It was dark times she was lead into, and Vienna could see no way out.

After it was established why the police service were definitely going to order their solicitors to press ahead with moving her charge from accessory to murder, to straight murder, in light of more evidence, and the court date was sorted freezing her on remand for another month, Vee was driven along with a group of five other prisoners from the initicourt holding cells, over to the larger iceblocks of Magicwands Prison For Women, where she was booked-in and given a sweatshirt and clashing pants to wear. The building looked old, and inside, had fresh smelling paint on old brickwork, and shiny, yet dirty floors. The overriding smells were sticky: thick polish, and pissy bleach—an unfortuitous quandary to be at first, feared—it felt just like she imagined some old Eastend factory to be like, with its eerie workhouse echoes, large exposed pipes, thick with lick after ill-chosen lick of poorly applied paint, running through everything, including the holding room she was sitting in, with its classroom-looking, smelly wood furniture from the fifties.

A warden read out her name while the other girls, familiar to the system and immune, chatted like they already knew what was about come. Vee stood and followed the female warden out of the building, along the long path, leading through well-maintained grassy and budded areas across to another identical block. She was nudged through the door and marched across the building and up the stairs, in front of all the other female inmates, all, like Vienna, on that particular remand-wing for major charges.

Safely up on the second floor she was introduced to her single cell, holding a towel with a small welcome pack on top—Every prisoner she saw on that jailwing noticed her give away newcomer’s walk of shame.

Vee had a sharp, stage school tongue, but she kept it in her mouth from virtually the moment she stepped in there.

There were different gangs: religious ones, international ones, ones endorsed by the prison Governor and his whims, and inmates pushed there from the syc-ward, slow, or pill’d-out with no need to be a gang as such. Every nation was represented, and it was boredom . . . or drug trading, which created the most problems. The whole prison was

383

“THen YOu SiT AnD ROT . . . neVA eVen GOT A FAiR SHOT”

underfunded and pretty chaotic, with transgender sharks swimming around in shallow water—but all that was gang stuff and if like Vee, who spoke with a formal, quasi-aloof tone and obviously wasn’t gang affiliated, then if anything, left alone in the so-called social scum, one was just bored.

384

YES! . . . CAN SENSE WHY, BUT, CANT

VERBALIZE THE SENSATIONS

Zooming in, Tri Kilo, Immortal Approachville, Shadowless Towers and Gammatec, all buzzed, as reserve on/offloaders advised credit reps. They, in turn simultaneously sought confirmation from holding facilitators based mostly offshore. The sound of calls and coded messages overlapped by the multi-dozen, with people up and down via elevators that ran at both ends of the tower, eyes fixed on mounted screens, then out for a time, returning through desk isles with a tray full of new papers and intense faces into the central workfloor. Omni, at his desk, had his attention diverted by a personal call received to his moby. He looked down on the interface font and saw Nick’s name and number.

‘Nick wassup, cesse passa hombre?’ ‘Jesus, Omni’ Nick grumbled,‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all weekend . . . What if there was

an emergency man’ ‘Yeah I know my charger went all funny, sorry about that but, speaking about weekends, how was yours, mine was just food n’rest maaan . . . food n’rest’. Nick tried to cut in, ‘Umm Yeah, Omni, listen, a problem’s come up’ ‘Hey you don’t sound too good Nick . . . Domestic drama? . . . Ditto . . .! Think I’ll be facing Neon’s sword too, that’s whenever I get to see her. She’s given me the cold shoulder this weekend for some reason . . . I dunno . . . phones off and everything! All pancakes now anyway coz, guess I’ll see her for the showdown sometime today, maybe at lunch’. Omni was killing talktime like the clappers, unaware of the bolt Nick had no choice but to regrettably conduct in his direction.

‘Why what’s up Nick, how come you ain’t at your workstation? Where you calling from . . .’? ‘Listen, Omni, I’ve got some bad news, so you’d better be sitting down’ ‘Why is this about Neon? She is in today? Where are you?’ Nick was holding back tears. He cleared his throat, going horse every time he spoke, ‘I couldn’t leave this on your voicemail but . . . something bad . . . something terrible’s happened over the weekend . . . I’m not in my office, and I won’t be coming in for a

385

YeS! . . . CAn SenSe WHY, BuT, CAnT VeRBAliZe THe SenSATiOnS

while . . . Omni, Neon was involved in an accident, involving Vienna, and we think someone else who Vee was having an affair with’. Omni responded straight away.

‘Where are they now . . . are they both OK?’ ‘Omni, it’s over between me and Vee but . . . Neon . . . died, at the scene’.

All physical systems that was Omni’s mammal body, ceased, for a moment, and then the lenses of his subtle-sight disappeared, leaving for now, only his number-crunching lobe upstairs, desperately trying to rake over the weekends past events and examine key moments relating to Neon, but the scenes in his head were either in fast forward or slow motion, as if a director was meant to shout cut to this incredible, unbelievable moment which almost, just almost, given their usual work banter, felt like a joke.

Omni opened his mouth but all he could say was, ‘Huh . . .? How did it happen’? In a busy house Nick summarized the breakdown as best he could. ‘It happened as she was leaving work late on Friday, though I hadn’t seen her or been on her workfloor at all that week. We don’t know why Vee was down at Gammatec, or in our car park, but it’s looking like her bit on the side works for Shadowless and both knew I’d be at home, so they chose there, of all places, to get into a little something . . . Apparently Neon spotted them . . . and she knew Neon would phone Niv straight away for something disgusting like that . . . It makes sense now . . .

My mom pointed it out when I told her, how earlier, we had a big row over some strange Shadowless papers in her possession, now tell me what’s Vee doing with Shadowless papers Omni’? Omni couldn’t say anything. ‘. . . Exactly! So I followed her after I got suspicious, and when Neon accidentally sprung them, taking out her phone, they must have argued, and either Vee or her new man went Mussolini and ran her over! I heard the crash or something to that effect when I got out the lift’. Omni’s temples jolted from the inside, effecting features and still completely silent, but, dismay sharing his face with a frown, he felt compelled to listen, intently.

‘When this all happened Omni, I was chasing her in the dark, through parked cars and everything, a few moments behind . . . but he must be someone important though Omni, he had keys to the car park lighting room beside the lift, I personally saw the door half-open myself!

386

Celine Flux

And tell me why the whole car park was dark on auxiliary lighting’? Nick answered his own question, ‘. . . so he’d definitely been fiddling about in their . . . I’m sure of it’. Still stunned stiff, fighting down his questioning fury impulse within, Omni tried to keep up to speed.

He asked Nick, ‘So, all those times Vienna was supposedly doing overtime at 731, back whenever, she was . . .’ ‘Yep . . . And she fled the crime scene too; as I approached in darkness I heard nearly everything: the impact . . . and Vienna telling her new man to come back . . . the car revving then suddenly braking . . . I could hardly see but he ran past me moments after. When I reached I didn’t even know it was Neon laying there on the floor, I just kept on hearing Vee screaming “Where are you going, come back” in my direction, convinced she couldn’t see or hear me running up, not over the car engine . . . Vee was just standing there, short-circuiting like a fking idiot.

So as he scarpered and I approached trying to help, then realizing who it was and calling Vee to get an ambulance, I did my best, but Omni, Neon had already passed, there was nothing I could do, she was gone’. Omni was remained quiet, trying to latch on; trying to trace the patterns in, what all, were about to learn, was Shadowless-sponsored chaos.

‘And Omni, remember that travel scent of No.5 you bought her from Mumbai . . .?’ ‘Yea, she kept it in her bag’ ‘Well it got crushed along with the bag . . . shattered inside . . . but the smell was absolutely everywhere, all on the tyre, everywhere . . . it was unmistakable. I looked at Vee and she instantly started lying saying she hadn’t got her phone. Then when I finished calling the ambulance from my own phone I heard footsteps running away outside, I darted over to the wall and I got a description, and when I turned back to ask Vee what the fk was going on, she’d split for that guy, she ran, the evil bitch ran . . . Omni . . .? Are you there . . .

Omni’? ‘Yea I’m here . . . just trying to make sense of what the fk I’m hearing right now. Err . . . Does her family know’? ‘. . . The police went in person, and even dropped me down here too’ ‘I can’t believe this’ said Omni; ‘. . . I thought you were kidding me when you started. Yo this, this, can’t be happening’. He held his head, squeezing his temples again.

‘When I got to the hospital she was announced dead upon arrival, that’s when I called but your celly was off, if she were still alive I would’ve sent a cab to your house. So here I am, down here with a Special Liaison

387

YeS! . . . CAn SenSe WHY, BuT, CAnT VeRBAliZe THe SenSATiOnS

Officer till this evening, because it’s a PLC involved. He’ll head back to Metland Yard of all places, tomorrow . . . They’re promising to get to the bottom of all this for us’ ‘I’m not holding my breath’ ‘Well, let’s just see eh Omni . . .? Anyway, Mom thinks you should be told before Niv so . . .’

‘OK . . .’ ‘I’m down in Southshires for at least a few more days, I’m gonna call

Niv next . . . and even Neon’s dad’s back at the family house now; he flew over her Mom’s request’!

‘But I thought . . .’ ‘Yeah I know, half the street came over when they saw police both

here and up the hill at Neon’s parents’ ‘No, look, Nick, tell ya what, don’t bother call Niv, I’m heading home now’. Spurred on by hideous imaginings of Niv receiving the news alone Omni had a different idea.

‘She finishes at six so I’ll just go home . . . and . . . well if . . . that’s OK with you . . .’? ‘Hold up a second . . . yep . . . Omni, I just spoken to my mom and she said sure . . . So go ahead and . . . yea, do it how you see fit then OK’? Omni had been adjusting his attitude all along to cope with current news and post; with unseen effort, he’d now quietly ploughed it into his old survival-mode-plus.

‘Please understand my sincerity when I say this coz I’ve had three days to get my head around things; Omni, I can imagine how you’re feeling right now man . . . you gotta be strong up there with Niv’ ‘Yea its, its . . . I don’t know what to say . . . So err, your mother’s OK right, Aubrey is it? And Neon’s mom . . .’? ‘Yea Natalya; doing better, both doing better . . . I’ll tell Burt and Natalya you’ll be letting Niv know in person . . . anyway Mom reckons its probably better someone tells her face to face though. But look, listen Omni, I should go next door and see how they’re both doing. Saw them this morning . . . completely grief stricken they are . . . such horrible news, you know . . . shame you’ll be meeting under such terrible circumstances. And tell Niv don’t worry about transport, whoever’s in Zone1, me, Burtrand, maybe Peter, we’ll try and pick the two of you up, save a train journey. I’ll find out what the liaison officer’s got planned back in town, need to sort things out up there at the flat too . . . So look, I’m gonna get out of here, and Omni’?

‘Yea . . .’? ‘Look after yourself Omni . . .’ ‘Will do man, and get your mom to call this Niv evening, I’ll’ve told her by then OK’? ‘OK then geez, bye’ ‘See ya later mate’.

388

Celine Flux

Omni slowly put the phone down on his mousepad trying to reverse what was just heard in the call. He tried to suck up the agonizing shrapnel blast expanding rapidly from micro, at the beginning of the call, right out, with increasing swiftness, to macro, ripping through the parameter fencing that separated Omni from his higher self. Now—the must, like countless times before—he begun the self-rescue effort as soon as he was pushed by outside events, into a new strata, plunging into a sleet-filled blizzard world in less than a second of knowing, to re-emerge soaked and shaking on the pier of that causal ocean, with an empty cocoon in his hand which once housed his earlier trust and innerstanding of solid ground—that same passion-world he was presently, in life, imprisoned by.

While walking along that pier of his mind, now feeling hot, like in some red-dusk nightmare, he tried to project into the following next few days of gloom, lost, in shimmered hellveiw at his desk, hardly aware of Shadowless lubricators busy at work about the place, taking investment orders, applying numerical oils into mouthpieces and keyboards all around him. Dread sense ran through his body unchecked until, through god’s glorious mercy, Omni challenged it, rampant sensations instantly backing the fk down, touched by weaponry of that multi-limbed conceptional vishnu and chief sword-swinging demonic-sensation slayer.

The counter-attack came at the invisible price of attachment to knowing he would never see his girlfriend in this region of inferior energy again, transferred, to another heavenly wilderness, if not yet by divine intervention, delivered. Watching, faintly aware, he detected that inferior hara, changing its course, reacting acting upon previous action, for a reason that lay far beyond his tiny earthbound scope, already making its way out to remote reaches of the heavens, in a subtle form.

Like an elegant poem, the idea of a farewell to Neon was stillness-inducing, and her memory would struggle with time to be seen, just like all pre-seismic info Omni was either fortunate, or in this case, unfortunate enough, to have enter, or leave, his limited cipher of elusive consciousness.

389

THIS MILLENIUM EITHER COME WITH US

OR GO WITH THEM, IT’S THAT SIMPLE

Mixed and molten from the phone call, standing almost centre of the workfloor, he walked, just left everything and started to walk, down to the foyer, out of Immortal Aproachville, taking the long route from EC1, to his adjoining postcode of SE1, walking while staring into the murky tidal swill along the riverbank, stopping at the underpass underneath his exit bridge of Blackfriars, to categorize thoughts surrounding Nick’s deeply arresting disclosure. ‘Neon’s dead’ he murmured, still trying to question subreality. The numb shock now began to hurt. He knew better than to walk over to Mr Oblivion with his pain and shock, ready arms folded, standing way out on the event linear-line, awaiting the outcome of his bet placed on Omni’s total destruction. Omni knew instinctively tears were useless, unhelpful, unscientific, he felt darkyears beyond them, he never had to fight them down, for as per usual, they just, never came.

Over the rivers railing he stared down into the water, its movement, the closest thing to nature in the whole, synthetic, false-entangling zone he lived and worked in. For the moment at least, grief was successfully bypassed by an overriding concern for Nivja, still unawares. Assuming since Neon and Niv knew each other since school, she would no doubt end up reacting to the revelation worse than him; he imagined her starting to cry and probably not stopping for a week . . . or longer! Unable to do much more than think of Neon’s murder and how Niv may take it, he inhaled, vowing to support his flatmate as best he could but first, that prickly dewplumbseed of telling her awaited. Before walking up the old twirling beefeater stairs and onto the busy bridge road, he took out his phone. Solemn and feeling somewhat unreal, degruffing, he gave her a call.

‘Niv . . . it’s Omni’‘I know that Omni! What is it? I’m busy eating this massive tom

mozz and pepper yidbagel . . . what’s up’? ‘I’m under the bridge near

390

Celine Flux

that old meet-up bench. Hello? Can you hear me? Its wild noisy on this end yo . . . They got roadworks blocking off a lane above, can you still hear me’? ‘Yea; it’s half one . . . what; having lunch without beloved Mrs Keyboard are ya’? Time had transfluxed by, which Omni had appeared not to notice, zoning in and out with ever-increasing orbits since receiving Nick’s mid-morning call.

‘Hey Niv listen . . . If I asked a question, more like a favour, would you answer me honestly’? ‘Sure, why . . .’? The noise of what must have been irate drivers above was making it too hard to complete such a serious conversation. ‘Listen Niv bare with me a sec OK . . . while I go and sit down . . . then I’ll ask you’.

Their old bench was about twenty meters further down from the bridge, directly under the Inclusive Riverside Hotel, its bar, and adjoining Bisto Gravy Theatre, sometimes called Oxo. On the way there Niv asked Omni exactly why he was so far away from the Tri Kilo Village. He laid down an explanation saying he was on his way home after hearing some . . . “news”.

‘Well I’m at home anyway’ said Niv. ‘Then how come you ain’t at work . . .’? ‘working lates all this week, so I’ve got loads of stuff to do before evening’ ‘OK look don’t move alright, just, just stay there till I get home’

‘Fine, but it better be good, plus it’s butterbeans and blackjack tonight, and I wanna win my money back from you and Neon; you want me to put them on to soak and come out to you or what’? ‘No no just . . . OK whatever with the beans I’ll boil them out later’. We’ll need the strength! he thought to himself, ‘But just, don’t leave or nothing . . . put them on and wait for me OK’?

Omni closed his phone, made his way up the stairs, then ran down the road but fell on the floor straight away, failing to remember he couldn’t run too far since the motorcycle accident. Hurt, he got up and proceeded to skip, with a limp, dragging his weaker foot periodically along the way, rubbing the diagonal pin coming from his groin through the left buttock, protruding just under his belt.

But too pissed-off to care he made it down the road past the tea-house and newsagents, across the lights and into his block. When he got in, computing it safer—after skip-limping down Blackfriars for a while—just to walk instead, and already re-damaging permanently damaged legs by making one taking on work for the other, he now couldn’t make it up the stairs; precautionary physical systems had been activated back near

391

THiS MilleniuM eiTHeR COMe WiTH uS OR GO WiTH THeM, iT’S THAT SiMPle

the river as he fell. So, with “don’t touch fluid” being sent to inflamed cartilage, he called Niv down on the intercom.

By the time she came down he could hardly bend his knees: swollen, hyper tender to the touch, and although he had for the foreseeable future a titanium re-enforced thigh and opposite shin, long healed, it, like it often did when pressured with anything more than a slow walk, felt raw, unfused, and still broken.

But they managed up the stairs where Niv sat Omni down on his grubby beanbag and threw back her hair. ‘You want me to call a doctor?’ she shouted rushing over to the kitchen, throwing out the old water from the filter, replacing before bringing the whole jug to Omni with his trusty old protein-shake beaker (a deal from Poundshop on Borough Highstreet that actually lasted!)

Omni had stopped taking painkillers because of asthmatic side effects, but pulled them out of his shoebox as soon as he remembered them, digging around the box slowly, thinking of how to tell Niv, and unfold the awful news.

His flat that they both now shared was right at the corner of two sets of traffic lights, on long roman-established roads that met outside his block. Their place started on the first floor and today the windows were open. ‘She was probably cooking’ he thought looking around shutting his shoebox. Lunch hour activity had kicked-in already but regardless, the incessant Blackfriars noise was maddening; it literally bounced off the road surface up to his window and strangely, after a few years he still hadn’t gotten use to it, though, from the neighbours place downstairs (factually nearer) it sounded quieter, less violent—to do with being on ground level or something—where the pedestrians, the tea-house, the sheltered bus stops and towerblocks across the street, in fact almost every single thing in sight for miles around in all directions, man-made, its dominance over sparse, pathetic touches of anything natural; it irritated not only Omni Neon and Niv, but the vast majority of everyone within the distracting complexed urbia that was the crowded and bustling town of Zone1—excluding the beautiful royal parks, of course. (Oh . . . of course)

‘So what is it you wanted to tell me then Omni’? He took the third set of his usual four sets of eight large swigs of water; a technique of discovery; this way almost force feeding the pints down and this time—(with prescribed opiates)—he could dispatch many litres more

392

Celine Flux

than government guidelines suggested into his water-based shell (and then thirty minutes later satisfyingly down the toilet)!

Niv sat down on the floor opposite him with the coffee table between them, looking at Omni biding his time, rubbing his left thigh, then his right shin and touching very gently, both knees. Niv was nothing short of straight puzzled by the delay. She took down the dry apricots Omni left on his speakerbox from the previous night, already knowing he’d eaten most of the assorted fruit leaving as usual, only the intolerable apricots and a few nuts welcome for whom ever may want them, which was always her, Neon or Toltec. He was thinking of how close she and Niv were, and how much this truth was going to hurt. Lactic legs aside, the impact of such tidings would devastate anybody.

‘Niv . . .?’ he said looking down fiddling with his laces, biting the inside of his lip. ‘What . . .?’ she replied instantly: Dressed down in a thin highstreet hoodie rolled up past her forearms and ashy-beige sweat bottoms, she quickly crawled round the short coffee table in the centre of the room and kneeled in front of Omni’s feet leaving the dried apricots behind her, and began to undo the laces and take off his shoes.

‘Well . . .’?? Omni rubbed each of his jaws in preparation, then his chin, then across to his tightened-up mouth, then his jaw again, trying to focus and to crystallize the pending verbal paragraph. For the first time he felt the faint but suppressible urge to cry, and Nivja noticed this. It was now, or never.

393

WE’VE JUST RECEIVED SOME BREAKING

NEWS! AND SCIENTIST’S SAY . . .

‘Niv, Neon won’t be coming over to play blackjack tonight’. Just then another thought crossed his mind he barely refrained from expressing, pushing it back in order to complete what he had to say, ‘. . . In fact she won’t be playing anything in her physical body ever again’ ‘Why what’s happened . . .? What . . . has her dad bought her off with another flight to his summer spot or something’? ‘Err . . . no . . . she, Neon, died late Friday, coming from work’. Now in this situation, the average human response is to shift, scan, and wait, look for confirmation, so, while still kneeling, sitting on her ankles, she put her open hands firmly on her thighs above the knees, closing her shoulder girdles, raising them up to her ears as she looked deeply into Omni’s face with a vague frown, scanning, looking for that confirmation, waiting on Omni, his eyes a little watery, his mouth tight, screwdriver-like brow, and staring down at his socks. He rubbed his chin as reluctantly they surfed on the moment; it paused, rolled up to its pivotal crescendo, then, came smashing down, them included, wiping out as a fleet of motorcycles, previously revving under the radar of traceability at the red lights outside, possibly couriers, heading to another drop-off point, or home, screamed, ahead of growling buses and oppressive car engines within spitting distance of their first floor window, which rattled with noise, like that Blues Brother scene, the great swirl of active toilers for enhanced comfort outside, clashing with the stillness inside his front room turned bedroom, door half-ajar, dance music with crackly jazz loop, gently thumping from Niv’s room upstairs, the commercial DJ speaking, while once more, the now red lights outside held impatient traffic in neutral, clutches down for a second, or ten, before one set, or its opposite set, gave way, releasing all those nerve-grinding noises, seemingly particular to the position of that cursed Blackfriars flat.

Omni relayed the information received from her brother regarding Neon, and then slowly expanded on it, as Nivja, still stunned and

394

Celine Flux

wiping her nose with tissue, had questions regarding Vienna which he couldn’t answer. Both perplexed by the Vienna factor they sat on the floor for a couple of hours, in silence, which was broken every now and then, only for more speculative pieces to the puzzle, settling down in thought once more, then being evicted by another batch of questions, mostly rhetorical. ‘Guess you’re not going anywhere tonight?’ Omni looked up at the clock on the wall. Niv sat straight to look too, then, taking her crumpled tissues with her she got up, which inspired Omni, pill’d up and feeling less leg pain now, to do the same and head for the toilet. Although the swelling had reduced, tomorrow he’d feel like he’d leg-pressed, or curled-then-extensioned, 200kg, at his manageable to anybody—(even those in denial)—a short n’swift four sets of eight (I mean anybody can do eight right)?

Those painkillers had crept up on him while he and Niv were trying to work out those random events regarding last Friday. He followed Niv, already at the top of the stairs travelling past the bathroom airing cupboard, walking along the landing to her own room, completely lost in thought, deciding to abandon her pre-work errands and get her hospital stuff ready. ‘I’ve finished with the bathroom if you want it’ he shouted, leaning his head to her bedroom door cracked open a little.

She responded with a tiny sniffle, again wiping her nose on her wrist and standing with a determined thrust, catching up with Omni busy yanking his alien legs a little way down the stairs. He looked up from a few steps down. ‘We’ll be OK right . . . right Niv’? Referring to her more than himself he wrongly assumed his reaction was somehow more practical than hers, ‘. . . Right’?? Niv pulled herself together some more.

Witnessing that strengthened him too, leaving her with little reason to elaborate further. Omni, still looking up nowhere in particular, aimed his eyes back in time a few hours and spoke.

‘Earlier on the bridge, before I called, I promised with all my heart, I wouldn’t use the loss of a loved one to fold my cards, or crumble, like I’ve done in the past . . . Remember how I was in hospital . . .’?

Niv didn’t need to reply. ‘. . . Well this time, in Neon’s name I already promised myself I’d survive this’. Placing small gesture-capsules within a longer gesture like he often did, he turned, and shuffled on down the stairs through his own room which lead to the kitchen, determined to complete the evening meal Niv started earlier; a declaration from intuition to offset unavoidable grief. He slowly strained the large plastic

395

We’Ve JuST ReCeiVeD SOMe BReAKinG neWS! AnD SCienTiST’S SAY . . .

tub of beans left soaking for him, his mind, understandably on impact, loss, and gravity, putting ingredients together on the counter, pausing every once in a while to paddle in the apocalypse, then resurrection, returning to the task ahead, only to be pulled back again by thoughts of Neon’s beautiful face, indulging how he wouldn’t see it tonight, how she wasn’t a phone call away, and how he wasn’t dreaming. He was finding it hard to stay in his survival-mode-plus and stay latched on to the patterns in the chaos—the subtle seed that if planted, dared to make him mystically wealthy.

‘OK Omni, I’m off ‘ said Niv placing her bag down near the light switch. Expressing support she set her hand over the back of Omni’s shoulder, squeezing it tight, sensing his reluctance to turn and reveal tears on the threshold of his eyes, one drop about to skateboard-truck-grind off his lower lash, do a trick, and land on his cheek. Instead she grabbed an apple and her bag, bravely heading for the front door, Omni nevertheless grateful for the sentiment initiated. Turning his neck only, buttering some rye bread he shouted, ‘Call me later Niv’.

Niv closed the front door and made her way down the stairs to the hospital thinking about Neon’s family down south who she knew so well—practically her own, what with them being such close neighbours.

The worrying idea expanded, of her own mother, along with local villagers going over to see Neon’s parents, all united over this time, and for Nivja, hoping everyone was doing OK down there, the situation made her want to call in sick the following morning to go south and see them, especially Neon’s mom Natalya, who kept her family home after divorcing Burt, where he on the other hand, went overseas after the reasonably contained settlement.

Niv made her decision, and when she called Omni later that night she shared the plan with him who told her to check with her brother first. Omni hadn’t been alone in his flat for any lengthy period since she and Neon went on holiday together in Icebergasia. So Niv invited him to come along with her and share Nick’s room, which was more done up like a self-contained 2nd flat he and Vienna both used anyway, shuffling off there rent-free in the early days of their relationship, before Aubrey started demanding a little more contribution timewise, forcing him to insist on paying for the privilege to come and go as he so willed. Omni hadn’t met Burt, Natalya, or Aubrey before, but as Niv pointed out, he would be sort of expected at his long-term girlfriend’s funeral anytao.

396

Celine Flux

The following day they both booked cheap coach tickets and sorted time off, not before Omni was ordered via phone and e-mail back to face Mr Murphy’s litesaber, Omni until then, wrongly assuming corporate slavemasters hadn’t noticed that rago up-and-out a day earlier, though due to exceptional circumstances.

But even before he entered Murphy’s constantly chaotic office and adjoining team room, it was obvious what he wanted, already hearing about the previous days disappearing antics and requesting notification in future; plus no one had yet told Peter, still at work Omni had been reliably informed, yesterday and this morning like clockwork, even somewhere now, wrapped up against time, being strangled by venture vultures or Shadowless phonecords. Omni wandered if Nick had called him yesterday morning too, and maybe, Peter instead settled for being kept posted, then after his week geeking-out behind post-it memo’s (carefully administered to conceal the amount of unendorsed zero’s on his multiscreen) then maybe at the weekend he could go over to see Nick at the flat him and Vee, now on trial, shared. For everyone involved and connected, it would be a long, gruelling time until Neon’s funeral.

* * *

397

HEY, I FED THAT PHILOSOPHY GIRL,

THAT CULTURE IGNITED THIS ONE!

Still justifiably angry Nick never took his glare off his wife very often. Whenever she checked over that way he was stiff with Neon’s family among the frenzied surroundings, looking back across at her, all of whom exuding shell shock crossed with disgust. This was early morning on a rainy, highly anticipated day one. Omni chose to play the rear seats, fixed upright beside Niv like some riverside Parisian lamppost, him having no evidence to give, so only hearing about what happened to his girlfriend as a mere interested party. The press box and public isle were full to the rafters due to widespread mediasization, bloggers and lenses alike, all attracted to such corporate involvement, and plus, that multi-market majority Shadowless Systems in some format or another, had entered into the lives of every world citizen over the last half-decade with the help of Gammatec and their killer applications, moving out lately into even fresher mainstream activities.

Murmurs of index runs and litigious implications for Shadow-having celebrity bosses wrongly targeted began to circulate around Tri Kilo, as the once chauffeur driven, highly visible co-managers now under pressure from Shadowless Overbosses, started to duck the grapevine sniper aim, whispering as chunky carrot-sized darts of suggestion fizzed passed their ears—All this ricocheting speculation had negative potential, received as alarming stuff for sucked-in traders of weaker densities.

Unsatisfactory press statements and withholding of calming information slowly created a business environment full of uncertainty: about firstly murder, alongside potential accomplices presently at large, and all taking place within the Shadowless Towers car park. It caused many connected institutions trading investment shares to take sharp rate tumbles which then rippled onto the high street and cottage companies such was the influence of corporation.

Generally, the business and merchant banking community held all the traditional digicash, so naturally all other sections of society desired

398

Celine Flux

some, lusted for, and become obsessed, knowing that since the original civilisation, a few tiers of the social pyramid never get none because hoarders won’t-but-should renounce some, all but even the unmodified can see there’s a liberating purity in having none, or little, and in so deferring, setting one on the first step of a stairtao that can actually, make one more aryan than what YOU think aryan actually is!!!

Now the time was upon them and everyone present was a more than a little fevered helping to conduct the atmospheric charge about the place, which suddenly thickened when a tiny court jester burst through large blood red varnished doors holding a slim totem-like staff with eagle crest at the top to begin with the pre-inaugural noise pollution.

‘All rise’, (Godface did not stand), ‘Peep this, and I sssaaayyyy peep this, the yappin’s now in motion’. The empowered bigwig on high named Judge Anderson—bizarrely claimed by defence afterwards—stood, and spoke early, which he did shaking his bony finger at the jurors, ‘In this case today, side stepping a trial by media-broadrange, the jury especially, are requested to disregard any previous outside info and there emotion during proceedings. Miss Vikingson and her team should know that, hopefully, we won’t be expecting this trial to extend too far. As long as everybody keeps their wits about them, we may be able to keep these uncomfortable hearings from becoming an, overly painful and drawn-out operation’. Judge Anderson finished his statement looking over at the court jester, who extended the opening speeches.

‘This is the case of a government funded institute working on behalf Shadowless, versus Miss V Vikingson, who is stated on this sheet of paperwork as a co-manager for 731 Filter Systems, based within the Tri-point boundaries of EC1, 2, and Immortal Approachville specifically.

Miss Vikingson is on trial for the murder of Miss Neon Light, so, before we start the big balling, subjects and citizens, let’s all bow to the insignia above Judge Anderson: the crest, depicting an image of 3 lions symbolizing majestic splendour which could not be found in pre-historic Breton, and only among tropical lands . . . but anyroad . . . Repeat with me, “God save the status quo, God save our gold reserves and God save our Congolese jewels in the crown” . . . Now . . . before commencement of trial and more pending matters, all ye rise. Let’s get busy . . . and ready to fuuummbbblllle’.

The offensive-line unfastened their stacks of bulging folders a few meters in front of Judge Anderson as Vee’s team looked supportingly

399

HeY, i FeD THAT PHilOSOPHY GiRl, THAT CulTuRe iGniTeD THiS One!

at each other, senses primed to subdue the oncoming fieldspread. Both teams continued to arrange papers on the desk sweeping through any respective motions still unended, and, in response to the plea, glided through technical hitches and slimy vandalproof barriers like true professional contract-bound liars. Familiar with court proceedings they were; being that both fleets each comprising of some pretty slick individual aturnymen, had been involved in countless cases such as this before, sending speakers up one after the other, overlapping in a detached, highly formal, expressive style and manner.

The jury seated up on the side observed as prosecutors, then Vienna’s defence counsel conferred with the judge. She was often pointed to as she sat over in her seat, cuffed to a bar, and encased by moulded security screens while these courtroom players opened flamboyantly among onlookers, in this, an old school stadium of justice, almost shouting over the transcribing lady typing away in her thick cardigan and half-moon glasses, sucking on homemade peppermint shots of compressed icing powder and busy documenting every uttered word.

‘It has come to our attention that Vienna’s police statement contains components of utter falsehood, and we directly intend to breakdown how’, said Mr Wide Receiver the first of six otherwise whispering highly polished law briefs, all passing notes between each other, mirroring the activities of the opposing defensive bench who stood up also and nodded to the jury before speaking. ‘The prosecution—being deceptive and cunning by nature—I fear will be using a lot of guess work in the course of this trial. Now I urge the jury to remain vigilant to these offensive-line attempts to bewilder by employing tactical yet apparently aimless runs and phantom strikes’.

The pervading nature of this disputed tragedy waved its cape ominously over prospective events and for Vienna, referred to and targeted in particular, the professional squabbling was tough. Such incessant mind numbing technicalities were endured from early morning right up until lunch where the boffin-like defence-line regrouped over on Pointneedle Street for a quick meal. As Vee and her defence team ran through chlorine-scented triple bean salads the Quarter Back, always well rehearsed, prepared and threw each of them verbal pieces of putty to be utilized in court, primed to explode upon contact with the mind of the jury once back in the city’s biggest civic tribunal house. The QB took a sip of his fiercely demanded tap water before speaking to the others.

400

Celine Flux

‘It’s been a tough opening conference so far guys’ he said, ‘. . . but we must, stick to the cooh until esticlusion this afternoon, then after initiatorys, I want you to throw these smart weapons, like this’. On a pale cotton napkin he scribbled a four-stage attack, in a series of downs from the scrimmage line, then, from their table al fresco he stood and looked at his team of claret-sipping solicitors, giving a limited demonstration.

Next he turned and spoke to Vee, personally reassuring her that in these matters of law tactics, he definitely knew what he was doing.

‘Don’t worry Vienna if you are found guilty then, this ain’t justice, for sure . . . and actually nor is it just. Put your trust in me OK, I’ve got this all planned out . . . Oh yea, can you sign this retainer balance sheet for me please’. She forced through a small smile while signing, lost in thinking about topics such as emotional impact down the line, the sweeping up and trawling through of all them gory details pertaining to Neon’s final moments which would no doubt have to be done in order to secure justice for herself.

Now back in court an hour later, the attacking offence representing the police, with their fudged evidence and reinforcing supplements in the form of digicash straight out of deep Shadowless pockets, were instructed by the judge to throw up their first card, transformed into a coroner.

So Mr Chief Blocker stood up and approached the coroner. While questioning, one of the watching defence noticed the cross-examiner, already way too lenient with his view, winking suspiciously at this biojargonology-secreting scientist as he divulged indecipherable data from the witness box.

Mr Sweeping Attack working for Vienna, good at his job, and paying the most attention, picked up on those highly probable dirty tricks being acted out, and then retaliated against it by being as disruptive as he reasonably could. ‘Objection!’ he blurted—(the first of many)—‘Squire, they’re bringing up irrelevances with no actual link to this case . . .! I smell fish . . . You smell that wet too? . . .’ He looked at his player’s, some of them mock-whistle blowing and some covering noses, a well-used act in accordance with the speakers pretentious words, supporting this objection query even further, ‘Yea something fishy in the hot seat’.

Elderly and tobacco toned, Judge Anderson sat up, paused, and then with a considered and thoughtful gripe grumbled, ‘Over ruled’.

The whole defensive team were beginning to smell the aroma now, an odour resembling pounds of flesh delivered to the coroner’s grim

401

HeY, i FeD THAT PHilOSOPHY GiRl, THAT CulTuRe iGniTeD THiS One!

laboritoire each working day. The distinct possibility started to emerge that pre-sentence rubber bands of Shadowless digicash had already made its way behind the court and into the judge’s quarters before the hearing had even begun!

The judge advised Vee and the jury to take notes as the offensive team called a vehicular-impact expert up to the box for both teams to scrutinize with their questions. Well prepared with the side arms, the strong-arm flinger stood, and when everyone had settled, verbally extended to cock back his hammer-pin.

‘Can you tell me and the court if you don’t mind, where and how exactly was Neon’s body found so we can find out how the accused, Miss Vikingson, embarked upon this sequence of definite premeditation’? The speaker then cleared his throat sitting for a moment, while the Doctor of Vehicular Impact spoke, distinct in detail, until later, when the speaker rose once more, for his second-fire question.

‘When the ambulance came these pictures were taken’ said the expert, ‘. . . and as you can see, Neon’s body lays left side up, corresponding with a vehicle hitting her right side at relatively slow speed, but picking up, as the body bent to the weight of the vehicle, then being pressed onto the floor, as it reversed over her and then back again’. Vienna shuddered while the details of terrible injury points bounced painfully around the room, and as they were given out, explained in words laymen couldn’t comprehend but still innerstand with imaginative ease, Nick looked pretty steely-eyed too, revisiting personal memories of that thundery night.

The ballistics expert continued his report after subsequent queries, bleak and emotionless, like a seasoned vet, the cold delivery of his post analysis results depleting anyone over-attached with the stomach to listen.

‘The exhaust pipe and box under the car dislodged large amounts of flesh, rupturing veins and causing the body to go into shock’

‘But could the deceased have jumped out of the way’?‘Well as her body bent sideways to the impact of the car, the upper

thigh, going on down to the knee was hit by the bumper causing a fracture there, and the lower limbs buckled as they went under the car. To my knowledge, Neon was hit before her “Avoidance of Danger Reflex” had time to kick in, indicated by massive destruction in the form of tearing to the muscle tissue all along the right side of the lower body’

402

Celine Flux

‘So what your saying is, at the time these terrible injuries were sustained the deceased and needless to say the victim of this offence, Miss Light, couldn’t have just jumped out of the way, in so sustained these ghastly injuries’?

‘Right, that is basic evaluation of what happened to the victim’‘OK, thank you, that’s all for now your mis-bestowed honour’.The judge looked at the defence bench. ‘We have no questions

your honour’, said their QB looking over at Vienna, astonished, but unqualified to object.

The policerep teamspeaker, and the coroner, then returned to their respective seats, while the other offence-line requested their main character assassin: Vienna’s young secretarial assistant from 731. As soon as the name rung out ‘Miss Mary Quadra’ and she stood, summoned with stuffy attitude from her bench, Vienna’s woes compounded. She already knew from her marginal, bare-minimum output at work that Mary no longer liked it at 731, work life by then soured by Apollonya Devlin and herself, both despised by the watercooler gizzardheads—now Vee currently in unfortunate settings was about to find out just how much!

403

O COGNATIVE SATURATION,

SHE IS THE ONE

‘Tell us Mary, in your own opinion if you please’, initiated the team speaker with a purposeful candour, ‘what is Miss Vikingson like to work for . . .’? ‘Well first off the cricket bat she’s a complete bitch’! ‘Objection your dishonourable’! Asserting legitimate veto up came the defence, bursting out of the cannon to his feet with a plea arousing everyone in the courtroom ‘. . . That’s a bit harsh don’t you think? Contemptuous of the courtroom if you ask me . . .’? Before the judge even had a chance to reply, a second brief from the offensive bench stood too, championing the flowery lingua process; their symbolic witness to Vienna’s character.

‘Your wackship, she was asked to give her independently expressed opinion, what’s so wrong with that? . . .’ he turned to ask the defender.

Time to maximise effect on opposing strategy: the canon-cooler for the defence team also stood immediately putting on a mini-display for the judge, ‘But you’re unhonourable . . . what’s the point of her imposing that jealous opening opinion so disrespectfully’? He turned to Mary, ‘. . . What . . . you think you’re gonna sway the jury with that . . .’?

‘Sustained! . . . Your outburst has been checked defensive team so you’ll have to fall back or lose a pawn, and I’m inclined to agree with the hot barrel cooler over there . . .’ stated the judge intervening, ‘. . . We’ll know in a second if this is a pre-meditated red herring trick or not’. The offensive candidate took his hand away from his chin smiling over at his bench, who in turned smiled back looking slightly down their noses at each other, silent communications as proceedings continued.

‘Is it right to say, that although you work for her you do not hold the accused Miss Vikingson, in high regard then . . .’? ‘No, not at all’

Mary responded, ‘She never speaks to any of her employees on any topic . . . well . . . outside the usual stuff, like memo’s regarding some upcoming sit-in she was chairing, or some new 731 work application.

404

Celine Flux

You know once, I saw her on the other side of Tri Kilo leaving a dry cleaners and she just carried on to her car, acting all sententious and over-fly, like she always does’.

Nick was clearly tuned-in, so too were Omni and Niv, but expectancy from up on the rafters was aimed at the defence, listening devotedly, scrutinizing also with finely tuned ears to work out how close to the line of play she was verbally treading. Once or twice they mumbled to each other, then refocused, poised in preparation to apply the plaster for Vee’s apparently broken and damaged profile while the offensive spokesman closed his line of inquiry for the judge and jury, plus surrounding observers, some up in the opposite gallows with tiny portable sound-recording equipment.

After holding quiet consultation during, hushed, shuffling papers and conferring to unanimous satisfaction, they sent their defensive winger to roll-out a few gap-filling questions meant on keeping who may be wavering, or, who’s minds hadn’t been fully made up on Vee—sitting behind security screens, looking humbled like she’d just burnt her lips on a slice—tilted as this winger aimed his particular tactic at listening jurors mostly, perhaps undecided on the possibility of guilt, and while they gauged to what level, they watched on, embossed by masterful counter-questioning from the speaker. The effort displayed would hopefully shift the puzzled, unsure on whether or not to even appoint blame and, with any luck, they as jury would have no choice but to relinquish cached judgement—usually strung out right up until the end—unable to trust their personality guesswork, it being all twisted and rung out of shape by the swell of data.

In the end though, only a few launches were successful by the winger, as eventually most were shown to be false by objectors so Judge Anderson excluded them, to the benches annoyance, pissed, backing-out pens to illustrate more knavish sweeps on the pad, marking down A’s, B’s, and X’s nonchalantly, modifying procedure, exemplifying illusory swerve points.

405

ONE RAP TABOO LEFT . . . THOUGH

RAPPERS HAVE THE BIGGEST EGOS

(BANG BANG)!

Over on the other side, slim, balding, opposite but closest, the counter speaker from the defensive bench kept one eye on them, wandering, remaining calm under the pressure stakes, his demeanour and all round stabeelo rather like that of the former national coach with the short but glam ex-wife (you know, the one who had a fling with the old morning TV weather-girl who got stomped out by a redskin brummie at the World Cup, remember . . .? yeah that one). Fixing his tie and spaceagency-alloy eyewear with microscopic frame, he placed his other eye on Mary, youthful, foul mouthed, relishing her opportunity, all dipped-out in a cream couture Dianne Keaton-esque suit, pastel appleshade trim for definition, with gloves and tiny flamboyant hat to match. It was his turn.

He stood and approached Mary clearing his thorax, rebutting against the odds, speaking raspy, and dead-eye, well calculated hand gestures like Lewinsky’s old Arkansas prepz whose wife claimed unfinished business as deputy.

‘Mary’ he suggested well into his questioning, ‘. . . Bearing in mind, you have no tangible evidence or datastrands on the day in question, or even any information on surrounding events, correct me if I’m wrong but, didn’t the defendant grant you extended sick leave after both of you knowing that in fact, you were out carelessly bing-drinking, and had been admitted to hospital the night before suffering from extreme alcohol poisoning, and for your sake only, keeping the two week absence quiet’? Mary now felt stink-up: she tried to straight peel a cap on a second or two of time, killing the fully loaded clip, brushing off her shoulders and pulling delicate faces like a power manipulator up against the ropes, briefly rolling her eyes up to her frontal lobe. But the counter speaker would pause no longer. He spoke on. As he was doing this Mary

406

Celine Flux

now foot gazing, reverting to her old “Well, can you blame me?” face, began staring out into the mid distance, biting one side of her cheek, glossed lips all dented up.

The speaker spun out elaborate and eloquent yarns indeed, doing his portion in tipping the scales, elevating himself above her catty attitude sending her instead down to the foothills of ‘Um’ and ‘Ah’ for a while, but it was short lived. When he eventually stopped, Mary at first had nothing to say; in her own mind the speaker began to seem more and more authoritarian, resembling an old cranky school teacher she use to be frightened of.

‘But Mary’, he said calling her back from wonderland, ‘Hardly the work of a vocation superior who you claim, and I intend to disprove, supposedly hates your guts’?

Mary secretly disguising her intense concentration, did dream up a response while she was fidgeting and biding her time, but hearing those long forgotten cards get pulled on her like that made her lose sight of what she really wanted to do which was to never again see Vee in the context of boss at 731 or any other Neo-Gen stock house in Immortal Approachville. But in so doing (basically prating around) she recovered her thoughts again, putting them in order while Mr Speaking Examiner at the same time closed down that second question, expecting no answer, therefore looking all smug and mimicking chin-thumbing actions of the first speaker. ‘Yeah, but . . .’ she recalled just in time, ‘She only granted it for me coz she didn’t want 731 to look bad in front of the regulatory Ombudsman, so she was the one who doubled up on the deception front . . . if you don’t mind’! After finishing the speaker off—with his own quote!—Mary began to remember more about that zinc-depleted fortnight, beginning her climb back, tilting the scales of adjudication once again.

‘When I came back from my unpaid sick leave, those Ombudsmen were finishing off duplicating record printouts in a makeshift office; you should have seen how Vienna was all up on them! I mean, pressed all up on their shoulder blades while they sat working, intentionally flossing their wedding bands so she’d have to lay off, while she on the other hand stressing her name was Vienna Vikingson and not Edison!

Co-operation? . . . heck . . . I think it’s fair to say given the amount of witnesses, her particular charm procedure was way beyond right methods of convention, more like copulation if you ask me’! People laughed, which

407

ONE RAP TABOO LEFT . . . THOUGH RAPPERS HAVE THE BIGGEST EGOS (BANG BANG)!

got Mary amped, lyrically dancing around the court turned briefly into a boxing chamber (like . . . ding dong) and the defensive examiner, never really recovered, his grin had bounced on him and his questions began to lose a bit of their rich seasoning. In fact, attempting to refer back to his notes, facing that unfamiliar gusty breeze of failure, he started to feel increasingly like a lightweight who forgot to keep his trailing arm up and his strokeable exposed chin, down, paying the price, catching air strikes radio’d in and getting blown forth.

Going some would say overly hard Mary was doing her job for sure, destroying Vienna’s credibility. Even Mrs Peppermint taking down trial transcripts attempted to but failed to stifle her laughter as the defensive team cleaned-up their slippery oil spillage, leaving only trace elements of their mistake, a mistake which then the offence sprayed over all future attempts or miscalculated versions, akin to some kind of legal-like miracle-grow, their particular courtroom style revealing the film-flam and poor questioning, and not for the first time, verbally grabbing scalps, showing rubbed noses to court jurors.

The defending team were busy trying—unsuccessfully for now—to portray Vienna as some poor classic type; a kind and caring woman working hard, but secretly harbouring deep malaises where she’d be beating down the maternity ward with stopwatch-in-womb and spare baby wipes in hand!

For Vee this snakebite was crucial, from other angles merely sequential string; a small part spoken by Mary spearheaded with the painful truth tipped at the end like poison, wisdom now prevailing formed as nods and winks, for presently, it was all about damage limitation. And after turning his head from the covert agreement behind him, scanning the courtroom for the sharpest spectators who may have clocked any secret changing of coglaw, Mary was asked to step down from the podium which she did, feeling herself and her performance was well-done, seen if not only a little by supporters, as more on the overly-cooked side.

The bench had already incorporated tomorrows citi-sheets into their actions and how Mary presented it to all, including the house rafters, who’d go play their recordings back to editors of a woman sounding like she delivered assistance in a manner deemed no doubt to journalists also, as over-hard.

Next, up stepped another previously thought independent expert who the offence requested—His name was Mr Gangwolf. He acknowledged

408

Celine Flux

the bench still sitting, busy whispering to the man beside him, blinking and nodding slowly, exchanging new cinnamon/lavender gum for old, creating a bulbous package with the wrapper, his associate at his service discretely disposing of it.

Before Mr Midfield Attack slid a pile of folders from his range of view and started to rain cartridges of high-calibre words at him, the support striker stood first, embarking on standard assemblage at this point, of protocol announcements for the jury. Concluding the small interlude he closed his statement and sat, finally handing over to his colleague who buttoned his blazer asking permission from the judge for, who he introduced as Mr Gangwolf, to model the by now extremely hot seat.

Reversely, ice-cold half standing, one arm still on the back of his chair wringing each and every second from his conversation, Mr Gangwolf walked over to stand beside the court jester confirming his name, with a promise not to lie, swearing an oath to an arguably misbegotten monarch with his hand, palm facing down, pinkie ring exposing his medical status on the holy—Basic.Instuctions.Before.Leaving.

Earth—bible—(academic’s discredited version but still valuable).He climbed the few steps, Shadowless instructed, confident, cleared

to prevaricate, more than spirited, making a quaint reptilian-like hiss as he sat, two fundamental properties of frosty-steez and spotlight-roasted hotseat producing steam upon contact. It began to feel humid; the feint smoky scent of deception filtered into the courtroom but once again, only some could detect it as to even the defensive teams’ amazement at this realization, Mr Rella, somehow, had Vee’s samples placed in the driver’s seat of the car previous to trial date.

Going down as thus, Mr Midfielder spoke, ‘Mr Gangwolf, just in case the defence may decide to erect sharpened sticks at our offensive charge, arguing that certain portions of the rendered evidence was a possible set up to falsely incriminate the accused, could you please look at these Petri-dish results and dispel for us if you please, any foggy, unreinforced assertions, by telling the court the exact age of the double helix strands found in the vehicles interior’?

‘Well this really is some damming information regarding the high, in fact an extremely high calculation . . .’ Mr Gangwolf oozed out the words, looking over to his adviser, briefly checking files and nodding back.

409

ONE RAP TABOO LEFT . . . THOUGH RAPPERS HAVE THE BIGGEST EGOS (BANG BANG)!

‘Now, you’re sure you checked the exhibit properly?’ ‘Uh, yes, a . . . “99.9% computerized certainty” of, as I said, the highly probable activities that took place in that car had definitely occurred: and as for directly outside the vehicle itself, well it would appear to me, that the car was being driven in a manner as to purposely inflict maximum damage while using up the shortest amount of space, hence the tire marks indicating excessive wheelspin right up to the point of impact’. Mr Gangwolf held up the samples, then while speaking handed them back. ‘This terrible impact obviously happened prior to hours old DNA, specifically from the reproductive organs of both male and female being found on the driver side of the vehicle. ‘Thank you Mr Gangwolf ‘. The speaker began to pace slowly. ‘Now here for the jury is clear proof, that the accused has no significant feelings towards the colleague of the deceased, named here as Mr Nick Edison, or, why would she be cheating on him? Now if you’d like to take your seat Mr Gangwolf that is all’.

The defence speaker stood, readying himself to go to work on Mr Gangwolf. Neon’s parents braced themselves to hear more systematic analysis data of surrounding episodes, with some of the nexus removed, explaining further their daughter’s tragic demise.

‘Mr Gangwolf, moving if we can to matters surrounding the circumstantial which you base your conclusions upon, can you tell me, did the defendant sustain any injuries herself, however minor’? ‘No she did not, but we also got back from the crime-lab, fibres, matching clothes taken after the point of her arrest, which was on the corner of The Strand and Wellingtonloo Bridge. They were tested, and successfully matched the garments worn by Miss Vikingson’. The defensive team seats behind their best speaker, busy writing something on the table, muttered amongst each other; everyone in the court including Vee sensed by now that they were losing ground.

The speaker cleared his throat, realigning himself and his questions, sharpening them, determined to reclaim sway with the jury and a measure of that rapidly receding terrain. ‘Mr Gangwolf, as required under section 10, sub-paragraph 7(b) of the unified appeals section of the Migraine Volumes, it has come to the attention of the defence that the deliberations code has been breached; we detect outside dynamics, possibly shadow-eliminating stipulations which are adversely effecting this case, so there should be no acceptance by you and your “Indie” forensic unit, of any suspected colloquial bulla-cake. He fixed his tie,

410

Celine Flux

slapped in the clip and aimed at his target, ‘But putting that particular trial issue of indie verification aside, we don’t feel the prosecution themselves are really sure about Vienna’s guilt or innocence’.

Advancing from earlier frustrations the defence endeavoured for a bishop-supporting knight’s move across the judicial board, leaping over the rook placed down on E4, seeking an early checkmate. As they continued, the offence chuckled under their breath at this ill-timed audacity, knowing the other bench were running out of options by pushing so early on. But the speaker still continued on with his team-sanctioned manoeuvre.

‘We’re quite frankly outraged your honourable; the offensive team refer to these allegations like they know something that we don’t, so the defence, before we ask Mr Gangwolf to sit, urge the court, judge and jury especially, to consider again why Miss Vikingson would want to do such a thing: what motives does she have for killing her sister-in-law’s best friend? She is, like everyone giving evidence at this trial, under oath, and a good catholic too, who wants to clear her name, does she have any reason to be untruthful with her testimony? . . . No! So in fact here, with this method, what I’m doing for you ladies and gentlemen is nullifying any assignment of fault, then after you make your decision which were confident will be correct, only after that, is it left to Judge Anderson to uphold the plain truth; that there can be no punishment for a crime Vienna, did, not, commit’.

‘Objection’ said the attack dog now stood and shouting vigorously under offensive command, ‘It is our intention your honour (who probably ain’t even that honourable) that as valid opposers to all of these pathetic pleas which are apparently Vienna’s denials, we on the prosecuting hand do seek that you serve a severe sentence upon the accused which is befitting if not only a little, to the snatching away of lifeforce from such a beautiful woman Miss Neon Light, taken from her family in such a cold and callous fashion’. That was counter-check.

The offence once again sat down dropping the ball, boisterously waiting for pitch officials to measure the line of play, quite satisfied with their current yardage through aggressive attack. They’d renewed their down attempts through that turnover, taking up much of the field of play before bringing out their other important witness. ‘Judge Anderson . . .?

If you don’t mind, we ask permission from the court to call Mr Nick Edison, up to the witness stand’.

411

FAMILIAR FRUIT, DEMOCRATICLY

ELECTED, 4+ QUR’ANS AGO

Nick found his feet smiling at Neon’s parents to reassure them, then Niv further back holding Omni’s elbow, who gave Nick a small precursory salute to indicate both protection of his sister in pain beside, and support for him, as he went over to stand by the short jester now holding an eagle crested totem. With verbose throws for Vee’s now losing side the QB stood too fixing his glasses then listening to Nick’s oath, sternly eyeballing at which one of his teamates appeared capable of any half-time endzone catches. Nick stared down at the divinely inspired book. ‘Mr Nick Edison, “do you swear to tell the whole truth before the ultimate individual who chose the brightest region beyond Etonian laws as his personal abode but existing within all things inanimate or otherwise so help you O supreme reality . . .”‘? ‘I do’.

Already overwhelmed Nick clenched his fist tight lipped, covering his mouth with the reverse of the lower thumb area. He sat in the witness box as all the court onlookers settled down and the Line Backer—already ordered to his feet by now—ran up and down the mitigating grounds waiting for a pass while as usual the scrum-blitzing quarter back held out for the long throw.

‘Your honour we present this exhibit to the court’. He handed out snapshots of camera recordings tendered in the form of a few A4-sized documents. As the jury pondered this evidence the offensive team set to work establishing the existence of what seemed to Vienna’s team, as some pretty unsatisfying factors, probing into improbability intended only to mislead the court.

‘Mr Edison, the camera from the street shows you following into the company car park at 22:22 exactly, and your wife entered to meet the owner of the car in question at 22:18. Now excuse me if I’m mistaken but, four minutes behind in a multi-storey car park? . . . C’mon now . . .? She was already at the fourth floor when you finally closed the gate behind you! I mean in incidents like this . . .’, the speaker turned his back on

412

Celine Flux

the witness box and struck an off-putting pose ‘. . . when insubstantial witness accounts, regarding times, are being so readily accepted by prosecution services in the first place, one winds up ensnaring their own self ‘s in our trap; you see, by this we can prove you saw less than you said on record’.

‘No, now wait up a minuet’ replied Nick provoked by the suggestion, ‘It’s been a while but I don’t remember saying I actually saw the impact itself, but only the ending moments, and subsequent moments after that’.

Paying little regard to the outside cameras court admissibility the Line Backer popped-off more cannons of allegation, sensing Nick’s emotional drowsiness, a feeling of disorientation which Nick tried his utmost to counter then, sit up and vehemently respond to.

‘Look, from the distance I was watching and running, get it? . . .Watching and running . . . Can you imagine staring at a fixed point

of light surrounded by utter darkness? . . . The motion drags, sort of like a moving camera, but while I was checking the floors I kept hearing engine sound above. I’ve been at Gammatec seven years, nobody works till half ten but security . . . our trade-enablers work late but not that late! So I went up towards it then I saw the car light, but there was no other light in the whole car park, not even the eco-skeleton bulbs meant to run along the floors at night. And I admitted under interview that the darkness, it made my eyes go a bit funny, but I could still manage to navigate out the way of that man splurting round the block of cars in my direction; now what’s up with him? . . . If he was driving like you say then, he was fleeing a crime scene so ask Vienna about that! That’s what all the press and public want to know, that’s what they’re all here for’!

‘Mr Edison if you please, we the bench, and the whole court share a little understanding of your grief as more data comes to light, and as we learn bits and pieces of your experience we of course, want to get to the bottom of this problem pit just as much as yourself, so I ask, given that Vienna had papers regarding a possible driver, and that said document denoted his intentions to assist her in murder, would you agree that Vienna considered the partaking in this crime with particularly unusual cunning’? Nick answered straight away, ‘I guess if she did it then yes, very carefully indeed, but I doubt she was driving’

‘And you say that because of which side she was backtracking away from the car’?

‘Yes’

413

FAMILIAR FRUIT, DEMOCRATICLY ELECTED, 4+ QUR’ANS AGO

‘Mr Edison, we and the jury would like to know; did she ever mention anything that could have alerted you to her possible infidelity, maybe earlier on in the year’? Nick thought about it for a while. ‘Well she works late all the time, apart from that, when she comes in or wakes on a weekend she goes straight to the kitchen table, or into the study. The fact her and Düsseldorf were aiming to float 731 on the Nanotech Index Ocean was understood by me. For years I gave her the leeway she needed.

She could have mentioned anything to me about work but once it got too fragmented, dicing up smaller and smaller pieces of information, I’d consider it better to just mentally log out, and sometimes I’d dare to suggest she did the same instead of being in that constant state of jerky-breath, us holding Capitex jobs so often have’ ‘OK Nick . . . That is all your honour’.

Mr Chief Blocker stood chin tucked, gazing down the field, braced to lean in with the shoulder and maybe force a fumble. ‘Right, let’s try to wring out this small cloth if we can shall we . . . Mr Edison’? Nick sat back cupping his hands over his knees for a moment awaiting the quiz. ‘Regarding the camera in the lift: the playback of the recording shows you stepping out onto the fourth floor at 22:24 and you would definitely say that is correct . . .’?

‘I guess so’‘Which considering the initial impact, you didn’t see happen,

occurred at 22:29, this gives space for the actual culprit to lay in wait, commit this crime and run straight for the lift, would that be a fair assertion also Mr Edison, you do see the hazy area I’m attaching my argument to right’?

‘Umm, yea, but don’t think we didn’t dissect Vee’s actions just as much as you guys when I saw her parents back home. I told them in front of the police as soon as I got there: For me, it was a combination of her following her new man out of the car park and refusal to help resuscitate Neon that was most shocking. We knew it didn’t make her guilty out right but when the results from came back to the police station, placing Vee not only in the car, but driving, it was then we arrived at our own conclusions, the detectives were thinking the same thing and told the law briefs, and a few days later they informed us of their decision to build a case, serve a notice on the law courts, and write to the defensive line-up, giving you guys time to prepare. I grew up down the hill, practically next door to Neon and her parents, so I went back to spend time with them,

414

Celine Flux

even my own family were grieving’. Mr Line Backer made an outburst, crunching into the issue with a dissuasive launch. ‘. . . And all this, outside the fact you only saw the aftermath of the incident’?

‘Objection your un-honourable’‘Downheld!’ supplemented the judge, ‘Yes . . . Ms Peppermint will

remove that last statement’ He turned his head slowly across to Nick‘Err . . . you don’t have to respond to that question Mr Edison’.

But Nick felt self-birthrighteous, with nothing to conceal, so overlapped Judge Anderson, quite confident in his response and its helpfulness, ‘No, I saw what I told the police and Neon’s parents, check the recording if you want, I didn’t come here to amplify the sample, I’m interested in justice for Neon, that’s all, by finding out if my ex-wife’s a murderer as well as a cheat’

‘OK but there’s one more thing that troubles me . . . it’s a remaining case quandary your honour’. Line Backer entered into complaint looking up, aiming his animated theatricals at the roof. ‘I sense an issue of vagueness here, so should this trial continue any further then I’d like to take this opportunity right now, to express vast dissatisfaction at the lack of clear witness testimony, apart from of course our straight shooting Mr Edison sitting before us, who’s merely saying things how he saw it but unfortunately for him, looking down something like an extended mortar cannon while doing the Linford Christie, so, actually didn’t see anything conclusive’. A few giggles came down from the rafters as Nick frowned belligerently, disgusted by any suggestive denigration; state of affairs taken into account Judge Anderson demanded the return of a more reverential atmosphere.

This sombre deed quickly took effect; quantum glares unhooked from above him now fixed upon this ill-timed perpetrator, Mr Line Backer departed for prompt arrival back in his respective lane, ‘. . . But I’m sure he and his family also, are not at all happy hearing these life-destroying allegations just as much as my bench, especially if there not true’. Judge Anderson sent a note to Mr Line Backer before speaking to the defence briefly and then addressed court, sitting low, in a b-boy stance but fragile—(apparently fighting for either vitality or plain concern!)—arms folded hugging his brittle ribs, fingers concealed under a sun-blemished cloak-turned-smokers jacket.

He checked his watch, way too old and jaded for such decoratious expressions of oratorical flair on display, so cut straight to the point.

415

FAMILIAR FRUIT, DEMOCRATICLY ELECTED, 4+ QUR’ANS AGO

‘Hear this . . . We’re going to have recess now, for two hours and when we come back? I would like to speak to both benches in my personal chambers if you please and I would like Miss Vikingson to be present at this conference . . . you can tell me all about your “vast dissatisfaction” after we’ve all had some lunch’! After that, the heavy wrinkled, wino skinned Judge Anderson slammed down on his hammer at which everyone but Omniversal (in impotent protest) rose, and soon afterwards, all began, timely, to then file out of the door’.

416

DEF FRETS CHANGE EVERYTHING

(I GUESS RIGHT?)

Before the next court session begun the two representing law mercenaries argued between themselves as Judge Anderson heeded on, tolerant of this lampoon-session getting more tetchy only while in his private quarters and occupied—sparking damp weed cured in spiced whisky—listening with stealthy amusement to this exchange now stepping out onto an unprofessional margin. ‘Your honour I think your speaker here is all bugged out coz of being exposed in the news sheets like the straight nit-wits they are’ ‘Whatever . . .!’ came the reply. ‘Then why all the complaining, it’s a no-brainer to me, huh, smells like desperation where I’m standing . . . wet’; from the defensive winger sent by his team into Judge Anderson’s quarters there was no quick-fire second reply, instead, he turned to the judge shrouded in smoke. ‘Sir, we, authorized by law, intend to mention a crime Miss Vikingson had committed in . . .’

‘No, wait, no that? No way, you’re talking about a previous conviction back in 94’, when she was a student for rama’s sake’

‘Well considering she evaded apprehension by enforcement overseers prior to being detained, I don’t think anybody here’s in a position to oppose this state of motion do you’? The speaker continued to explain his teams plan to render old crimesheet info. ‘Your honour this ain’t the first time Miss Vikingson fled the field of play; She was involved in a demonstration gone wrong, inviting a police charge and leaving her classmate, who later informed officers of her participation in an arson attack on a battery-farmed fried chicken shop—as I said, fleeing the battlefield so to speak—so we think our findings throughout these proceedings your honour, plus this, are sufficient enough for the sub-supreme court to find Vienna guilty’. Judge Anderson said nothing, just hobbled, huge rows of smelly leather-spine books behind joining the smoky aroma even at the hanger, over where his long dusty gown dangled. From there he just stared, through his hairy yellowing eyebrows, intermittently, before pointing outside. ‘Don’t worry’ said the defensive

417

DEF FRETS CHANGE EVERYTHING (I GUESS RIGHT?)

speaker walking over to the door frustrated, then reiterating, ‘we’re gonna be calling Miss Vikingson out to put her version of events when we go back in, so . . .!’ ‘Fine . . .!!’ said the offensive speaker following behind, then into the corridor to complete their hushed argument while walking.

418

WITH NO MAHATMA’S TO QUERY . . .

CONDUCT THE YOGIC

EXPERIMENT YOURSELF!

When everybody had sufficiently settled in court the defensive team requested Vee, sitting in her booth wilting like sautéed watercress and assorted baby leaves, to swear-in, then go over to the hot seat. She took her time, under escort, throat dry but managing to seize the moment, requesting a drink and making internal preparation. From the outset the cannon cooler speaking had variety, honoured her request and was helpful, dragging water for Vienna’s vessel then verbally stirring nice smooth waves, swirling the currents upward, effective assistance for Vee so she could put her own aspects across.

‘Vienna is it possible do you think, to vivify for us, if, you don’t mind please, when you first met Neon?’ gently drawn from a range of difficult questions, from both sides, for background purposes this he asked.

Vienna started on a tiny wave. It curled inside her. And arms spread metaphoric, looking up to the lights replicating rehearsal, she then spoke.

‘It was about three years ago when Nick started taking me to the Southshires and his old bedroom. He had it converted because his mother never remarried, so he spent weekends there and I’d go along with him’.

Gripped by suspense nobody in the room dared make a sound while Vee had the spotlight.

‘One day, he took me next door, there I saw pictures of them all together as kids, in each other’s gardens, or on summer outings, so when I saw her with Nivja and Nick for the first time, I recognized Neon straight away. But I only met her two or three times all together’

‘So obviously you’d be unable to tell, if . . . she had a new hair-do for example . . .? And, correct me if I’m wrong but, didn’t she have a

419

WITH NO MAHATMA’S TO QUERY . . . CONDUCT THE YOGIC EXPERIMENT YOURSELF!

different hair colour when you last saw her which I’d like the court to be made aware, was over a year ago’?

‘Yes, and it was a different length too! When I saw her laying there on the floor I truly didn’t know it was Neon; I thought Nick was lying when he started to call her name’. Mr Cannon Cooler walked up to the witness box, raised eyebrow, giving a caring look as he leaned in.

‘Pardon my cander; I’m going to ask you; best to get this over with now’. He said it calmly enough, leaving microspaces between his words.

‘Seriously . . . do, you love Nick Vienna? Or do you love someone else’?

Vienna looked at him, then over at everyone around her, and then she spoke loudly in Nick’s direction without looking at him. ‘I love Nick’!

‘And about the owner of the car Vienna . . . Who is he’? Here Vee stopped in her tracks, not failing to remember her restrictions at this point; it swooped down into her mind like a ghoulish predator scoping from a haunted spire—(And yo, by the way, wassup with all that devilishment on Gothic architecture? Eeeyyyack)!

She couldn’t dare implicate anyone else yet because if she did, for all she knew Mr Rella’s threat of Nanobombs in her bloodstream, deemed true, would be triggered causing death untraceable, and Shadowless.

Vienna went on shut down from fear, she dared not mention anything else, too scared of bringing heat upon the Overbosses, or her own self, getting clipped-up in jail. She knew Shadow Eliminator agents were most likely sitting amongst her in plain clothes. So from then she looked around the room not saying too much more, prang of getting rubbed-out—the shaw-makeshift-shank-way—back in her remand cell.

Suspense-filled-time slowed but moved on regardless. She was beginning to feel regretful about forcing the previously bright decision taken to give evidence. Not just that day, but the whole trial was long and arduous, a struggle to get through, full of fluid-like technicalities where even the least important elements of shivering aqua underwent such an extreme desertification process, in such a systematic trench-warfare style, that it cost neurons just to decipher, let least engage in. It was as if each point was a major part of some other crucial evidence, evidence the offensive line-up couldn’t dare underestimate. Her posture was seizing

420

Celine Flux

up, cold, like skin unprotected, far from the rays of divine pleasure, in a dark vacuous region, her naked body dividing harsh winds, and the hot seat, now frozen, biting at bare extremities.

Vee’s responses became less and less co-operative even though the defence were asking pre-catalogued questions meant to help her out somewhat. A cold North Sea version of Alcatraz came to her mind as she sat there; a fortress jail, the world had heard of, yet, no one would want to go, creepy, exposed, with a scowling Shetland current which blew frosty Arctic touches of omniversal sharpedged temperatures.

‘Miss Vikingson?’ asked the Offensive QB when his turn came,‘. . . Before Judge Anderson sends you back to your seat for selected

law briefs to give closing statements I’d like you to take a look at this’. He stepped away from Vee and turned to the jury, then to Judge Anderson.

‘Your honour, I present on behalf of the attacking party a data-stream, tendered for the jury to look over; a section of a transcript the police gave us. As you can see she’s definitely not as they say nowadays “keepin’ it real” . . . it’s quite obvious by going through the highlighted areas that she, like now, is holding something back, and the fact she’s under caution seems to hold no sway’. He walked up to the witness box to intensify the band of his address. ‘In case you were not made aware Vienna, because your assuming we can’t tell when someone’s holding something too hot to handle, these “defenders of the defendant” representing here, should have reminded you this is a crown offence, your actions on the day in question did increase the risk of death, no doubt about that, by dint of your renunciatory inaction, and, at a most critical time. I’m wandering; doesn’t that affect you in any way Vienna’?

‘Yes’!—Slightly distracted by worry, and caught off guard somewhat it came out of her mouth sounding weak, unbelievable, like a lie. ‘Then why didn’t you help your husband’? Everybody listening began to lean in for this answer, all unified in an eagerness to hear these frustratingly timid, evermore minuscule responses. Most of the subconscious court shuffling, almost to the edge of their seats, went practically unnoticed by all but Vienna who felt alone, staring skyward once more, like she was looking up at an invisible construct, tall and heavy, imagined within herself as the guilty guillotine of Gaul, rickety, and ready to dip down decapitation style, straight through to “neckback season era”. ‘I . . . I don’t know why . . .’ she replied. ‘Well, it contributed to a lost life . . . Now how does that make you feel’?

421

WITH NO MAHATMA’S TO QUERY . . . CONDUCT THE YOGIC EXPERIMENT YOURSELF!

‘Err, bad, of course’The court members seemed unsatisfied, and that included

melodramatic reactions of the offensive bench all dressed perfectly in pacific standard blue, clashing cuffs and collars. ‘You know what Vienna?’ he tutted. ‘Look . . .’, rubbing his face and opening his blazer coat with a tired expression, almost sighing, huffing into his pocket lining he lifted the side of his suit to unclick his pen and hook it away, practically symbolizing the present mood. Refocusing back on Vienna, cuffed but fixing her fringe behind her ear, he checked his un-padded Milano shoulders and de-fluffed, tactical, beginning his next sentence almost mumbling. ‘. . . Hhhmmm . . . Ultimately . . .? I doubt anybody here believes you’re going to move from your position any time soon, so . . .’ he turned to his team, strong-backed, most by now with elbows on tables and legs straight, shoes touching, government-issue-shiny and low BMI like a job well done ‘. . . Although it would seem intellectual honesty’s something nearly all adults posses Miss Vikingson, the devilish deceptive within forbids its command at the helm, here where it’s supposed to be.

In fact, I’m a people person, just like you claim to be, and I can tell that your one of those calculated ninety-five out of every hundred, to fight this godly quality at almost every opportunity, right’?

‘No’!‘Then why the reserved responses . . .’?‘I’m giving you everything . . .! You’ve gotta believe me . . .! I, am,

answering as best I can. What else do you guys want me to say’?‘It appears to me, Vienna, that maybe, we should discontinue our

line of interro-tracers, because at this point in the designated timefield, I can’t see much reason; There seems little rational motive behind pushing on from here’. Before he walked over to shuffle his file papers, a little stressed, the QB finished by saying ‘. . . Your honour, I only hope the defence bench doesn’t consider that this wholly uninvested-in theatrical movement could ever possibly deem Miss Vikingson any sort of relative immunity’. He looked at Vee. ‘Huh . . . your silence Miss Vikingson, it speaks to the volumes to the court . . . that is all your honour . . . no further questions’. Looking consistently unimpressed, holding up his tired face with his fist Judge Anderson removed his limp hand slowly, then sat up and spoke down his nose at the courtroom. ‘I’m going to adjourn the court, for . . . three days . . . and upon our return, after

422

Celine Flux

chaired views have been measured on an individual basis, I shall poll the jury to extract a suitable verdict—If both benches are satisfied by this movement, then, that’ll be all for now’.

He slammed down his hammer again and of course, all but one person stood up until Judge Anderson left. That one . . . was Omni, who subsequently trailed out into the halls among all other attendees. He caught up and spoke to Nick briefly before heading back across town; on the way, trancing, like he always does, over Neon’s abrupt parting from entwined matter—once departed, leaving only that which first desired to entwine—him, walking home across Southwalk Bridge placing meaning upon it . . . ponderings, in relation to the highest point of his mortal thought, the aspect, growing ever more subtle with his appreciation of the complete whole, for in relation to that, this mess being created by everyone now, and previous to the trial, had a rancid aroma, like animal flesh in a carnivores gut—The mess was vast, beyond any one person with a supernatural compassion.

He knew the saying . . . Desire isn’t tidy; the mini-matrix of percepto-reality confirmed this for him. Omni realized that results, good or bad may they be, are messy, even when applied to some stranger’s life, and though they all tried to, after everyone involved in the trial had their small judgement day, it seemed, this ‘mess’ unravelling around them would never be cleaned up.

The verdict was soon approaching, and for Neon’s parents, both exasperated, swiftly heading out together, surrounded by press officials but closer now in grief, the pendulum shift away from ishlom was sensed on the motorway back south. It was a grave time; far from the sun, moon, and Star of Dravidia.

423

MASTA-AUTHORS INFLUENCING

PATTERNS, DID I TRACE?

The courtroom filled up and Omni, sitting in a similar place as the previous Friday, was now thinking himself lucky he didn’t get to see Neon after the crash. He looked at Nick and his mother far ahead near Neon’s own mother and father, then Vienna, as she was led inside attempting to hold herself together. ‘All rise’. Judge Anderson crept through taking his own central seat in a protocol which everyone (but Omni) observed, falsely excusing himself, prepared—if necessary—to cite damaged legs.

The offensive speaker stood to stand, paused, and began to give his summination.

‘This is an unfortunate, direct case, beyond rebuttal or mere secular ethics, and as stressed before, although Vienna’s confinement will be of little comfort for those loved ones of Neon’s who desire a conviction, we consider her almost point blank refusal to be more forthcoming, to be seen by the jury as a constituent of the most ragu of aggravating factors’.

His voice went up an octave, continuing a bit more forceful, ‘Vienna was resisting after the initial arrest and she’s been resisting ever since; advised by someone? Who knows. Certainly it was a bad idea I’m sure the jury will agree. And given the information held, the accused Miss Vikingson, while in attempting to commit this offence, this successful crime, along with her accomplice wrecked the lives of many people.

Your honour, the sentence should reflect this because as reported, the particular overseer who on the date typed on our previously tendered replisheet, was in the line of duty, engaged in the pinching of this rightly accused socio-felonious individual, today facing justice and still daring to plead not guilty in front of the main chamber. Therefore we as the offensive team, in accordance with the law request an acceptable review and judgement. In closing this statement, let us not forget all the revelatory findings with respect to recorded disclosures, making her

424

Celine Flux

culpable; we of course, expect it to weigh in favour of a unanimous verdict by the jury. That is all your honour’.

The defensive team speaker stood next giving a short performance, nodded to his feet by the judge and checking with his bench before pushing out his chest, all spray-tanned-out, and blinking over-slow.

‘In summary, yes, we agree this is was terrible incident for all involved including our client Miss Vienna Vikingson, but we believe her to be innocent, and surrounded by, ultimately flaky, dismissive evidence.

May the courtroom know that in addition, after holding council, the recommendation of not guilty is suggested to be given by the jury, That is all your honour’. A speaker for the jury stood to speak under Judge Anderson’s nod. ‘We accept both closing statements for relevant rulings and will consider them once more, very carefully your honour’. Judge Anderson coughed up a lung of tar and spoke. ‘Right, when the jury return from their final conference, our offensive team here, representing the hot crown jewels, plus the defensive team, will document each jury members decision, after that, each member will reaffirm their decision for the court and I will read out my judgeship, which will be of course, based on that finding. Any objections? . . . OK, then that is all’. He threw down his hammer again and court was adjourned.

Vienna was gripped-up, taken to a court cell to be briefed and told to expect a long wait for the verdict to be reached, possibly a transfer back across town for a couple of tension-filled days. Her eyes glazed over at first, trying to keep up with the solicitors and there complicated explanations of procedure. But within an hour the busy court jailer, heavy set, too much neck for his uniform, a UN general’s bleak face, growled in a Croydonian accent scrubbing her name off the blackboard, ‘Vikingson . . .’???

This was sudden and unexpected. The peculiar swiftness of bureaucracy was deemed odd by the whole defensive team; in fact all legal papers regarding the case moved around with extra quaint stamp marks on them, delivered to her jail cell personally by the block-governor himself back in Magicwandsworth—Questionable moments were now arising, making themselves noticed; all things related to the legal wheel and her case were unusually fast-tracked by order of an, as yet unnamed, ex-Shadowless justice official.

All this was detected by the team but not Vee herself, who while on remand decided to try and remain defiant and hopeful, blocking Mr

425

MASTA-AUTHORS INFLUENCING PATTERNS, DID I TRACE?

Rella—and his choice/consequence waltz—out of her mind as much as she could. But right now it wasn’t looking too fly, for the judgement scales weren’t tipping in her favour at all, the legals didn’t need to confirm this so she didn’t even ask. Expecting, at worst manslaughter, she’d cottoned-on by the end of the trial that case evidence, ultimately did support the jury’s rising suspicion of guilt, which the opposing bench and the defence in secret, accepted as a given based on conscientious participation, an ever more sensational fact which alas, foreshadowed all endeavours to make outside speculators suspect otherwise.

She wondered how Nick would react to a not guilty verdict. As far as she was concerned, quietly prejudging the judgement itself and leaving the defence to reach their own calculated conclusions: the Overbosses were making this happen; Shadow Eliminator agents had infiltrated every large organisation on the globe with isolated-regime-cells everywhere—so now, any of Mr Rella’s personally selected wingmen could fly bombers over on his behalf, solving all problems from way above sea-level just like naked Gooks running through paddy fields dodging enemy napalm strikes back in the heroin-era!

When all had got themselves inside and everybody had fallen back Judge Anderson got straight down to business. ‘Will the jury speaker please rise and give your verdict’. Vee took a deep breath and squeezed her hands together looking as lonely, (yes, but not guilty), as ever. Nick, Niv, Aubrey, and Neon’s family representatives of Nat and Burt all turned their faces towards the presiding speaker, feeling heightened, and eager, wrongly daring to anticipate the jury’s decision. Although divorced Burt and Nat in particular, huddled for support while the speaker read the following on behalf of the jury, starting slow, then pausing, and then rushing through the words written on the sheet, held high in his hand like a trumpet . . .’ We, the jury, find the accused guilty of the murder of Miss Neon Light along with resisting arrest and fleeing a crime scene’.

Vienna just gasped, straight gasped, zenfro, like catching a construction-sized wrecking ball in her chest plate, completely flattening her lungs, struggling to activate core expansion muscles, or give way to atomic element number 8 in the surrounding air—oxygen—the oxygen that she right now . . . to breathe! The game was up, and Vienna had no more credits, no joypad, or joystick, or buttons, she just took a long, hard, look at her reflection on the protective security screen, turned

426

Celine Flux

shoot-em-up arcade. It was like a hallucination, seeing colourful sprites arranging before her eyes, unable to continue the videogame of existence as she perceived it just seconds previous, the climatic countdown forming the words “Game Over” in front of her eyes.

Neon’s father, Burt, was dignified, removed, already half-visualizing what was in store for him and Nat outside on the steps, and when he turned to look at Nick, giving a reluctant nod as they met eyes for cold acknowledgement amongst the celebrations, that was quickly conveyed, in that same instant, Nick relaying the gesture back to him, then Omni also, sensing Nick’s shift to enforced practicability, all three now realigning themselves somewhat as law briefs on both sides, began frantically scribbling down protostatments soon to be merged into satisfied and unsatisfied points of view. Judge Anderson slammed down his hammer, waited for hush, and turned to Vienna, him looking grilled-up from the forehead like that midget satellite-TV judge.

‘Miss Vikingson . . .? Back in my quarters I summoned all previous experiences while considering the jury’s findings, and thinking back to both arguments, from the outset right up to the closing statements, including all through this hearing Vienna, you’ve been requested by the attacking fleet to explain yourself like a supposed Co-Managing Director obviously should be able to, and you basically refused; Surprising, since it was your neck on the line! Anyway, for all to witness this court has spoken, and I declare an imposition of twenty years in light of the fact overseers never did apprehend any accomplice. Your participation, it was argued, with scantily tendered evidence but so elaborately cited and overly finessed, yes, was argued to be relatively insignificant, to the point of it hardly constituting a hefty sentence if any. Well, I disagree, and have been advised by a higher active agency—1st reich-governmental—not to grant that preliminary parole hearings be elicited, which will now be awarded only after, at least, fifteen years of punishable bird-time in a norseward jail. That is all. This trial . . . has now concluded’.

When Judge Anderson stepped out slowly for the final time, everyone, some moving from shocked jubilation now settling on the verdict proper, grabbed up their belongings and looked about at each other, as hunky guards, steam-pressed uniform and clean shaven, opened the tall doors to let each cluster of attendees through.

Realization of the court’s decision had been falling like scruffy leaves for a good few extended moments now, and the build up was adding to

427

MASTA-AUTHORS INFLUENCING PATTERNS, DID I TRACE?

the mess of high anticipation that already lay on the floor. It was time for everybody to leave.

When Neon’s parents and Niv made their way out the courtroom with Aubrey trying to shield them, then continuing out of the building straight over to the car heading for Southshires, Omni approached Nick rolling a toothpick around, signifying his presently empty, stunned feeling—an old knucklehead defence mechanism meant to intimidate newschoolers. When Nick stepped closer he respectfully took it out and fixed his face knowing if anybody should be screwing up their faces, it should be Nick and la familia. As people rushed by they got talking.

‘How you feeling geez?’ said Omni, both slowly beginning their walk for morose retrospection; all things considered received as an exemplary, and brave display. ‘Well, I lost my wife to a murder charge, she’s now been found guilty, heading to a decrepit jail, and if I visit her in there I know she’s gonna deny cheating on me . . .’ he gave Omni a small grin for inspirational purposes only, and joked, ‘. . . Apart from that though, I’m fine’! Omni acknowledged irony and in his own sentimentalist’s way, saluted the attempt at levity, in vain; a useful dark streak through Nick’s character and surprisingly consistent white humour.

The cameras lens barrels were posted up outside like a scrum, all pointing at Vee’s defensive team who were just “not having it” the way things turned out. Every journalist quietened down as soon as a solicitor prepared himself to speak over all pointy questions, each one lined up, descending in clockwork, touching down like economy flights, jostling reporters aiming microphones at arm’s length as if they were holding girlie dumbbells doing forward flys. ‘We have a strong appeal in construction . . .’ he affirmed on behalf of moody associates nearby, with Bluecoats in illuminous yellow rainwear attempting to calm what approached near frenzy, other cottoncollars either side of the spokesman, with each insatiable press officer over-reaching; all grown men running out of patience, and each in the mix, ‘. . . based on this burdensome and distressing judgement which took place here, after the jurors concurred so swiftly, when Judge Anderson was, apparently, shoehorned into imposing a sentence including withheld parole, of which, we argue is disproportionate to the penalties handed out in similar cases. Plus, her prior crime-sheet wasn’t that significant and we can’t see why it was accepted by the court? By the time all aspects are measured we’ll’ve approximated quite a few pads that we intend to launch our appeal from in the very, near, future’ . . .

428

Celine Flux

More questions floated from the reporters like ortow pylits pushing tin, enquiring to Vienna’s personal reaction to the verdict, and how she was doing. ‘Oh of course she is . . .! She’s devastated at the news; Miss Vikingson still maintains her innocence . . .! OK now, that’s it . . . that is all for the time being’. The noise of those news journalists rose up again, played extremely close by the cameras breaking formation as law speakers and associates, all walked down the large steps leading down from the old central sub-supreme court: a cold, eerie and ugly building, peninsular-Vandal and Gotho, implemented continent wide, but well-lit and sandblasted. Reporters, some coming live bouncing off satellites, continued in the street with low-brow sensationalist reactions alongside tabloid bloodhound gangs discredited by the more learned and jaded.

And while all this happened Vee sobbed away in her holding-van on its way to prison, feeling like she wanted to hurl puke over her knees; her guts had left the building like a 60’s rock n’ roll star (to blowsnaaght!)

The van swayed from side to side while Bluecoats on motorcycles stiffened their ridged protective formation, escorting the security wagon away with Vee, weeping inside, flashing lights visible through a small triple-tint window, invaded by loud siren too, off to begin a colossal phase of life with the hardest knocks, but yet, one of the most humbling and enabling for consciousness expansion.

* * *

429

ABOUT SIT-UPS AND SUPERSEX THEN:

ARTISTIC OR PERVERTED EXPRESSION?

Abigail, one of the cutest young women imaginable came offering help to Seattle and others in the church hall, taking all the stacked chairs out from the corners, and laying them out in preparation for a group sing-song and service later that evening. It was one of the most contented weekends Seattle had ever experienced in her life to that date, ‘And I’m not even dolling up for the pubdrug-crawl-thing either’!—Her mind quietly aimed the dual-novae of thoughts back at her soulspike.

Life was generally better of late, and work was in cruise control. Seattle for the first time was granted by everything seen and unseen some calm predictable waters to plan the surf for, as she, the pre-atomic, travelled, board in hand though life in her atomic shell from point A, to the eventual release from her loan-vessel at point B.

She was in the best shape of her life, attacking and retreating from the day depending on the hour, mastering spacetime with an improved manageability and competence. The ethereal-wise vada’s from within her dreams she sometimes imagined would be proud, smiling down upon her, mighty arms folded under long silver beards.

A lot of these siesmic gains were thanks to her neo support group where she paddled each week in the activities. She felt involved, included, just-about resisting the urge to evangelize when working with all her needy patients back on the hospital wards.

At this temple her and her new friend Abi juxed hard together; whenever they could they’d couple-off and go pluck wild flowers for some tea in the foyer, or corridor, then fill each other in before taking to whatever task that may need doing. Seattle never once brought up those raw-looking scars and deformed skin exposed at the base of her neck some days—the timing had never been quite right. When Abigail spoke or turned to do something, Seattle would sometimes notice but she’d never let it prang her. Often she’d turn her back during a sentence (characteristically ending with some innocuous humour) so Seattle was

430

Celine Flux

always left feeling a thread unsure on how to breach the perimeter of what could understandably be a painful, or touchy subject. Abi’s head (full of attachment)-turning qualities were more facial than anything, that is to say, she wasn’t no cardio-resistanceologist, not like Seattle, who quickly picked up the temple trend regarding the sistren customary dress not to mention make-up. A fresh face, great skin beside clean hair and clothes, that’s it, for Abi, that was all it took to induce apparent desire or envy, but it didn’t bother her, Abi just moved about life as though she was in a cosy musical, like floating upon some cloud of chiffon, even before her assimilation with the church.

The fire she was involved in while working at the Allzones shopping complex—claiming to be “Eurasia’s largest”—(like all the others)—it couldn’t dampen her inner fire, or wet any flames surrounding that inner spark which beats the indispensable muscle—that was Abi’s gift, even the blind could see it, and because of this, those team-building skillz she possessed and utilized at the temple came relatively easy. Mother Laureate was milling around that early Saturday morning too, up from the office area, then down the corridor, to the store room, and through to the stage trying to locate the tatty old butter tub housing wires, soundjacks, and replacement batteries.

‘It’s just as Katrina submitted in her thesis last year . . . “So-called pretty girls are obliged to make themselves ugly; this is the way of avant-garde freeculture trendsetters”, but that doesn’t include orthorexia!’ Abi recited informatively, stacking another chair.

A down to earth lass—with a passionate sincerity that plenty of 28 year-olds from the burbz seem to have—Abi never merged into the wave-pulse of this temple for ugly girls and their general sentiment from some “dark place”, rather, like most members, it was sheer intrigue, only then becoming unified with Mother Laureate and the temples resonance.

‘Sure there was a void in my life’ she said still pulling her weight with the chores, ‘. . . Then, I thought, what do you mean by ugly people, I mean what a gutsy statement you know’? Abi remembered the first few encounters well, finishing off her open conversation before going to the store room for musical equipment, then to spray each of the seats one by one while Seattle Katrina and others—including a most pretty and slightly older lady from the outer Eurasiaiatic peninsular named

431

ABOUT SIT-UPS AND SUPERSEX THEN: ARTISTIC OR PERVERTED EXPRESSION?

Volga—finished arranging them. ‘Besides’, Abi continued, ‘I was getting to a point in my life where Riki and Tyra’s advice seemed to bounce off my dish, end up somewhere else, and my favourite glossy’s agony aunt was . . . I don’t know . . . just, seemed to be trifling with the point. I was up you know: providing service for earnings, spending it the wrong way round, feeling gratified, temporarily yea, once a bloody month! . . . Generally it weren’t working, the desired effect was interrupted by, like a distant awareness of some kind’—Abi was in fact talking about conscious fragmental energy intertwining post-particle-mass, (funnily enough).

Before learning all this from The Under Superior she’d completely misidentified with it, due to a disconnection from this indo-science many many generations ago, therefore losing its relativity to the complete, cyclical, pre-indo-energy originating from the origin (huh?) ‘At the time it kept reoccurring to me, regularly, this distant prodding.

So I began to think to myself, with slight, but romantic sadness it must be said, that unless you’re a sense-controller, a spiritual sage or devotee, you know, those not falsely identifying with what makes particles oscillate round non-particles, but who identify correctly, based on activities and enquiry, then you can’t advise me, on anything really, may it be inside, outside, or opposite to my daily life’.

Before she ended Volga had finished her row of chairs so went to get a can of polish, grabbing one for Abi on the way. ‘After being here a while, even holding a glass of that abundant thing on our planet, becomes a beautiful experience to behold’. As Seattle thought about it, Abi quickly went off to lift some instruments and equipment over, placing them on and around the small intimate stage area next to Laureate’s built-in speaking podium, before starting back on the chairs with Volga, both giving all the seats a good wipe down.

Flooding one’s bloodstream, blitzing the organs with filtered mountain or tap water twice before midday, no matter how uncomfortable, was one of the temples unique religious principles. This daily symbolic act had sacrificial purposes as well as bodily ones, and as Seattle learned, done in the name of opposing power structures collectively holding enough resources to quench those dying of thirst as they, the temple members, drunk away!, all the time knowing the thirsty don’t even have taps in their shacks—oh well tho eh—(an impractical amount of toilet-time but worth struggling with wouldn’t one say?)

432

Celine Flux

‘As soon as I saw the Under Superior’ declared Abigail ‘and heard her for a few minutes, tuning in to her wavelength, I knew she had tools for the sharing, swords for the swinging, but also critically, that she knew how to use them—those tools—so by progressing along the tao to my actual self ‘s realization with her, I could then acquire my own’.

Laureate, the completely approachable Under Superior, heard Abi as she walked by from the PA system at the back, near the door, leading through to the kids area where she placed the cordless mic receiver (with the fresh battery cells she’d found) on the dual light n’sound mixing-desk, then she walked back through the centre aisle and up to the stage where she soundchecked with the help of well mannered and very un-vulgar reformee, Volga.

‘I was on the lookout for any request to hand over possessions, and was eager for the temples position on that kind of, for me, rough terrain.

So when I read her submission on “The Masses and Levels of Comfort”, and my favourite one, “Lifestyle, Love and Supposed Liberty”, a lot of my initial reservations were put to bed. You gotta read this stuff Seattle, its great; a real solid launchpad too, ain’t that right Under Superior’?

‘Erm . . .’ Laureate paused to reach for the memory which—because of engagement with a rouge micstand—took at least a second or two ‘. . . Yea, part of my Offence with Concessions Forum . . . I think’? Laureate then replied to them again, this time fiddling about with the screechy mic-piece itself, ‘. . . I’ve got them all filed on nanodisx in my office if you’d like a read’? ‘Sure! I’d love to read it’ revealed Seattle openly to Abi and the busy group.

‘Yea it’s really sharp stuff . . . Hey don’t worry . . . I’ll do that for you Under Superior’. Abi then shot off across the hall up to the portable stage where the keyboard, drums, and micstands were assembled; she was eager for Seattle who’d grown over time into a dear cherished one, to become familiar with the most useful of their temple magazine articles, and all those recorded lectures, some of which she’d heard already. Seattle, shrugging her shoulders looked at Abi as Abi looked back wide-eye’d, discretely indicating ‘. . . Go on then Seattle what you waiting for’? Abi in the end had to verbalise it, before clearing her throat and giving a timid ‘Erm . . . mic check one-two . . .? Check one-two?’ and then waiting for a thumbs-up from Volga down at the opposite mixing desk.

Catching up, Laureate thought Seattle was just behind, about to reply to her question of ‘How’s things going at work anyway’? Seattle had

433

ABOUT SIT-UPS AND SUPERSEX THEN: ARTISTIC OR PERVERTED EXPRESSION?

to ask her to repeat herself though, Abi’s disturbing voice, still bouncing around the building from old speakers painted slapdash mounted high on walls, upper corners touched only by long-vacated spider webs thickened by sticky dust. ‘Oh, things are OK on the work front; it’s my personal life that’s been giving me the most concern’!

She and Laureate were side by side now, and talking together. ‘My ex-partner, Adam and stuff . . .? He’s been telling everyone back in Satelliteton I’ve gone all religious with a crazy cult. I’ve been discussing it with Abi and Katrina . . . Think he’s trying to position himself for Othellenius. And he still has feelings for me’ ‘I’ll take it you don’t feel the same way then’? ‘Well that’s the problem’. Reassured by her steady trance-like manner, from, it seemed, somewhere up on high, Seattle continued slowly with a quite in-depth breakdown-rundown, and walked with Laureate, a wise, immaculate confidant, beyond price or fear of afterlife, both making the short journey along the corridor towards the office.

‘You know Seattle . . . soon after I set up this temple I decided to leave my family in Old York. Of course at the start the only thing that changed was my spiritual practice, I mean I never had one, nor did anyone I knew. We all abandoned our traditional teachings from the good book in some sort of rebellious adolescence thing, along with all the post-war ideals floating around our generation back then’. Laureate slowed her stroll a little to paint a verbal picture.

‘Our inherited ancestral energy to save the world wasn’t short of takers in my day: There were efforts by organizations, founded on suppression, or psychic manipulation, of us, the newly informed young people virgining upon our political consciousness. The energy we had, the hope, was at its peak; it had all its different sects, from freedom fighters to anarchists, to non-violent demonstrators . . .’

Before long Laureate and Seattle entered the office—looking more like a jungle—and sat down.

‘. . . But if you weren’t there, it’d be only black and white images in archives, and soundbytes from assassinated saints left for you all now; shaky ground!’, Laureate paused, recalling available memories with a muffled sigh.

‘Me being a student, in those times, connected to my cause with my ex- husband who was much more militant than I. And particular groups with particular agendas, was just a time of activism, almost as if it were in the atmosphere. I’d hear news on the grapevine; a victory here, a loss there.

434

Celine Flux

Our elders seemed dazed, astonished, completely mystified they were; simple folk. I guess it was just different times. I now know it’s not just pious upper-demigod-orbs Seattle, but time itself that moves, shifts, and both under supreme operation. They elapse in mysterious ways. It’s that what teaches the unreformed, the harsh after-time lesson, in this, brief moment we have.

435

OR IS IT, LESS SEX, MORE AFFECTION . . .?

‘But anyhow’, Laureate continued, sobering the lens slightly, ‘World events and personal crisis all play their part in the ocean of dual causality.

I came to realize during my motion through this experience continual that I, only as flesh am the craft. My interaction, relationship with incidents, no matter how minute from the outside had to be defined it this sense. So I went on a different course. I’m still earthbound on that journey. No need for bread tracks or signposts, for fulfilment of humankind’s potential Seattle, surely is different to that of other species.

So yes I decided on another way, to the huge disappointment of my comrades, including, it would turn out in the end, to my husband and his people. Don’t get me wrong I loved him, and we stayed together for seventeen years after Repliversity. He had his fashionable and trendy vices while I shook mine off. But I really wanted the wilderness Seattle; it spoke to me at night while we lived together. And then we went and did what most normal couples of our generation did while knowing how incompatible we were, in so many ways, not just sexually, although, I was quite sexually orientated as young woman—blossoming in the sixties—and that’s in Zone1 with all its separatist EU-rope and boundary civilisation stuff!

So . . .’ Laureate enjoined one more memory to the end of the classic irony tale, personal and vague; stepping stone souvenirs of an old growth spurt, ‘. . . I became alloyed; an exploited issue as you already know.

That’s why lesson one of my brickwork is . . . “Don’t, get, harvested!”

Mother Laureate thought of the sickle, and smiled as she remembered how close she came to being entirely lobotomised with the rest of her student crop, and years soon after even when she succumbed to the social pressure of marriage.

‘I think he wanted children? . . . If I were ever to have fallen pregnant then I would have had his child, but it wasn’t to be. It drove my husband up the wall while my heart was in other places. Months and months

436

Celine Flux

stacked up on months and months, then the space between us grew bigger and bigger—all one had to do was look . . . monitor. In the beginning we made investigations together, made love, together, but as time went on as lovers I’d just let him do his thing. I never followed, he never noticed, or monitored, so when the time came, I’d just be horizontal, like, lay there and think of Christendom’! Totally uninhibited by her own tales of folly Laureate, from what seemed like another plane, gagged and then laughed, ‘. . . But not when he fell asleep if you catch my drift, him, there, snoring away like a pneumatic drill or something, you know what I mean’?

Seattle shared in the free-yet-priceless laughter on offer. After they stopped Seattle thought of something she felt was the perfect time—and Laureate the perfect person—to share it with.

‘So, Laureate’, she asked, ‘you wouldn’t mind if, I asked you something, in that arena, being we’re on the subject?’ With silence and a slow nod from Laureate Seattle raised her shoulders and folded her locked fingers, exposing her palms outward, pushing them down, aiding concentration while she explained. ‘. . . Well . . . I’ve been thinking about Adam’s proposition, and since then I’ve been having, these, like, dreams . . .’?

‘Yes, you can say it, erotic dreams, go on . . .’ ‘Well a factor for us breaking up, apart from the violence, was his,

lack of vigour, in the bedroom department’ ‘In other words he wouldn’t allow you to climax? Look, Seattle’, Laureate joked, ‘I may be getting older now, but don’t think I didn’t spend many years of my youth, gratifying female desires . . . You know what I mean? . . . So, don’t hold back. Speak candidly to me . . . About anything . . .! Even things such as this’ ‘Well, Okay then’, Seattle sat up properly, ‘. . . You see, I know he’s still wants me to go back, I just know it . . . Although I’ve moved on . . . well, as much as one can given he’s Othellenius’ father’

‘How has he been . . . more generally’?‘Since I left, well the bitterness could best be described as, variable . . .

you know . . . like it changes, depends if I can swallow his whimsical truth, or he mine for that matter. It’s up and down over time between us like, a scatter graph, box chart or something’. Seattle tried to fill in with a little historical backtracking while Laureate cleared some space on her desk and listened.

‘We spent our teenage years running wild too, and we experienced partytime, both probably in equal amounts, here also, in The Big

437

OR iS iT, leSS Sex, MORe AFFeCTiOn . . .?

Smoke—if you were to tally everything up. So how we ended up from wanting to grow old together, to then batting hard for six’s and deflecting them nasty spins for four I don’t know . . . I still just can’t figure it out’!

‘You know’ interrupted Laureate rising from her chair, but preoccupied ‘. . . life has a funny way of . . . crunching those binary numbers, doesn’t it’?

Looking up to the sky then into her room slightly amused, she adjusted the blinds decreasing its shadow, twisting on the side spindle to let more light-food onto her extensive jungle-plant collection, salvaged years earlier from those seeking treasures under the Javanese rainforest.

Respectful, prompted to near delight with botanical results just noticed—albeit the increase was very small—Seattle carried on.

‘Adam did his police training here you know, in Zone1 . . . then subsequent years until his transfer down to Satelliteton. So he knows this zone quite well; I’ve been commuting that south orbital to Queens College for over three years! But now we’ve broken up I wouldn’t move back. I’m here for good.

I tried running my car but that, alongside other bills? . . .Nah . . . Zone1’s so expensive I had to sell it . . . Me and Otho cycle

now’ ‘Behold! The triumphant return . . .’ jested Laureate—a known cycle enthusiast too—‘. . . how are you finding it’? ‘Well it’s noisy, and the taxi’s think they rule my side of town . . .’! Familiar will that postcode all too well Laureate staunchly agreed. ‘But sure . . .’ continued Seattle,

‘still . . . wonder how long before Beijing turns back eh’? Seattle then slapped another punchline into the barrel, ‘. . . First our congestion, then the smog game’s gotta be won . . . then India . . . then Brazil . . .’!

Laureate smiled . . .’ “Globalized Privilege of Developing Homelands” some lovely nincompoop on Newslive called it’. Although the difference in air quality was palpable between Satelliteton and The Big Smoke, Seattle and little Otho with a youthful and boundless hara for cycling, thankfully didn’t yet see travelling about in this way as some gruelling chore. ‘But on the whole? It is rather good to be torching some kilojoules this way I think’?

‘Mmm, yes, coz lots of us cycle here: I find the backlash back to bike riding quite telling don’t you?—a great way to halt that sedentary gain’

‘It was Adam who actually pushed me up a gear with all that “calorific defecit” stuff, and you know what? . . . I’m . . .’ any double-checking was rapid ‘. . . yeah, I’m actually pretty much happier for it, it helps you know’? ‘Of course . . .’! Laureate then expanded a little herself, helping

438

Celine Flux

connect some of Seattle’s loosely-assorted dots, ‘It’s merely a utensil, that people overweight in our culture, especially women desiring the pedestal but who are alas, let’s say, out of fashion with regards to size-trends, know how to implement, but somehow don’t’, Seattle nodded along with Laureate’s ongoing gripe; one that eventually forced Laureate from the catwalk then the whole rag business itself, ‘. . . I mean, take a trip ten thousand miles south west and those same women would be practically worshipped! And models for all them renaissance oils don’t come across as particularly active? Even though, sun burnt peasants of their time of course, were as skinny as the most gaunt model on the catwalk today . . .!

I’m getting on a bit now but still active! . . . gym membership . . . and not just to pull at the bar I might add!!’, Surprised, Seattle chuckled for a bit as Laureate carried on, ‘And you’re an active person Seattle . . . I can see. No problem there. Lots are. But, we don’t exactly do backbreaking fieldwork as such, like back then. Adam just appears to be one of those guys who loves his beer and sports also, which in itself ain’t that bad . . . is it’?

‘Yeah that’s right . . . is it though?’ questioned Seattle in reply, describing how the issue kept rising from its coffin like a zombie, gliding across eggshells in the house, then mumbling one-sided support under its breath, ‘In the beginning Adam and I were both active; I’m sure I’m not the only one who appreciates a firm torso on-screen or strong back on the training field, especially getting familiar with all the work involved, you know, maintenance and all that . . .? You should have seen some of his team mates . . . Obsessed with each and every rugby season . . .! I don’t know what happened to Adam though. I mean I could have let pregnancy and motherhood block me but I didn’t, not for too long anyhow, after all my own complaining about it? Guess I couldn’t?

He used to play defence for his team, quite tall, and lift heavy weights . . . not ripped or vein-bulging, just swollen you know, for all that sumo blocking and stuff. Then he began increasing his beer intake . . . just steadily getting more and more . . . stuck in a rut. Guess it happens to all of us sometimes. But if his mood swung the wrong way then I didn’t even need to mention that. This affected his confidence in the bedroom which made him get more possessive . . . Not too much, at first, I’ll grant him, but more than before.

Maybe he’d disagree but I’d say his overall behaviour towards me changed, even though it took a while to work out why . . . especially if

439

OR iS iT, leSS Sex, MORe AFFeCTiOn . . .?

another fool looked at me twice! Which, by the way’s been so obviously overkilled as a form of endearment nowadays . . . Men should just learn to greet any female of breeding age happening to walk by with only their eyebrows. And that way, who knows, a singleton may even be impressed a little bit. Maybe enough to hold her stare for a socio-second longer, instead of walking around with a frown like “I’m too highly strung to be chatted up by immigrants so, don’t, you, dare! . . . Oh, no you didn’t! . . . what, can’t you read eyebrows or something . . .? Subtlety boy subtlety!!!”‘, hissing out air Laureate giggled with Seattle, continuing through, on with her righteous but funny rendition ‘. . . Or walking away from a woefully predictive cheeky chappie type, thinking . . . “Silly child, don’t you know the miserable Zone1 way . . .? Fink ur still pill’d-up in Aia Napa do ya . . .”‘? Laureate, well adjusted against expectation, more than spontaneous enough to enjoy this touch of light satire, laughed louder, and so did Seattle, by now animated, unintentionally sitting forward.

She sat back again, rolling her eyes, ‘I don’t know fella’s eh? What can you do wiv em’ ‘Indeed. Grubby little youngsters dressed like criminals, aiming way too high . . .? Definitely gone into hyperdrive since my time’!

‘A distasteful free-for-all more like’!!‘I’ve noticed these kids today; they seem to think the mini-skirt and

screw-marrige-over-druglove are new things? . . . seems to be saturation point with all the bee-line-making—I mean, come on, who over the age of seventeen would give out their number to a guy running around for ten minutes trying to get a pen’!

Brightened-up Seattle smiled at the scenario, ‘Uh-huh . . . All that overkill stuff irritated me not just Adam, and I let him, and them know!: although he as usual misread it, took it out on me, felt sorry, apologized, then sat on the couch night after night, all the while I was walking down that health/fitness/well-being road completely alone which he noticed . . . and I think he may have been envious of the new found spring in my step.

The pressure . . .? overlapped into his manhood. He had generally slowed down, but he was still young right? . . . so it was definitely psychological; this I think was the origin of his personal “forest fire” of which everyone felt the heat, being unable to assist him, well not beyond prayers, or leading by example?

I reassured at first, took quite drastic measures for an English girl! . . . actually let go in the bedroom!! . . . but as I did, other, more minor,

440

Celine Flux

inter-personal roles reversed, now reluctant to venture into, you know, act two. But I quite liked it . . . felt, felt like, as you said before, like I was blossoming; I wanted to run, withhold, then, again chase these new feelings’.

Seattle began to blush a little. And so she excused herself, struggling with the exact expression required. ‘I’m sorry Under Superior, this is all terribly complicated’ ‘Oh no not at all, reading you loud and clear Seattle; go on, you were saying’? ‘Well, let’s just say I also stopped being the sort of girl who’d just, like you said, lay there, ortho-misonaridox . . . you know . . .’?

441

A CLINICAL STUDY OF SUBPASSION

Mother Laureate, tall, nearly 60 and prettier than that Suspect Prime actress—(practically TV royalty up until that unpatriotic Larry King gaff )—in a fluffless black polar neck and well ironed mock lumberjack-print skirt, nodded caringly. ‘So Seattle, what you’re trying to say is that the situation swelled?—no pun intended—Huh . . . sounds familiar enough’ ‘Right, exactly, after Othellenius I did pull out a magic rabbit, surprising everyone, myself included, at the speedy recovery: I’d gotten back in shape, reaping rewards, looked better, not to mention felt better, and of course there was Adam, “picking the fruit” whenever he could drink up the courage, deep down worrying I was the better lover in that respect’

‘You are happy with your decision though . . .? You did give “it” your best shot’? ‘I’m not even sure . . . To put it as best as I can, it’s like, we’ve all read a manual or two on how to rejuvenate things, how to do it better, or get more from it? Well, I was truly inspired! Discovering all these strangely distributed muscles I never even knew existed! There were a few things, in fact, but, this “Ugly Sex”-thing as you and Abi put it, was just one of them, frustrations I’ve kept to myself until now, convinced few’d understand or show any real sympathy, after all, lovemaking and equality in the bedroom aren’t usually words that go together that well in the first place’!

* * *

Because she was so sensitive practically every single violent row Seattle ventured into with Adam was forfeited, could ever be won, or even curbed, so thinking back on this engrossing minutiae right there at the temple office, the famous Mr Time Linear, had now preformed his universally renowned consequence trick, apparently choosing sides, like Yeshua crucified between two thieves, removing Seattle from the mess which she noticed within herself, which, felt good; but her being her, regret residue in some amount though, always remained.

442

Celine Flux

* * *

‘It all seems so superficial now. Perhaps he thought after Othellenius I’d let my health go . . .? Anyone with a touch of useful grey matter knows fitness is the best tool available—well, after devotion and service to the complete—to enable, to compliment, to facilitate, all—round health and well- being of, “The undervalued pre-atomic individual desiring transcendental constitutional realization”‘?

‘You’ve been listening well dear . . .! You may just become a great student here in the future . . . a great student indeed’!!

‘Thanks’!Seattle calmed herself somewhat, thanking Mother Laureate for all her

direct and indirect help, sitting up again momentarily, and then leaning forward to suggest, ‘. . . And through your teachings Under Superior, I feel like I’ve received confirmation of that dormant consciousness’ ‘Your welcome Seattle. And again just so you know; your story’s not so dissimilar to mine. That’s more or less why I ended up leaving my own husband, of over twenty years I may add, who’s never done any exercise spiritual or otherwise, in the whole of his adult life.

I and many of these beautiful sisters here, do understand where you’re coming from, we know it’s more than superficial; modern urban life now demands we exploit all tools to enhance survival, and the sooner present global power structures disseminate this, the better quality of life for all: A more resilient population, that’s what they claim to want, so then, a new way of looking at our life-long activities and engagements will be needed’

‘That’s right’.

Seattle felt in a very truthful mood by now, like her honesty onion had been successfully stripped and split ready for the transformation pan. All sincere’d-out, she slid back in her chair crossed legged, looking through the blinds and out the window, surfing on and breaking through retro-experiences to when Otho was just a little rug rat; desolate days, feeling from her side, locked into some bizarre powerplay between Adam, the Overbearer, and both extended families.

The confessions uttered in that office both innerstood, was indeed pretty intimate stuff, shared solely with Mother Laureate, extremely forthright also, because, since her time shared with members at the

443

A CliniCAl STuDY OF SuBPASSiOn

temple she’d witnessed new lectures relevant to these mullings of lifetime accounts, usually while sitting with Abi amongst the congregation, and much more often nowadays drawing the sub-supreme info in like a sponge—years before initiation or aural reception she’d been in fundamental agreement with it. And also on other days there, she attended discussions where women older than herself, shared and swapped similar stories, useful stories, highlighting, raising consciousness, of what is spirit, what is matter, and what is propelling both.

Abi back in the hall knew Laureate could help, and now Seattle understood why Abi was so keen for her to follow into the office so badly—so she could finally receive fresh insight, and possibly help deal with the untidy jumble of countless but well-meaning misinterpretations that was her abrupt split from Adam, him, still furious but hiding it valiantly, knowing now after so long there was no turning back.

‘Anyway . . . time went on’—another reference to the gruellingly tedious endgame era with Adam—’ and it deteriorated things between us further still. So I started to go out more, on the advice of workmates. But when it came to clubbing with off-duty nursing staff I was so out of the loop, and, from the outside, “Ugly Sex” just looks like primate-passions:

I mean you start off talking crap sweltering at the bar, and by last orders it just looks so barbaric, no matter who’s holding the glass: VIP’s, or the herd, be it at the dining table with friends, or a wino in Camden.

Truth must be told it wasn’t fun; though we all have our mood enhancers, from the good book to state-sanctioned substances at the wineshop—I mean empires were built on firebubbles and opium!; sailors wouldn’t have been able to stomach claiming virgin territory without the stuff, especially those Atlantic lands—(broken-in before the arrival of migrating Incayans mind you). My friend Omni told me even them Inceaster sea-lords bumped into Pangean Olmecoz riding on dinosaurback! . . . He’s who I nearly left Adam for . . .’

‘Omni you say huh . . .? Mmm, love the name’!‘Yea, but we haven’t spoken to each other in ages.Once, back when I visited him at his friend Prime’s place near mine,

he showed me this book on Easter Island dwellers, I never even knew they existed! Reading about them changed my whole worldview, truly

444

Celine Flux

indigenous, before Indigenous . . .!!! . . . chiselers of 100ft statues and stuff, skymappers . . .!!!

Now those guys with them brahmanic blueprints, they snorted treebarks unfathomable, guess it’s like Queen Isabella said “whatever floats your boat Columbus, now bury those bloody statues’! Seattle and Laureate grinned softly ‘. . . Or was that Sigourney Weaver in 1492?’ (That’s probably why she stayed in New York people duh! . . .) (Huh?)

* * *

445

OBLONGATA NERVEFORCE TRANSMITTION,

CHEEK 2 CHEEK . . . AT A FUNERAL

Niv stood waiting at the small coachbay a few miles outside the village, observing blobs of thick clouds near the hilly horizon in a subdued mood.

Noticing, Omni came up behind her slowly and took good look around, starting from the other direction. Long sparsely populated motorways lay out of sight, fields and junctions far ahead, all around. The drop-off shelter they stood under was perspicuous but vandals (not Germanyan), had etched out counter-culture tags into the plastic, through which new developments firmed grey against uniform wood chippings and tacky evergreen bushes planted strategically about the place. She sighed heavily and forced a reassuring smile which Omni via mirror neurons decided to mimic.

Right then, an Italian MPV Niv noticed right away, slowed, indicating as it pulled into the bus isle beside them. She stepped off the kerb and walked around the vehicz leaving her suitcase beside Omni, pulses of relief now quickly radiating from them both. ‘Oh, Mother’!

She looked at her mum who looked back with a concerned face through the windscreen, partially stepping out to embrace her daughter, arms stretched over the car door. ‘Niv, dear . . . How you bearing up’?

‘I’m fine’‘You sure . . .’?‘Yep’Niv walked back round the sloping bonnet introducing Omni.‘Mom this is Omni’ ‘Hello Omni, doing better after hearing the

news I hope’. He nodded accordingly and replied, ‘Hi Aubrey . . . nice to meet you’.

The cars on the nearer lanes blustered by, too close for comfort or any useful conversation which forced them all to hurry. ‘Come let’s get these things in the boot’ ‘Sure’ shouted Niv over the traffic, pulling her suitcase up.

446

Celine Flux

‘Oh here’, Omni dragged along then lifted his own suitcase, offering his strong back for their assistance; ‘Hey let me help you with that ladies’.

Aubrey grateful, struggled to concentrate on what Niv was asking over the traffic. ‘You’re such a gentleman Omni’ she shouted making her way back round to the driver door and continuing ‘. . . thank you very much’

‘No problem’ Omni returned. Meanwhile Niv had just sat herself down in the passenger side after first unlocking the rear door, leaving it open for Omni to do the same at the back, buckling himself up in the seat directly behind her. Aubrey started up the car and after checking both mirrors, pulled off.

They travelled up from the junction ahead to another motorway and then drove the few miles cut through hills and a low rock-strewn valley, moss-tinged, pinned back in places by long strips of security mesh, up to the windy house.

Having not seen each other in a many months the talking started immediately, with Aubrey filling her daughter in on everything that’d happened between hearing the sad news regarding Neon, Vee’s murder trial, and the untimely release of her body enabling commencement now of the burial—Aubrey wanted to know more from her daughter on exactly how she first took the news.

‘Yea . . .’ explained Niv looking back at Omni briefly then responding once more, ‘. . . He was so good as well Mom; Nick called him at work then he came home and told me straight away’. Alert to the goings on of both road and revelation Aubrey replied with what Omni would discover was an immutable, bearable, passion.

‘I was at the house when Nick called! And just like that I threw on my slippers and went next door to be with Nat’. Omni and Niv wanted to know, as parents of recently deceased how Natalya and Burtrand were doing now. ‘Still utterly devastated as you could imagine, she’s completely cried out. But now the bodies back and I think now they just want to get the funeral over and done with, I mean it’s been a couple of weeks:

Non-stop phone calls, people in the village and concerned relatives, liaison officers, detectives, not forgetting Burt having to sort all the arrangements, but he’s doing a sterling job considering. Them both coming together since the divorce? . . . well . . . it’s been like inspiration for everyone! It took us all by surprise to see him staying there instead of a hotel on the coast or something. I mean I may be speaking too early

447

OBlOnGATA neRVeFORCe TRAnSMiTTiOn, CHeeK 2 CHeeK . . . AT A FuneRAl

but, I think they may be getting back together? . . . Nick and I are over there a lot too. ‘Inspiration . . .!’ Omni overlapped looking at Niv with a silent mmm, then Aubrey, then through the windscreen with a modest smile ‘. . . The best word in creation’.

They both smiled back, although, Nivja, familiar with Omni’s intended sentiment, understood it a bit more than her mother so responded that little bit further, visibly perking up, looking out to distant mist flirting with the farmland, while her mother turned off the road and drove up the smallest country lane Omni had ever witnessed in his life. It had no tarmac, just well worn tyre tracks and high bushes running parallel on each side, trimmed back, bare, allowing Omni to notice vast strips of muddy but neatly tilled land up to the horizon either side of him.

He struggled to look through. Then, he noticed a house up far on a steep hill. To his city conditioning, the whole grainy atmosphere joining ground either side of a hill, to constructs and trees and surrounding sky, seemed surreal, partitioned by more bushy borders dark brown, brittle, apparently lifeless, almost inorganic, with another tiny border of wild land accompanying the bushes, barely visible, the grassier land, some well kept, some less so, starting from the machine-tilled expanse, sweeping up in altitude, right up to another house far behind up on the summit coming into view as the car swayed and bounced along this delightfully strange and unusual, almost naturally created path like no other path he’d ever felt a car drive along. A superior sensation, like he wanted to hop out, vault the bushes and go rub his hands in the mud hit him in the chest like a swiftly uprooted tree trunk. Struck in the moment, he had to sit back and look at his surroundings some more, knowing, if Mr H Ard Luck rolled a higher score, this may be the closest to the unsynthetic things may ever get for him. He stared out, inwardly dice-throwing with the affirmation. ‘A few seeds and a blanket blood . . . a few seeds and a blanket’.

448

(REAH) JANJAWEED BURNERS

ARE BRITISH (RAH)!

‘Hope you’re hungry guys’, Aubrey exclaimed, wearing the right amount of what Omni would call “smashingly” light make-up, ‘Patriska’s started us a partridge broth. We’ll have dinner then you can take Omni across to Natalya’s . . . they’ve sold some of their land to the water company you know’!

‘When did this happen’?‘In the summer’Niv looked at her Mom surprised. ‘Mmm, I’m surprised too’.Aubrey turned down the music. ‘Oh, I should ask; you’re not

vegetarian or anything are you Omni’?‘Welllll . . .’ ‘Nah Mom’ interjected Nivja ‘he calls himself a “virtual vegan”’‘So what’s that when it’s at home then’? Omni smiled, The Annulment

of Nigaro now playing low in the background instantly ambifying the mood. ‘Well put it like this’. He leaned forward towards the middle, half (no, three-quarter)-witted, as Aubrey looked in the rear-view mirror slightly bemused, probably regretting asking the question, ‘Offer me a red winegum . . .? And I’ll eat it . . . Blackcurrant or grape flavour mostly’. Aubrey thought about it and looked at her smiling daughter to put her out of her misery. ‘Meat extracts are everywhere Mom’, she then repeated to her Omni’s own haunting quote, “Microbes or Medicine”’.

‘Oh . . . right . . . O . . . Kay . . .’??Unlike the meaningless art on her walls at home, the meaning

behind simplifying one’s diet, gradually, rose up on Aubrey’s dashboard like a small animated Mummy. Stiff, it marched, first left, then right, in front of the windscreen, locked at the knees and arms out, holding a conductors stick, but, then, alas, it disappeared as swiftly as it came leaving Aubrey, just for a brief moment, innerstanding Nivja and Omni’s remarks but now, having parked up and let the jewel of info slip away, she switched off the car remembering why she asked in the first

449

(REAH) JANJAWEED BURNERS ARE BRITISH (RAH)!

place. Aubrey, continuing to talk (but wisely about something totally different), decided to get back to Omni on that one later, and hopefully avoid feeling completely miffed again by the answer, or at least until dinner was served, then could see for herself what the heck Omni was going on about!

450

RETREAT, SURRENDER, AND SILENCE

They walked up to the house dragging their suitcases along with them. Aubrey noticed Omni looking around at all the trees and the rural scape visible down the hill. He recorded the moment in a state of secret inertia, and total awe. ‘You like the countryside then’? ‘Oh for sure’!

Aubrey pointed her finger, swinging it to the other extreme then back again. ‘The land looks a little different from when Nivja was young, and Niv, you remember the pathway past Nick’s old treehouse? It’s been resurfaced; I want you to go that way to Nat’s later, too many people knocking the front door. I’ll call as soon as you leave out so she can meet you down near the back gate’ ‘Are you sure she’ll be up to it, you know, visitors and stuff?’ wondered Nivja. ‘Well she’s been asking about you Niv! Plus I told her you were coming down today, just skip the long condolences and you’ll be fine I reckon’.

‘Is Nick still about?’ asked Omni helping Neon with her suitcase.‘Yea where’s Nick mum, how come you didn’t send him or Patriska

to pick us up; not like you to drive to the coach station’?‘Oh Nick’s in town somewhere he’ll be back for six working

on his speech, the vicar asked someone to say a few words and Nick volunteered.

He’s driving Nat to speak with detectives at Metyard and that’s early in the morning. Burt’s here, he’s still got that hotel room in booked . . . he can’t get his Zone1 tenants out . . . And . . . guess what . . .’! ‘What’?

‘I’m not sure I ought to say . . .’ ‘Oh Mom . . .!’ Niv snapped affectionately stepping into the house

last. ‘Well, Burt . . . received some threatening letter from Düsseldorf and’s gonna get all legal over it! His colleagues traced it back to Vienna’s bosses so he’s flown over there. Nick doesn’t know; guess he’d even care right now’. Niv kept quiet and thought about it.

‘So, Omni . . . You work at Gammatec too right’?‘Yea’, he said following them down the hallway, past some broad

well-carpeted stairs held down in the corners by brass bars, pictures, placed everywhere, ‘Nick got me the job. By the way, he warned me’.

451

ReTReAT, SuRRenDeR, AnD SilenCe

Omni looked at Niv smiling ‘. . . He said whenever Niv gets near her Mom she gets “all spoilt”‘. Niv smiled back with slight gestures of rebuttal in her movement while climbing onto the tall kitchen chair near the work bench. ‘She’s my little angel’ Aubrey reached for Niv’s cheeks, as if to engage in a little light patronizing which appeared to Omni, raised by the slave-breaker islanders of Yard with its divinely rago inhabitants, as more in the way of family bonding.

452

ATHLETIC, OR . . . BUMPER . . .?

BUFF . . . OR FIT . . .?

Seattle and Laureate had pushed through many-a boundary now, spanning multiple epochs freely, allowing Seattle to get stuff off her chest at leisure, including classified topics she’d been told about quite a few years ago now, by Omni—In fact, discovering she was far from an intellectual alien (with the potential to ingest-then-discharge teachings of the spiritual foreigner; master of comfort and microabomination) through Prime’s clearance, quite by chance-predetermined, he had shown her pre-Easter Island manuscripts which helped to usher in an alternate way of thinking beyond the usual current matrix of cognizance—Now, not only her new friend Abi but their highly compassionate and wise temple leader also, understood aspects of Seattle’s previous life a little better.

‘So’ Laureate asked jokingly as time raced, in a deep voice that plunged down, settling samdhi-like, affording comfort, ‘I think it’s fair enough to speculate, you were a bit of a health freak, right’? ‘Sure, still am, and as I said so was Adam up until a couple of years ago; just one mushrooming insecurity these days’, Seattle brought her eyes in from briefly gazing out to the agreeable daylight, ‘I mean believe it or not he asked me once if his bum was getting big!! For sure it was a factor in his confidence, conveniently forgetting it was something he had control over, something he could when opportunity reappeared, do something about. It isn’t just him though, as we used to reason before things went really sour between us, we both agreed it was nationwide problem, hemispherewide even, we have all our little labour-saving devices’.

Laureate stood tapping a pencil in her opposite palm, and then, when Seattle sighed faintly, unable to crunch the Adam number, she took over the reins of relationship evaluation. ‘You see Seattle . . . this is something I’ve touched upon many times: The calorie intake of a comfortable populous and sedentary lifestyles’ ‘Oh . . .’?? She walked over to a box, then a pile of magazines and began to sieve through them back

453

ATHleTiC, OR . . . BuMPeR . . .? BuFF . . . OR FiT . . .?

and forth, re-checking, less hurried each time. ‘We’ve been producing these since the temples formation on Astralhouse Millennium Day; this is our back catalogue . . . Mmm now what issue is it again, err.

Oh sorry Seattle you were saying . . .’? As Laureate shuffled through the back issues, squinting evermore intensely, Seattle carried on. ‘I was just saying . . . thinking about it now, maybe I shouldn’t have pushed. At the time it was just too hard, too hard to get him to set his own personal best, you know, regarding being active, that part of his life—Before all that impatience crept into my tone it sounded more like encouragement!

Well to me anyway’.

* * *

(Hey, the reader of this scribe should know Seattle is a nice woman, a safe pair of hands. Even when she’s outwardly furious she can usually jump onto the concessions raft and share some responsibility—Apparently, in this state of fury few humans can: A lost importance between her and Adam was this cherished ability to chip at ever-encrusting resentment with The Handpick of Small Honesties).

* * *

‘I remember saying to him one day’—she carried on—‘When the conversation turned to what he called “Nagging”, I’d say “Just be a bit more active than last month or something Adam? It really is that simple”. Maybe I should have gotten him to workout with me more but it was proving sooo hard. It’s true; they say no pain no gain, but now I sort of enjoy the pain! I like to know my muscles’ve been worked and are rebuilding even better than before; it’s a nice thought’. Laureate laughed and walked over to a cabinet. ‘One month he was taking his rugby seriously and before you know it he’d stopped on that and started with the bread cheese and vodka. His skin changed along with once firm flesh underneath it.

During the endgame between us, I had to accept we didn’t make real love any more. Yea we still did the mechanical deed and we both, you know’ ‘Yes “climax undeferred to the transcending sensation”, uh huh’?—Helpful and gratefully for Seattle Laureate said it with a stone face. ‘But, that was mostly down to me and my movement, including info I saw on-line and in them books.

454

Celine Flux

I’d found enough sexual confidence through new found suppleness to press my own buttons, while I moved, adjusted, when previously me pressing his would serve for both of us. A few years ago, to do what I was reading, and then practicing, it would have been beyond me; First of all it took the strength of a skier, all that hovering above, taking over the reins so to speak, all that extending and protruding, sounded more like gymnastics . . .! But it did come in little steps’ ‘Oh that old cliché returns . . . “It’s amazing what a few leg raises can do for your love life”‘!

Laureate found some of what she was looking for amongst the papers so stopped her search, ‘Ahh, I think this is it . . . Thank goodness I found it . . .! Right, here, yep here it is’. She took out another glossy from the filing cabinet mumbling to herself while replenishing more associated memories, ‘Yes, this is one of the articles pertaining to, your, err, concern’? She smiled walking over to the photocopying machine as Seattle and then herself, both being Bretonz, shared another giggle, acknowledging the sexual innuendo that made Anglia’s finest comedy actors famous.

‘I’ll duplicate this one for you . . . It’s called “The Catwalk is Zone1!” and it deals a lot with the pressures of young married couples in a world-class cultural hub, where these problems are merely exacerbated, by things like . . . overpopulation for example! So anyway back to Adam; this particular contribution you’re telling me about, grew into much larger resentments right? But it was never decisive in your finally leaving him was it, or, was it’? ‘No but as I said, it’s the ultimate mood enhancer, besides devotion.

Even Adam who was in complete denial deep down he knew this . . . Hell, we’re officially the second unhealthiest nation in this known region of space! Everyone over the age of four knows what makes them big and strong, even the most ignorant people unable to outwardly concede, they all do, privately, just the same’.

Laureate fiddled about with the photox machine, pressing down the relevant pages to scan, splitting her attention between the task and nodding in agreement to Seattle every now and then, lovingly coaxing her to off-load some more of these, hopefully, relieving confessions.

‘Yoga . . . Tiny little girlie freeweights . . . Even monkeybars in the park for goodness sake’!

‘Monkeybars’!!

455

ATHleTiC, OR . . . BuMPeR . . .? BuFF . . . OR FiT . . .?

‘Yep . . . frustrating me; I kept it to myself as long as I could. The lid of resentment got sat on. Occasionally it bubbled up causing the flame to go funny, raising all sorts of havoc. But the stupid part is, we both know what’s right and wrong, what’s good and bad, and that I’m nowhere near the finished article either, so how people fly off the handle after ensnaring their own selves is beyond me. As far as I’m concerned knowing better and faking ignorance is the last word in self-mutilation; hell I’ve been doing it to myself for as long as I can remember’!

456

LAVENER TOES, CINNAMMON SEEDBAGS,

B4 SHE THOUGHT THE EARTH WAS FLAT

Seattle scratched her head still persevering. These attempts to vent and tease out, waves now, of flowstreamsm, stretched back to times way before the temple or even Evelyn’s sub-let offer at Hoeswater. With the humour Laureate had initiated on the way to the office she figured it only right she exhibit more self-deprecation (sometimes all you need is the ability displayed!) and balance somewhat all this blame being served directly at flaws of her former fiancée’s character.

‘Adam would say he couldn’t find the time but all I saw—in myself as well as him—was poor time-keeping. We devised an off the cuff approach once, which worked—for like a day or two! I said it’s kinda like being an ongoing centre-forward to re-tackle; you’re the defender, and every day that same imaginary player would need tackling, that’s what I secretly meant by setting a personal best, like setting personal laptimes or something, I meant it in a day-to-day, hour to hour way, coz you know how the clock’s sooo important these days, the working hour, financial year, so on, of which we all subscribe, although some of us merely pretend to as that hideous self-mutilation thing’. Laureate could relate. She unrolled a speck of a smile—(one just like most other people would give after hearing these isolated analogies delivered in such a comic yet cynical way).

Seattle halted to question her own motives. ‘Are these the ramblings of resentment? Oh no question . . . A bout of transference on my part . . .?

Surly! Because it got to that stage where every time I spoke what I was really saying was something else . . . Whenever we had a conversation especially on the phone, he’d never notice, or rather, he pretended not to notice exactly what I was trying to hide, dribbling its way through me until my slick remarks which I hoped, would galvanize or inspire, only infuriated him, causing heavy duty retaliation; not the sniping-while-buttering- the-toast-type-retaliation—not Adam’s

457

lAVeneR TOeS, CinnAMMOn SeeDBAGS, B4 SHe THOuGHT THe eARTH WAS FlAT

style—nah that’s light or moderate duty stuff, I mean heavy duty, some serious reactions to what is in the end simply sinful acts, therefore earning the pointing out of my own shortcomings of which I admittedly have my own quota!

And so we plugged on; as love faded we became reckless towards each other. I began thinking . . . “OK then, you know what, I’m gonna employ a new tactic, even though you think it’s old and I’m always doing it anyway? Real nagging . . . Yea! I’m just gonna nag him no matter what the cost to our relationship, just like, whatever” . . . You know . . .’?

Laureate stapled the collation of papers and put them, plus a nanodisx, into her hand.

‘Regarding your current worldview and this, seemingly ongoing turmoil, I want you to take these home, because these questions like, how hard to push your partner? How much pressure to apply to someone, who knows exactly what twenty minutes of exercise, does for the body? And mind? Not to mention its power to enhance all round well-being, all that beside it making the practitioner a better lover? It’s all been documented here, and relevant lectures have been recorded too!

Check them out!I’ve heard testimonies of people in just your position now, and right

before their cataclysm too, the break-up: with one half of the couples thinking to themselves . . . “I can’t believe an issue like this is concerning me so badly, and it’s not even my blooming problem”‘! Laureate recalled her times of special council provision fondly, while Seattle, she merely thought back to tug-o-war dividing this slapstick conversation and smiled.

A stunning appearance and the charisma to boot Laureate here, as well as when canvassing, was a great orator. Her well-meaning words of encouragement came (as The Complete Whole’s administrating staff order the cosmic manifestation to do so) to help—Seattle was deeply enjoying all aspects of the new temple experience.

Laureate broke down the situation and opened up angles from her own point of view, providing lots of info held in those printouts of other couples and their painful disputes, separations past, that were unfortunate but sometimes necessary, especially in this case of Seattle’s ex . . . Adam:

The mustang who just ain’t trying to hear no horse whispering!

458

Celine Flux

‘Before a relationship explosion’, Laureate detailed, ‘other couples are for a while left feeling pressured, reinforcing a resolve not to satisfy their partners advice, become non-cooperative, no matter how useful the info; instead of being nice and easy with each other they’re both responding more like “You’ve stopped loving me for who I aaaaam . . . Before you were saying you didn’t care how big I got . . . Stop trying to change meeeee”‘!

Seattle now, instead of yapping-on like she was, just scanned earnestly through the front covers but still listened while Laureate spoke to her,

‘. . . Meanwhile your drying yourself in the mirror one day wondering why your powers of sophism seem to be backfiring in such dramatic fashion, questioning yourself if it’s unreasonable to ask a partner to firm up to Laguna Beach standards every other day so by-products can be reaped and indulged in: those achievement hormones for example, or improved posture long-lost in a previous life making its attractive and triumphant return, not to mention other more intimate by-products like tantra oscillation?

The problem’s only amplified further in this vanity fare that’s Zone1. But once explored and experienced you find yourself back in Nowhereshire looking for cheaper property, feeling pretty corrupted, and that’s another problem I write about, it’s a photoxed article . . . a different one in there somewhere, entitled “Sit-ups and Supersex” where I talk about advise given to another younger woman. She came in to see me with a same conundrum in her marriage; facing accusations from newlywed husband like “I can’t believe your threatening me with this stuff just because I’m not, never have, and never will be into keeping active . . . even if the government, the media, you, the scientists, and my conscience says otherwise”‘! With a slender grin Laureate gave one final printout to Seattle and went over to retrieve its companion recording.

It was getting well on into the afternoon now though; fast approaching time for her to pick up Otho. So, with information relative to their discussion gathered firmly in her arms she stood, and once more expressed her deep gratitude.

‘Mother Laureate thanks for all your help, being so understanding and all’ ‘Oh don’t mention it’! Laureate escorted her to the door smiling in truthful jest, ‘. . . my pleasure is transferred onto “the reservoir of all pleasures undisputed as par-noble”‘. Seattle smiled also, and turned

459

lAVeneR TOeS, CinnAMMOn SeeDBAGS, B4 SHe THOuGHT THe eARTH WAS FlAT

to make her way back into the hall, then to the main door, quickly speaking to Abi on the way out.

‘I’m running a bit late you guys, but I’ll be back tonight, on time OK . . . See you all later’ ‘Yea OK then. See you later, and remember! . . .’ Abi stood up and shouted ‘“. . . Sweet becoming tasteless”‘! ‘Right’, Seattle shouted back, opening the door, ‘“. . . Sweet becoming tasteless”‘!!

460

“DOIN THIS 2 LONG 2 NOT COME STRONG”

(ESPECIALLY ON MIXTAPES)

First light, and in the guest room awake, open windows swayed net curtains, temperature, crispy above the sheets, but Omni, way too cosy to get out and close them. He’d been there for hours dozing in and out of dreams, because today, not just him, everyone in the village was about to say their last goodbye to Neon. He blinked up at the shadows moving over chintz and back again. The nets bounced, shivered, calling in clear country twilight, visible behind and above trees, to make room for the oncoming sun.

Laying there plunged into thoughts of Neon, he considered their last memorable slice of time spent together, reaching out, as he often tried, digressing past what is mundane to the burning issue at his heartbeat each bedtime; it was ongoing, inescapable, ironic; that which beats the heart, vacating at the point of death. Once, he remembered typically over-reaching, slipping, but Neon, one of only two women to travel to Omni’s scowling cliff-lip, dared to comprehend, sometimes successfully, and that success was the mainstay, enabling release of his pitiful levels of affection, with a constant (he felt) need to re-explain as to why they (the levels) were so low—a hard thing to do, as he would occasionally joke. ‘Ah you know . . .’ he’d deflect with feeble excuses, ‘me being from Grammatika Challinga n’all’! But never ever did Neon look like most—(utterly nonplussed as to what harsh planet he wading was on)—metaphorically, she would always rock that spacesuit and travel out to meet him and for that (besides presentation) Neon forever had his sub-love and respect, for she was cute, young, and always more patient than Omni himself.

Resting while the sun rose and missing her terribly under his quilt, a deep voice came from the across the house—Nick’s—flooding the landing from behind the door. These, the last moments of bedtime, docked themselves onto one another forming cyclic patterns, not linear,

461

“DOIN THIS 2 LONG 2 NOT COME STRONG” (ESPECIALLY ON MIXTAPES)

and everyone, like the birds outside, performing constitutional duties which transcend ours, began to stir into their morning activities.

Aubrey crossed the landing mumbling back up to Nick from what felt like downstairs, as he again shouted over to his sister’s room orders to wake Omni. The night had all but retreated now, light dispelling the darkness. Omni sat up and heard Aubrey shout, ‘Don’t worry then Niv darling, I’ll wake him’. She knocked, pushing her head through the door. ‘So you up then . . .’? ‘Yep, thanks’ Omni forced a tired, uncomfortable smile.

His clothes were dry cleaned still in the thin plastic film, sorted and placed with toiletries on the chair from the night previous, the only thing left to do was now get ready so, grabbing his towel, he edged out the door looking for the bathroom. At this point, visible through the spindles at the bottom of broad winding stairs, Nick emerged, slippers, spoof-princely robe and small notepad in-hand pointing. ‘. . . Guest bathrooms through that one alright geez’! he shouted about to head on upwards. ‘Cool . . . thanks’. By the time Omni focused on the right door Nick was practically at the next landing. He turned back down like he’d forgotten to share something, miming and gesturing to Omni. ‘Hope Niv and Mom are OK’ he whispered it quietly under his breath ‘well I just saw your mom, she seemed fine’. Nick stepped past and opened the right door for Omni showing him a notepad . . .’ Been working on this since bloody dawn’! ‘What is it’? ‘Just a few words Nat and the vicar asked me to write up for later’ He then carried on up to the landing with a reassuring manner for his guest in new surroundings ‘hey soon as I smell breakfast I’ll shout you, or someone will’. His smile dropped briefly, gazing over his shoulder at his sister’s door, seeming concerned for Niv, but, speaking with her the whole journey, about both their takes on the whole episode of loss, including his mothers take on things, Omni was less so. The sound of a car pulling to a halt on gravel outside came into range just as Omni reached to close the bathroom door behind him. Nick hollered down to everyone from the top landing out of sight, ‘That’ll be Patriska to start breakfast’!

While Omni sorted himself out in the bathroom he thought about Neon’s family up the hill, especially her father Burtrand; He wasn’t around there the night previous, already billed as The Freemarket Eccentric which wasn’t such a problem in itself, being born here, exposed

462

Celine Flux

to and raised amongst them, suckling off that bossom all his life, but Omni outside of school (one must remember) was groomed by the mutated-militant also, which was practically woven into his brow after viewing repressed prosecuting evidence and the like: Generally speaking the softcore-hippies or “ban the radiation” types, or them countless waves of whitedudes with guitars (and their girlfriends), would recognize no problem, but Omni was worried Burtrand, the financial comeback kid, red face and ex-whiskey-volume, would see this screwbrow—(almost burned onto his face)—as some yobbishness from Yobland, therefore spirits would somehow just not take to each other—As Omni sat in the tub of water de-scaling his big-splash fin, worrying about the funeral day ahead, he himself was beginning to feel a bit like a fish out of water!

463

“WE ALL THAUGHT WE MADE IT, BUT

SOMEWHERE, SH-T BACKFIRED”

The morning turned out to be crisp and clear but with rain expected by evening. Everyone was ready . . . well almost. Patriska started the car, fiddling with the radio as Niv, Nick and Omni gathered near the front door waiting for Aubrey to sort her hat in the hallway mirror.

‘Go ahead you guys, I left something upstairs’. Niv pinched her dress up off her shoes (matching micro-bag in hand) and ran back up the stairs.

‘You’d better hurry you two, we’re gonna be late’ ‘Well go wait for us in the car then guys, we won’t be long’. Nick guided Omni to the car biting the side of his lip to delay timing as he trailed slightly behind.

‘Nah Omni’ he said ‘something’s up with Niv man; she wants me, or her, to go visit Vee in prison, but I ain’t been responding to any of the letters’.

Omni floated across a small revelation, ‘Me and Peter assumed that one ages ago; it’s been so long ennit . . .’? ‘I’m just trying to spin this whole thing as best I can’ Nick replied. ‘We were certain would’ve brought it up if you’d seen her, that’s what we were thinking anyway’ ‘What Peter too’? ‘Yea . . . He is coming today’? ‘Um, he’s gonna make his own way to the service . . . Should be there now actually’ checking his watch, and around, Nick paused for a little reflection, then spoke. ‘I ask Niv why bother with visits’? ‘What does she say to that’? ‘She agrees, only to bring it up again whenever we talk about Neon. Wonder why though, what she so concerned about’? ‘Dunno’? Both fixing their blazers, they got in, with Nick sitting up front.

The MPV was relatively new and spacious. Omni left the door slid open for Niv and buckled-in responding. ‘Reckon she’s got as much unanswered stuff about Vienna as anyone else’ ‘Guess your right’. Nick sunk his elbow into the armrest rubbing one of his temples.

‘Shit man, Neon’s funeral, its crazy . . . can’t imagine what Burt and Nat are going through, especially this morning’. As Nick finished

464

Celine Flux

speaking Aubrey stepped out the front door—she could be heard yelling ‘Hurry along Niv’!

When Niv did walk out, all now settling themselves properly in the car, Patriska drove down the massive hill to drop them off.

Earlier she’d cooked up delight, introducing Omni to a new taste at the kitchen table before they left, steaming up some Polskasian pastries for breakfast; The spices were all 1ST World, dry roasted, and smelled (to Omni’s unique description of ) earthtime-infinite.—As Nick and his mom spoke to Niv and Pat, Omni savoured memories of the delicious after taste.

More like a van this vehicle, 7-seater, had large but discrete oval-shaped speakers on the doors and along the ceiling. The sound seeping out was forced back by Nick, whose phone went off. ‘Huh’ he said looking at the dashboard clock, leaning to one side digging for the phone to answer it ‘. . . That’d better be Peter’!

A local radio broadcast station—Patriska’s favourite—had been on from since she got in the truck. So while Nick gave Peter final direction to the old graveyard, everyone else listened to music. It had playing a totally unrinsable BB King number faint in the background. When the proto-rock track—crackly but with character—wound down amid symbols, guitar strings, and husky grumbles, finally coming to an end, even the DJ felt the need to distinguish to listeners, the foundation and pedigree of such a musical gem just transmitted over the airwaves.

When they switched over to adverts an airline company, with—to Omni’s senses—an irritating marketing budget, vied, yet again, permeating not just FM radio, but all media forms evidently, for some valuable middle bracket business. The familiar voice-over artist, luscious, (with well-connected booking agent), in closing, declared before the terms and conditions . . . “I think, therefore I am”. ‘Hmm . . . profound’!

Omni thought, feeling like he’d again been dropped a rope from some semi-aloof place. So tugging on the rope, something foggy, opaque, like that old familiar sheet of film he knew so well fell down upon him, that thin membrane of stagnation, it covered him, again, like it was obstructing his way.

This moment stretched itself and related thoughts induced sensations, rapidly coming together in complex yet simple building block formation, rotating, countering one another like angelic vs. demonic particles. All of a sudden he realized, paused, and then realized again. ‘I am not merely my thought, therefore, I, am not . . .’?

465

“WE ALL THAUGHT WE MADE IT, BUT SOMEWHERE, SH-T BACKFIRED”

He evaluated, played with it, two quantum leaps in opposite directions. He earth-measured them; the first one he’d of course heard somewhere before, from that philosopher which everyone in the car, and outside the car, in all possible directions, endorsed, as conventional teachings; it represented the obstruction; membrane. The second, felt sharp—he mentally pierced this membrane of stagnation while sitting on the back seat, looking out the car window, pulling a few scrutinizing scientific methods through with him along the way before it had a chance to heal, almost as fast it was cut. With the method, he separated subconsciousness, and precognition, detecting one’s mass and not the other; he factored-in the finite horizon of human sense-perception, testing then complicating, then re-simplifying the theory, and considered that all measuring instruments, indeed, had mass—By the time Omni was ready to observe the resulting conclusion data once more, he’d giving himself the startings of a headache!

466

NOW, FOR MY NEXT TRICK . . . REVEAL THE

UNBLEMISHED (EXACTLY GIRL!)

But the trip wasn’t really that far. Before too long they’d arrived, pulling up outside a quaint little parish church obviously well-used and cherished. Scores of people were outside. ‘Come on then guys, let’s do this’. Holding her hat Niv got out, and went straight over to Nat and Burt while Aubrey spoke with Patriska a moment longer, who then drove the car back up the hill, returning upon a text from either Nick or Niv.

Omni looked around; besides Niv he seemed to be the youngest there. Collections of grey-haired bodies, some with heavy tans all in one place encountered his attention quickly. Nick, ending his call straightened his back and looked about, breathing in determination. While Omni did the same adjusting his blazer he was led the short way over to meet Burt. ‘Burt, err, this is a workmate of mine and Neon’s . . . Omni’ Niv sidestepped, inviting Omni to come in a little closer, both feeling kind of glad the boyfriend introduction was measured and then wisely bypassed by Nick. ‘. . . Unfortunate meeting like this, but nice to meet you all the same’. Omni looked across to Natalya who managed a half smile for him through her shades, then looked back again at the floor. ‘Nice to meet you too’ he said. ‘Omni is it’? ‘Yep’ Burt took his arm from around Nat, weeping down into her handkerchief, and shook hands, with a millionaires grip, serious and focused, in command of the morning and its gloomy circumstance.

Aubrey came up at this point from the car, straight away offering consolation to Nat, and Niv quietly reassuring also, catching up from yesterday’s meeting. Everyone including those around them was in a solemn mood, many fondling tissues in full-tear-control. ‘At least ya’ll can bloody cry!’ Omni thought jealously. Burt leaned-in speaking hushed, ‘Nick, I have something I’d like to tell you’. He left Niv, and Natalya—quite inconsolable—alongside Aubrey, all standing together with Omni. ‘Walk with me for a moment’. Wiping away Nat’s tears

467

NOW, FOR MY NEXT TRICK . . . REVEAL THE UNBLEMISHED (EXACTLY GIRL!)

sobbed earlier onto his lapel Burt lead Nick over to a small tree. As they approached, creating themselves some space they began to reason.

‘You won’t believe this Nick . . . some bloody central-office ghosthack in Germanya went and got his law brief to msg me’ ‘On behalf of Vee right’? ‘Right . . . They’re calling foul play over 731’s appraisal nosedive . . . Have they messaged you’? ‘Yea, they have’ ‘And what did they say’? ‘That they’re forcing her to sign papers claiming set up at the car park, hinging it all on this other character. I really wish I’d got a better look at him Burt’ ‘Don’t worry about that now, what’s done is done. I arranged a meeting the other day and flew out there’ Nick looked around, carefully, checking proximity before dipping his chin, curious, asking under his breath . . .’ What happened’?

Just as he asked, to his right and in view, a clergyman dressed in violet-drape robes and a creamy white scarf came outside and called everyone to attention. ‘OK, if you’d all like to come in we can begin, opening with Luxor Funery Texts and then the service . . .’?—He turned himself back around now, nodding as he stepped, flagging up the keyboard player to ebb transracial piano music from indoors out onto the chapel lawn, initiating the ceremony. Burt turned back to Nick, ‘I’ll get into it later. Come boy, let us go inside. I trust you got that speech prepared’? ‘Yep . . .’ Checking his pocket Burt and Nick shared a few more words slowing their walk, which had them almost last to take their seat on the front row, ushered by the main pallbearer, quietly leaning against a stool in the doorway.

468

Y THEY’LL NEVER REVOLT

(OR FULLY JOIN EUROPE)

The fabric of the music, finely spun, was piano, naked, and it sounded to the ears truly pleasant, simple, and righteous. This was the same tiny church Nick, Niv and Neon were christened in—also attended throughout their early childhood so for them familiar smells, sights and resentments entered with ease, the bodily field of activity. Familiar long-standing church members too, obviously getting older since youth, usually busy casting judgement on local or rival town info. And to Niv’s detection, plus surprise—even on a day like this—that familiar waspish backchat of small town su-su she was glad to see the back of, seemed to be the recurrent pastime amongst a few villagers easing into the pews.

Inside—where unfortunately some had to stand—mostly old brickwork and dusty wood as if muscles and vertebrae, lay above head.

Along the central isle from the door, ran underfoot a lone strip of red carpet, leading right up a small step behind Neon’s casket to the left of centre. It carried on, underneath to a large alter dressed complete in shiny cream purple drape with golden trim touching the floor, massive bible placed on top, open, carpet passing behind to a large stain-glass window, showering it, long and protruding, with light. Particles bounced off a shiny drinking challis in the middle, spotless, splitting beams in all directions. Up near the pulpit, to one side, apparently unused today, stood a concrete statue; St Francis, in dramatic depiction, bravely turning his back on they who continually accused him of falling off. Large purple candles held up by brass stood bulky either side the high alter. Eye-catching, they posted up like wax pillars wafting heated lavender into the main chamber. On the floor surrounding them, in a circular pattern were emblems never before seen by Omni, and those emblems were again encircled by pagolatin, originally created to counter aesthetic beauty of arabasian text, but failed miserably (You offended?, compare pen strokes of both and decided for yourself, simple).

469

Y THEY’LL NEVER REVOLT (OR FULLY JOIN EUROPE)

As expected, inside was small. Some attendees were ushered round to view funeral proceedings from the side as friends and direct relatives filed down the centre isle filling available seats ahead. Stepping through Omni tugged Niv’s arm while Aubrey followed Nat, their arms locked together ready to sit at the front near Neon’s casket, ‘Niv, listen’ he whispered, ‘. . . I’m thinking, I wanna play the rear somewhat, I ain’t really feeling the idea of sitting up front, you know what I’m like’ Niv caressed Omni’s back slightly—a show of understanding. ‘Sure, if you want, let me speak to Mom, we can sit near the middle somewhere OK’?

So while Omni went to find a seat, Niv smiling, off to check with her mom, and Nick passing with Burt, the vicar made his return from the side door as everyone else slowly began to settle—Forgetting something he quickly walked up to the pulpit and returned, standing back in front of the alter with a hymn book, inviting all to open page 17, then the congregation joined him in firstly, singing god’s glorification.

After the hymn was sung and everybody sat down again, the vicar went into a rich, deep-tissue monologue about the mysteries of death, including Neon’s life and passing which led him, as planned, onto another relevant song. Long, useful moments elapsed subsequent. And after further elaboration of spirit’s observed effect upon matter, and other, somewhat lower topics, it was time: He instructed Nick, previously notified, to say some words, taking himself over to sit on a skinny stool down by the vestry to listen from there.

So after receiving the go ahead Nick stood and approached, standing in front of the alter. Then, taking a piece of paper out of the inside pocket of his blazer, he addressed the crowd, first waiting again, looking to the vicar once more who gave another gentle nod. With no microphone, and from total silence, Nick opened.

‘Friends, villagers, visitors, and members of the church; on behalf of Neon’s parents I’d just like to thank, everyone, who came, gathered, in this collective mourning of a dear friend, daughter, and partner, a treasured young woman, we all knew’. He looked at his mom then Neon’s parents, and Omni, a few rows back with his young sister. ‘As sympathisers of our experience, which still stings, it’s easy to imagine of course, how hard it must have been for her family, and old friends, to all have to wait so long to say their final goodbyes. People say, how terrible it must have been for me—being the one to find Neon—plus the realization of my wife’s involvement—well, I’ll tell you right now,

470

Celine Flux

it still seems, unimaginable, even to me, although that’s the reality of things from this period onwards, for every one of us’.

He stopped, looked around into the sea of faces, most of whom, recognisable. Determined to give a good speech for Burt and Nat he placed his attention back on the piece of paper below. ‘Neon was loved, and in-love when she died, her boyfriend Omni over there, I had the unfortunate job of informing also’. Nick paused again taking a breath, and then continued. ‘In Neon we’ve all lost association with an incredible woman, beautiful . . . and a great personality. So, I hope all of you will join us tonight, when we have a party to commemorate, celebrate her life, ended so viciously, abruptly, and as by chance, she, in jest discussed such eventualities with Niv, so we now know, this celebration, is just what she would, have wanted’.

Sombre, Nick folded up the piece of paper taking the few steps to the front pew, and sat looking again at Neon’s casket, full of regrets. Niv, further back, was holding onto Omni’s hand, both of them listening, determined to show strength by honouring the remainder of the service, by acting just the way Neon would have wanted them to. Nick discreet, turned to check on Omni and his sister once more, the both of them, suppressed tears, squeezing fingers, for Neon’s sake, but, all in attendance, inwardly crossing this period with as much grace as each could individually muster.

Final words and dignified commiserations to relatives were spoken; time to leave, signalled by the advance of six men in suits and clashing white gloves who came and lifted Neon and then slowly marched, synchronizing pelican-like movements towards the exit, and then on, through to gusts and bold forms in the late morning sky outside.

The Hurst, and its matching Rolls-royster 5'8 lay parked up to the left of the lawn, where medieval gravestones rose up from well-treated grass, directly behind a short lichen-scattered wall, wonky and roughshod, apparently erected much later but still, senescent. Crudely moulded tombs of the same ilk, nature-beaten, lay further up behind the building near uneven land and tipsy trees, with repulsive, possibly diseased branches sprouting out with bulbous joints and bark-encrusted trunks, knobbly and colonized, planted in a bygone era distorted by present slash assumptions.

The seated congregation stood and waited for Natalya, supported by Burt, then Aubrey and Nick, to make their way to the doors, walking behind the travelling casket, then everybody else dutifully followed

471

Y THEY’LL NEVER REVOLT (OR FULLY JOIN EUROPE)

behind. Omni gestured with a small smile and whispered. ‘You should be there, with your family . . . Go walk with them’ ‘OK’, she mirrored back in gratitude, speaking under her breath, ‘I’ll send Nick to get you when we’re outside’. With that Niv gripped up her dress skipping quietly ahead to Nick and her mother. She looked back at Omni to check he was OK, understating his salute, cut by trickling church members converging down the aisle between them.

As music again played from inside, everyone edged out and stood on the grass, watching, as Neon’s casket was placed in the black Hurst and her parents were invited to sit in the trailing limo, already with chauffeur switched on in neutral behind. At the other end near the mouth of the cul-de-sac, jammed and shallow, was Patriska, parked up with other cars, some preparing to follow, some drivers just standing at their car doors for a moment, watching proceedings before they allowed passengers to get in, ready to follow the long line of vehicles to the funeral grounds.

Omni walked with others across the churchyard up to Patriska at the cul-de-sac just as Aubrey, son and daughter at her side, came up from another direction. Patriska started the ignition. Once all in, car doors closed, everyone properly strapped, Aubrey took the tissue from her nose and asked looking back. ‘You alright back there Omni’? Niv and Nick sat ahead seemed interested to know how he was doing also and turned around. ‘Yep, I’m chill, well . . . as can be’? Omni showed he was thankful for the check up. Aubrey now turned her attention to each person in the car. Niv directly behind her mom in the single seat answered ‘I’m OK’, taking a small mirror from her bag, holding it fixing running make-up. Nick was in the seat opposite his sister. Patriska, advanced in yogalates but broken anglish, with one arm still on the steering wheel, in first gear and clutch down on the floor, twisted her head, shoulders, and mid spine from the driver seat round to Nick, just as he came round to Aubrey’s question and responded. ‘I’m OK too Mom, just thinking about Nat and Burt. Aubrey satisfied enough to leave now gave Pat the go ahead who twisted back, hipflexors hard, to swap clutch for creeping acceleration.

With everybody sharing collectively in the day’s depth of sadness she edged out the cul-de-sac following other cars in a neat and orderly fashion down the street. Nick cast his mind back an hour or so.

He hadn’t finished his earlier conversation with Burt and doubted he would until much later, but the little they did speak about plagued his whole journey: Vienna’s behaviour, sanctioning work lawyers, and now

472

Celine Flux

Burt’s own commodity-cannibals counter monitoring and subsequent involvement. Worried slightly, Nick started to think Nivja was right; maybe the time had come to confront Vee in jail—see if she was still protesting her innocence.

473

THE ART IS, HOLD, THEN DESCRIBE . . .

THAT IS THE ART PART RIGHT . . .?

The burial grounds were behind a private golf range, where a dwindling now-protected strip of ancient woodland nestled within it a stream separating the two, so, although seen in a straight direction, once again the long line of cars hadn’t far to travel. Because of this the whole procession had to convert the trip to an extended journey and take a more scenic route around, but from afar, the golf course, with its wide expanse of lush grass, and almost feminine, sweeping curves, running out to the distance, gave off polite images, joining that precious collection of trees up the hill, each roof a mesh, like little joining mushrooms defining the sky, shaping it, inconsistent shades, grey, for miles, surrounding more land way out, varying the vibes of light and dark green, light or heavy deep browns, and branches, the main ones, sending to the iris for reading, blends of creamy, sandy beige, like countless arms gripping in unison, holding a sight for eyes sore from upset and decades of concrete, colours all-natural, shades established pre man, or his intervention, emanating divinity regardless of one’s motive to over-manipulate, to the negative, somehow losing opportunity and jading the venrticals, thus balance of environment.

Patriska cruised behind the car in front, still at a snail’s pace, through a tall dusty gate. There begun an old paved road, cracked, uneven, and dead straight. The cars filed in, everyone and everything, tinged with misery.

Perfect right and left turns shot out from tiny roundabouts dotted ahead at intervals. Nearer these junctions the slim entrance driveway fattened, curving round each time to house old sundials, megalithic, short and smooth from wind exposure, one after another, in all directions, sacred, built upon sacred—The graveyard was stunning from inside the car. The whole look including small rows of headstones, black marble, regimented, and rows of geometric driveways shaping patterns in the grass, appeared like some sort of language, or hermetic code. Ahead,

474

Celine Flux

Neon’s casket could be seen, carried over to a mound of mud beside an open plot.

Patriska pulled up in file, copying the lead car. Parked half on the grass everyone prepared to make their way over. As Omni shut the door bringing his vision from those outer roundabouts and road’s connecting them, inwards, to grass underfoot, he dodged humanity’s unified amnesia and came to his own conclusion: a heavens mirror site; built by blueprint-holding esoteric astronomers mentioned in no newcomers historic submission. Taking in the whole site Omni inwardly saluted Graham/Santha and walked with Nick, Niv, Pat, and Aubrey, who each took their positions alongside Nat, Burt, friends, and villagers, all surrounding Neon’s casket, each with glum faces, organized and zenfro, standing quietly at a safe distance.

The vicar started burial proceedings, speaking with his tiny outdoor kabible, addressing Nat, and then as arranged, urged Burt to take a step forward.

Burt, unexpectedly slimmer, always sober nowadays, wardrobe courtesy of personal design consultant, looked down into the casket, one hand gripping the back of the other, just looking, the shadowy pit already carved, etched neatly into a long rectangle, deep, dark with mud, cut, just waiting to be filled by the container holding to one side, his daughter. The sky felt sympathetic, about to unleash its weight above them, thick with sadness. Burt raised his head and spoke, attempting to verbalize sentiments of Nat and the congregation, until he came to the end, maintaining on behalf of the family ‘. . . We love you Neon . . . all of us . . . may you rest in peace’.

After a short silence, the vicar began providing insight. He unfolded the book once more, quoting comparable passages from his kabible and connecting them to today’s service. Nat still tearful looked at Aubrey, deep sadness apparent, in spite of large resin glasses. Immediately Aubrey innerstood and edged herself through the crowd to stand parallel, slipping hands, locking arms once more, reasserting friendship and support.

After offering a hymn, each member struggling through the words, the vicar signalled over to each man charged with lowering the casket to take position from the cars, as a moment later the box was cleared of reefs, lifted, and placed slowly in the grave, with Nat, stood between Aubrey and Burt, tears marking her cheeks behind those darksheids, holding for dear life by its tip, a metaphoric balloon, grief, controlling

475

THe ART iS, HOlD, THen DeSCRiBe . . . THAT iS THe ART PART RiGHT . . .?

its output, with much effort, all day—The atmosphere around allowed for such hurt, familiar to it.

This was the scene for grief; the whole area designated for burial had over what seemed like iceages acquired a strange, pale vibe. Desolate stillness propped all things stiff. It wedged between every object, micro, macro, nothing moved, except leaves swirling the wind, slicing it evermore fractious, its hiss, from within the ear, inner to outer, ominous, and overlapping that, the vicar with his prayers, and occasional weeps stifled by mourners, each one in turn stepping up to the box, some with flowers, throwing them, or handfuls of dirt later, slung gracefully, down onto the casket, because, for many this funeral, was the inevitable, final goodbye.

A few minutes later it was time once more to leave. Pat, Niv, Nick and Omni like everyone else, dusted remnants from their hands, reluctantly turning their backs on the site where Neon’s body lay, all heading over the grass back to their cars. Again, this time with the vicar nearby Aubrey helped Burt with escorting Nat. All four shared a word or two of thanks and commissaries, and then she headed back to her own family, seating themselves ready to leave. She got in the front. Making sure everyone was doing all right again Aubrey smiled and Patriska drove them all home.

Trees, parted weak light as the sun pierced down on the van and carriageway, wheels in motion, faster than when heading to the graveyard, noticeable hedges, cutting distant farmyards into squares, tiny animals, haystacks and the occasional cottage, all moving according to each similar perspective in the truck as the hill, then home, approached. The service and burial had passed without a hitch. Designated participants all played their part well and although it hurt, Neon’s life was honoured.

Patriska pulled up on the gravel driveway and everybody, in a restricted, almost dazed mood, got out. Nick put his arm around his mom, solemnly bagging tissue then pulling out her house keys. Patriska hung back and walked round to the boot. Retrieving something she hurried behind while Niv gestured to Omni to leave the door open.

Now all were inside but the large door remained open. Throwing off hats, shoes and accessories in the hallway, she and Partiska mumbled something to each other as Aubrey lead Omni to the kitchen and Nick went off to the bathroom upstairs with Niv following shortly after.

476

Celine Flux

Following through to the kitchen Omni noticed bundles of lavender tied on each of the banister spines, left out to dry by Patriska—the smell belonging to whom with interchangable senses. ‘Hey can someone quickly pass my bag please’? Niv shouted out from the stairs. Omni looked at Aubrey inquiring if he should, hesitant to take initiative after just sitting.

Aubrey affirmed with her brow so, heading to the front door, he passed Pat and could see her and Aubrey’s bags with keys beside flowers in a clear polished vase, a thick blue directories book, and local newspaper on a small table. ‘It’s by the door’. Omni looked up as he passed. ‘Yea I see it’. Niv stayed sat halfway up the large winding flight kicking the gown from underneath her feet. She took off her thin white gloves and put one arm through the railing, ‘Thanks’. Omni then walked back into the kitchen and once more sat himself down.

By now Pat had just put on the kettle and Aubrey had walked into another room; some sort of second or third extension to the house. Niv took a nail clipper from her microbag. With one arm curled round, tensing her pubic-flexors for support she carefully clipped off a bundle of lavender held captive on the wooden pole, bringing it into the kitchen.

The kettle gargled. When it clicked to a stop Niv went over to help Pat, lifting the hot jug now settled out of its stand, preparing to pour boiled water into a pretty looking porcelain beaker.

Omni watched as Nivja and Pat concocted yet another new experience to witness, something Patriska brought to the Edison family ages ago. ‘What, you’re gonna make tea out of that’? ‘Yea we’ve been doing it for years; Pat cuts them from the garden, dries them sheaf by sheaf on the stairs for a few weeks then, till harvest she uses most of it for tea’ ‘No worry Omni . . .’ Patriska added modestly, ‘. . . is no Baltic thing or nothing’. Patriska spoke fast, with a heavy, growling accent but intriguing nevertheless, and rich, from the soul. ‘No it’s a practical thing’ said Niv. A small sense of pleasure came upon him as he witnessed the drinks being prepared. He leaned forward to look at the beautiful colour forming, vivid, clean and strong, and dedicated that sense of pleasure, pathetically small when surrounded by the day’s circumstance, to the source of all pleasures.

Patriska counted out fifteen buds, holding the long, virile stems, placing them in the beaker with honey and lime. After a few moments whisking it was time to strain and serve. Niv then poured the brew into five cups and gave one to Omni. Raising the cup to inspect the clash

477

THe ART iS, HOlD, THen DeSCRiBe . . . THAT iS THe ART PART RiGHT . . .?

of colour which transferred into the water, highlighted further by the lightness of the pale tea cup, he took a smell. Beautiful! He thought, eyes and brows adjusting as the light as steam swayed like thick hips, elevating upwards from the cups corona. Pat and Niv waited, sharing and enjoying in his astonishment. Carefully, he blew the hot tea and took a sip. ‘Well . . .?’ said Niv, smiling at Pat, and then at him. ‘Bomb dizniggy’! He confirmed with considerable surprise, teasing a verdict only Niv could possibly innerstand. Clouds outside shifted briefly allowing sunshine to intensify in the house, lighting up the far wall then table as Niv and Pat, who somehow caught the gist, together, cut a half-giggle down its centre, both sharing it before joining Omni in taking another sip.

Niv stopped and put down her cup, grabbing for two saucers from the far cupboard before coming back. ‘Here’. Placing drinks on them she pushed one cup to Omni. ‘Take this one to Nick for me; he must’ve gone upstairs to his top room’. He picked it up, heading for the stairs. And while Patriska started on snacks Niv went outside, taking the remaining cup to her mom somewhere in another room suppressing concern for Nat and Burt, plus the looming Vee problem which Nick was adamant to her, he now merely wanted to move on from.

* * *

478

DARWIN ON “WORMS”

(NOW STOP BLAMING HIM WILL YA!)

Evelyn, Seattle’s best friend, a bit older and now living in Allzones, was a sensational woman with a cherished ability to excite clients into jumping marital ocean liners; a useless prowess right now—currently on the west orbital stuck in traffic. She worked for herself up until a few weeks ago, with a reluctant attitude which all adults secretly knew would only make any taken venture that much harder to embrace. Her father died years back, so she sold the company, first established then built up by her grandparents, but, as an only child, this obligation landed upon her too. Infamously brazen from youth, she’d consequently accumulated her fair share of adversaries along the tao. Even acquaintances, upon first impression, would say she came off as intimidating—(another resilient legacy from wildly excessive days in early adulthood thankfully passed).

The whole take-over-the-family-business-thing became like a trigger point as soon as she clocked what it entailed. At that stage, fli-society vultures came into her life and of course, her family barked on her, especially her Pops, at a time when she’d rather ball with the surname than study under the expectation that came along with it. That weight of expectation knocked her off tilt, which, surrounded by slightly younger and poorer ballers, enabled Evelyn’s bad temper to flourish and dominate; thus learned over time, it—(her attitude)—became heavily conditioned behaviour.

As a teenager the foretelling of her future occupation came from everyone (till she’d flip then they’d all fall back on the issue), not least her father who managed to sail this inherited business through two recessions, plus because of its current success, even more gel-bids from outfits came out the woodwork hostile, claiming to be all about the mighty takeover.

The pressure was put on, and just like the tree in her new garden where buds appeared on skeletal green-brown branches, for all of Evelyn’s

479

DARWIN ON “WORMS” (NOW STOP BLAMING HIM WILL YA!)

life that particular destiny was mostly blocked out—by her—and spoken on and on about—by others—but regardless, the expectation of this future company-ship sailing was always there until she fulfilled it. Now late thirties, her reflection of the two decades previous were crafted into fond enjoyable playbacks. Even “them terrible days” were years later twisted into harsh life lessons, lessons needed to correct the extremely bad attitude she held on the way up to this stage, it being her acceptance of a more settled, quieter life.

Back as a teenager Evelyn was able to floss (earlier than most) with a generous allowance, and partied hard in the whitewashed backstreets of left-Zone2 (nowadays all converted into motels) where bands of mostly legal druggers started early in cabs, flashing parental digipaper about like they’d earned it themselves—This was when Evelyn had her days as a supposed It Girl. Slender, saucy, and formal, no Sedgwick, nah wrong era but unfortunately/fortunately for her, she fell from grace just when those same friends were getting bored, black-Elvis lost in space, or even worse.

Neil, her new man, was a big part of her life now: great appearance, impeccable taste and so far, Evelyn, carefully judging like that Abyssinian monarch from the restructured testament, figured she’d found a pretty good match. Holding onto the steering wheel she thought about him.

Passionate desire bullied its way through the road rage that lingered from minuets earlier.

Regarding Neil; she didn’t want to make the same mistake for the tenth time, besides, Neil was also beyond all the bullabread and unlike (some) of her other men, really easy to love.

Nowadays, generally, she was feeling sharp, more focused, and with her “fold n’walk away money” from that gel-bid, she had her own plate with nice chunks of clean food to bring and place down on the relationship table. Today, scoping herself out for analysis in this cursed traffic jam (getting nowhere), she brushed off her shoulders, fixed her hair and thought about it all, everything—and the results of the scan were satisfying, more or less.

‘Actually I’m quite grateful . . .? Could have been worse . . . much worse’, she thought. Evelyn could feel it for Neil; sensations in her chest, pulsing again, she was feeling the love—(always a gamble, the ethereal western concoction of it anyhow)—and really considering if she, this time, could become some a sort of loving super-housewife: ‘I still look

480

Celine Flux

good? . . . Pills and drink didn’t ravage my wrinkles? . . . The business has been liquidated . . . Things couldn’t be better . . . e-x-c-e-p-t . . .’

All this scanning continued in dense traffic, and the advancing movements compared to citybound lanes heading opposite, were offensive, pitifully slow.

For what felt like the thousandth time she moved into gear and revved releasing the clutch, disgusted by the rate of progress, edging along about two car spaces, thinking of the Hoeswater property she sub-let to Seattle.

She blew out a frail sigh turning attention to her would-be nephew.‘Otho . . . what a good kid . . . Think it’s my time . . . hmm . . .

Couldn’t wait much longer even if I wanted to’?Evelyn enjoyed playing aunty for that half a year before leaving

Hoeswater; a real pleasurable experience. It awoke a new sagaciousness for the sun, moon, and star curving her orbit within (but being busy, made no inquiry into what those inner orbs ultimately emerged from).

Neil was great with his own kids, a stand-up father—already having two from a previous marriage. ‘He wouldn’t deny me . . .?’ she thought.

‘He knows my feelings, plus, we’re all getting older’? Momentarily spaced-out her reason and reference floated and paddled; they both swam around differing ideas, each one aligning into clusters in her cipher; the mental swimming pool. ‘Me . . . family . . .? kids . . .? can’t believe what I’m saying . . .! Time really is mellowing me, or mmm, could it be this new love for my blessed Neil . . .’?

* * *

481

“I’M IN BIG TROUBLE MAN, AND I’M

COMING TO YOUR HOUSE”

Omni and Seattle hadn’t seen each other since she helped nurse him from desolate despair back on the ward (when he promptly discharged himself before time, forcing her beyond duty’s call to come and see him at Prime’s place)! That was over four years ago. But they did phone each other for a couple of years, until she eventually sacrificed communications to nullify any possible explosions back at home. But now she was in Zone1, and permanently. After sorting things out with Adam, most of her attention was currently directed towards Othelenius’ growing up into a strong young boy; the pearl in her imaginary crown helping to straighten all life’s little dents and keeping the devotional realm the primary target. One day after thinking about it more than usual she decided to call Omni up. Ringing, she wandered if he’d even pick up, him not recognising, or deciding not to answer her new number. Luckily Omni did pick up, and said ‘Hello . . .?’ waited, but heard no reply, only background noises mixed with hiss, unintelligible, until Seattle spoke.

‘How you doing Omni . . .? It’s been ages, hasn’t it’?‘Who’s this’?Giggling she answered, taking a deep breath before speaking to put

him out his misery ‘. . . It’s Seattle’‘Oh man, you! What happened to you woman’? He exclaimed

loudly ‘I haven’t heard from you in like three . . . four years, more! What happened girl, I almost gave up on us ever speaking again’ ‘I’m sure you did, but I never!’ she replied. ‘I can’t believe it, how’ve you been’?

He asked toning his astonishment down a little. ‘I’ve been doing OK lately. So much has happened Omni . . . phew! . . . Where to start . . .?

Well, firstly I left my old man, Adam’! ‘Ohhh, right’, A funny bubble of silence expanded then, floated over the phone call and for a moment Omni wasn’t quite sure what to say—classified excitement multiplied inside them as Seattle waited for the reply she hoped for, ‘I see, guess that’s why you stopped calling and stuff then’? ‘Right . . . Omni, it was

482

Celine Flux

sick; even when I was speaking to you at Ujayi and Prime’s, me and him living together, it was . . .’ ‘Yo I could tell something was up there’ Omni conveniently overlapped, projecting his thoughts back to Mr Prime’s house, ‘. . . Ujayi could tell also! Hmmm . . . and all that time it was like a total crash site at home’? ‘Exactly Omni you see my point, so I came to Allzones. It’s like, I was fighting to regain control, for our son as much as anything else but, he was being exposed way too much fury, I mean drunken mania. I had to go’

‘So you did huh’?‘Yea, I did. I hit the ejector seat. Anyway Omni enough about me,

how are you, your legs still OK’? ‘You know what’! Replied Omni, ‘they aren’t too bad . . . stiff at night though’ ‘That’s because you haven’t had the pins taken out, Why haven’t you had the metal removed yet’? ‘I will I will.

Anyway Seattle, you’ve been missed, and all that love-angle-counsel-stuff we’d explore together. But huh, I guess, applying it now to all the “you and Adam drama”, then, maybe some angles on love can’t be reconciled like you thought, you know’? ‘And he’s still on my case Omni, he just won’t let up . . . No actually, it is better now I can’t lie, but he’s still sort of harassing me, not as much as before but we have Otho don’t we, in the middle of everything, so it’s easy for him to contact me all drunk and angry’.

‘So you still go back’?‘Not to the house; mostly I get my mum to drive up to me some

weekends or, they just get a train and I pick him up from the station myself. My would-be mother in-law . . .? “The Overbearer?” yea, she’s still in my life and won’t get out, which is a bit of a pain, but she is helpful and stuff I’ll give’er that’ ‘so how’s all the err, surfing you told me about?

I haven’t stopped thinking about it you know . . . not since you told me about life out there n’that; I’m still up for going’! ‘Oh them . . .! I haven’t contacted those guys in years . . . maybe I should give’em a call’ ‘Yea do it!

I’d still love to go, Isle of Wight sounds great. And how’s all that crazy-long jogging you do? Still looking sporty I hope’? ‘Yep, I suppose, and no wasting time in the dating game no more either. It’s just me, the temple and my son . . . Oh yeah you haven’t met my son Othellenius yet have you Omni, oh he’s beautiful. You should come and see him sometime’ ‘Sure I’d love to.

483

“i’M in BiG TROuBle MAn, AnD i’M COMinG TO YOuR HOuSe”

So, which zone do you live, Zone1’? ‘Yea Zone1 Hoeswater, but I’m at the hospital right now, until three, then I pick up Otho at five-thirty. You should come in and see me on the ward’? ‘Nah’, Omni replied, ‘I don’t like hospitals no more, let’s meet somewhere else’ ‘somewhere else huh’? Seattle tittered slightly at his new found fear of spittles, before both ending the call and together arranging to meet-up in Denmark Hill, in the small park right beside the hospital.

She came up to him, he was early, they both were, sneaking up with a sports bag full of work clothes and pinching him on the back of the neck. ‘Oh man’, he said turning around, ‘Seattle . . .!’ Omni gave her such a big hug Seattle couldn’t resist melting into it and he didn’t stop hugging her until she finally did. Seattle and Omni were both overcome.

‘Come, sit’! He invited her to sit down on the bench where they began talking for a while.

‘So, Hoeswater huh, you know how close that to SE1’?‘I do now . . . I’ve been renting a friend’s second property for over a

year so I know the Southzones like the back of my hand now. I shop in Wellingtonloo most weekends, along the South Bank, that’s SE1 right’ ‘Wellingtonloo! Ah man, you should have called me ages ago’!

‘You’re right. It took me a while to get myself sorted out though.You know how hard it is to cut family ties . . . Even if it is by way of

marriage’.Seattle took out a small bag of mixed grapes and raisins, ‘Oh Omni

it was awful’ she said offering then nibbling, ‘But I’m in the clear now, well, sort of . . . Adam knows I have, let’s say, superior concerns.

We can’t even have conversations anymore because of them, he’s unsure how to treat me since I’ve supposedly gone all “religious”, which I don’t deny. I quite like it actually’. She began to grin intensely, about to share a joke. ‘Omni, I’ve got a great question I’m struggling with, you’ll love it . . . can I ask you’? He placed the extortion-smoothie he bought from the station on the bench between them. ‘Go ahead, shoot’ ‘This question’s a throwback to our talks on the beach in Harbourton’ ‘Yea . . .’?

Omni was curious. ‘Right, OK so, “Visibly upholding the principles of humanity?” . . . Anyone come to mind, I mean anyone’? Seattle smiled at him after saying this, already expecting Omni (and his, too deep for his own damn good ass) to pause for a while in consideration. Pre-empting that silence she spread out a warm grin knowing he can’t give, rather, like she herself found out the first time she received the question from

484

Celine Flux

Mother Laureate, that there is no instant answer—: (Reader of this scribe, please be so kind as remind your probably dead conditioners, that the author demands an answer . . . or if not go practice Benedictine hermistry 6 months per year!)

When the rhetorical coin dropped entirely Seattle turned her grin into a communication of something more resembling of . . .’ Ah, that question’s got you right? . . .’ And along with the understanding, for a fleeting, rare momento, the challenging spirit within Omni had been soothed, a feeling not sensed since leaving that southern beach for a life with Neon which ended like . . . two years ago. The undetectable fine mists from their hospital ward kiss came rushing back—Now earthbound at life’s halftime Omni was quietly falling in love again. They both sat back for a minute, wordless. Then after a bit Omni stopped looking at Seattle like . . .’ OK, you got me with that one . . .’ and he broke the silence.

‘Guess what’?‘What’‘I quit that none-job of being a roadie for unofficial rappers’‘Oh yea . . .’?Omni pointed to the tower ‘Yea I work at Shadowless now . . .

Got the bring-in from a brother of a friend; she worked in radiography remember’? ‘Oh, I think I know who you’re talking about, I saw her once or twice about the place yea, think it was the cafeteria or somewhere’

‘Yea well, she transferred to Guys n’Galz around the time I came back from Metroaux, she’s my flatmate now’—Seattle remembered Niv all too good and well, seeing her around departments at work, trying her best not to reveal it to Omni right about now. She paused for thought,

‘So Omni’ she said, ‘. . . met anyone special’? Although he’d moved on Omni had Neon in the back of his mind always, but replied with, ‘No, not at the moment. My girlfriend, Neon, she died two and a half years ago’

‘Oh Omni, that’s terrible’!‘Yea, tell me about it; a hit and run. And I know the woman who did

it! Her name’s Vee’. Seattle stopped eating—she felt shocked, nauseous even. She wanted to ask questions but Omni began to drift off, suddenly seeming distant, staring at trees decorating the hill. ‘I don’t mean to make you feel . . . I mean, are you OK talking about this . . .’? ‘Oh yea, sure, Neon was a great woman . . . one of us you know . . .? I lament

485

“i’M in BiG TROuBle MAn, AnD i’M COMinG TO YOuR HOuSe”

but really I shouldn’t. Death isn’t the folklore we were told as kids so like they say, “I’ve received love on behalf of The Masterplanner”, and so far I’m refusing to complain. I’d rather just look at trees, place one’s remaining spirit over and above the aftermath of one’s death, and just enjoy the beauty of its relation to things unseen. Huh, mmm and now I’m telling you. It’s all connected I reckon’.

Omni and Seattle looked at each other, she didn’t speak for a while, almost breath taken, but as she reached out to console him, eyes filling a little, she imparted messages now without speaking, which Omni seldom saw in life—that on his, remote level, she was near, closer than the others, the closest ever—no need to mentally question “are you with me?”, because she was there, he could see Seattle with another sense, on another plane, approaching, the windy scorched horizon, she’d reached, together on a spiritual level, twin comets tugging on hara-force, returning from the thought, in the park, beyond doubt, catching up, sharing tales, with distant jewels, well placed, earthbound, and breaking through.

You know, using the commercial ruler Seattle wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but yes, in her own way, beautiful. For Omni watching as she spoke, it was altogether something else that conducted his lust, this thing she had that crowned her captivating way. Always being able, even when unlikely, to still look fresh-out-the-shower, and of course she had no idea about Omni’s thing for sexually abusing shower gel!!

That round-the-clock, all day, zesty scent of eco-cosmetics and stuff all about her, unique to her, evocative, just now, when they hugged and greeted, ever so slight on aroused senses, and definitely noticeable from close up. Her whole flebex, no nonsense, just eco-fresh and eco-sporty . . . That was it! . . . Omni had nailed it, the hinge; the quick make-up and proud of it style, definitely less than when they first met in that broken bone department, and still, in front of him now on the bench, nattering away, sipping Omni’s extortionate Kiwichino; she looked great.

Her hair had grown, long yoga-neck decorated by wispy-thin silver, and racehorse solid, that tell-tale sign indicating recent core work, despite looking slightly older, and juicier—I mean after all, it had been almost four years!

486

SEATTLE, CAN’T WAIT UNTIL IM UGLY TOO

Omni and Seattle sat and spoke on the past few years both elaborating using mid-lavish language, including Seattle’s description of the path she was on—its transformation of late from teenage body boarding on the south coast, to this, as she quoted ‘“. . . the ultimate service sector”‘. She enjoyed such verbal dilating as this, he could tell; she felt it was worth it for him, her impassioned rendition of the past couple of years. So, after Omni revealed that tragic episode regarding the death of his partner, Seattle told him all about her new life, and even newer lessons, learned with this support group of hers since leaving Adam for the zone.

‘I’ve been learning these, “re-expansion techniques” there’, she said it glowing with excitement, ‘on how to link and de-link . . . how to yoga and de-yoga. And I don’t mean crumpling up my body like and acrobat either; that’s the only linking technique people in this “get money mode” really know about, yogalates, taiwu-changong etc; Although hatha does put you in a gita mood’ ‘Hatha and gita eh . . .? Sounds real interesting’ ‘Oh it is. Definitely your kind of thing Omni, you should check it out sometime’?

‘Yea I’d love to’!‘Only problem is . . .’ Omni joked with a question reading her pause, by asking . . .’

What . . .?It’s in a liquid nuclear bunker under Trafalgar Square or something’?‘No it’s just . . .’ ‘Just what’‘Well it’s just, see, the temple’?‘Yeah . . .’ ‘The temple is called . . . The Temple of Ugly Girls’Omni froze in evaluation of meaning. ‘But you ain’t ugly, you’re

beautiful’‘Everyone’s beautiful to you Omni remember’?‘No not like that, I’m mean, but you are but, I’m saying though,

everyone is beautiful but . . .’ To Seattle’s concealed amusement Omni

487

SeATTle, CAn’T WAiT unTil iM uGlY TOO

was struggling. ‘Nah wait’ he said taking a deep breath, ‘let me guess this is some women’s lib thing right’? Omni tried to negate any further explanation. ‘In a way it is. Look, I’ll tell you how it works’. Omni braced himself for this one, unsure of what was coming.

‘It’s a case of ugly versus accepted ugly, with scars’ she explained.‘Everyone there, has been strapped on the fashion conveyor belt

since pestering their parents as teens for anything a la mode. We all still try to look our best each day but not how we did before . . . not to that level.

We’re mostly ex-models, designers or fashion junkies, and definitely outside of the industry now and see it for what it is, not how it wants to be seen. As our acharya says, with a trained eye it’s easy to notice Zone1’s like a catwalk machine, and excess couture for the individual is the fuel.

But not us, not no more, not since being swallowed up by the machine and spat out for resistance or falling behind ever so slightly’.

Omni instantly synchronized with this resonance; (being chewed up by his own social house of mirth and trumped with self-imposed exile on equivalent multiple charges). He felt what she was saying, dug it, gliding over her voice-ripples with feathery ease—it wasn’t a very large swoop from his view to hers.

She digressed at will, moving to other topics and pulling out useful/ unuseful info, inspirational if copied in day-to-day life, leaving marks in the track of yet another cortex but this time, unusually, it was a male cortex . . . Omni’s.

He soaked it all up because for him, this was entertainment at its highest; in a way it was like the swift exchange of spacesuits, ideas, seedlings, previously recorded at the temple and planted into Seattle’s wig, ready now for Omni’s aural reception.

While she spoke on an old image came again to him: the one of that watchtower heaven depicted on those witness booklets, but this time he pictured himself kickin’ it on a park bench, with this new fresh faced spirillectual Seattle, on Jahovaloka, where lions and tigers got their tummies rubbed among fragrances of vivid flower buds and where plump ripened fruit fell into loose baskets—While somewhat like the hospital behind them or Harbourton, where at Ujayi and Prime’s spare room—he and Seattle would squeeze off rounds together, bucking shots at the clock, aimed above the slug vest, killing many stretched, windy moments, stone cold dead.

488

Celine Flux

Feeling grateful and privileged to be hearing all this he nodded along with what she was saying, although, at the beginning, when she first spat out all her acquired osophy’s, he half-expected to be frowning by now. He wanted to grab her right there and then and say . . .’ Seattle let me kiss the example; you. For as I’ve been ordained prior, so you can ordain me again’ but instead, with Omni’s typical mistiming, he jumped in with a joke. ‘So no more 80-quid nightcreams or glittered lip gloss then huh’? ‘Not at all; we know our place and . . . compositional worth’.

As workers in various uniforms strolled greenery, and passed fenced rose bushes which ended nearby, some on break, eating, sat on tendered struggling grass forced to yield to pine trees, under famed britannican grey she continued to inform of how she got to the present point.

‘Outwardly our life’s more or less the same but, the invisible virtue, the art, is sacrificing spoils to god . . . even that same sense of virtue.

It somehow, magically, mercifully, makes past deeds less obstructive, clearing the way along the most important path. And to know I’m moving along that way is so important to me Omni, especially now I’m older and see the urgency anyways. If I slip, or neglect, then I suffer. So, experimenting with “The Path” reveals conclusive evidence time and time again: no sit-com and wine glass after putting Otho to bed, and no designer collection or style mags; It was great in school mind you. But when I left so did my taste. I became a bit of an adrenaline junkie and that’s how I wound-up on the Isle of Wight in the first place, where to the community down there all of this would make so much sense; in fact I may go back to live there someday, maybe when Otho grows up a little’

‘Yea take me with you’ Omni boniked totally up to speed, Seattle’s comet of thought melting his icy parts at darkmotion, transforming, now brightening the experience racing past, giving off light-trails as it entered the organic gaiasphere that protected them, Omni, listening hard, in the present, and grateful for the moment.

‘All that “runaway fashion” items, aimed at us women and stuff, the constant upgrades of the rich and famous, it was only a stop gap. You gotta look good in Zone1 to survive and manipulate power—I’m grown, I know this about the city, heck I’ve worked here long enough—but the long run is what’s important. I feel I’ve advanced past all that now, and that feeling of advancement I strive to let the god of the radhagods feel on my behalf, after all, She did put me here to ever-advance right’.

489

SeATTle, CAn’T WAiT unTil iM uGlY TOO

Omni felt great sitting with Seattle just talking for a while. She reminded him of Neon, and even more, of himself! He had a permanent smile on his face, and as he remembered when they last hung out over that bed bound winter with Prime and Ujayi, who also agreed, that for a feminine tomboy from the country Seattle, had many measured jewels to effortlessly drop into the sieve of material nature. Actually lots of what Seattle said could be converted into enhancement-theory which was for Omni, the criterion-touchstone for all valuable encounters no matter how brief or short-lived and no matter who he met on the ladder, from world championship boxers and ex-bond girls to junkie cellmates who’d lost it all; if the exchange was, through retrospective experience, useful, then they went into his inner hall of fame, automatically, and by way of their sensed abstract well-wishing, became Omni’s loved ones.

Since Neon had now passed on, Seattle, unwittingly, had deemed herself second in his pyramid structure of love, with the supreme person at the top—He who inseminated all things from his antimaterial world, scientifically proven as the source of all material oscillation (disprove please). Omni now made it his mission to find, approach, and stand on that path she was walking along, and after its identification, become one of her abstract well-wishers.

490

IS BUGS BUNNY FROM BX OR BK?

As with vast swathes of that year it looked typically miserable, wet and grey outside. After Otho, frightened by last night’s heavy storm came crying into her bed, Seattle decided to skip their hathatanga-yoga lesson and lay in for an extra couple of hours to watch some Saturday morning cartoons. The plan was to meet Omni later that day so he could hear for himself, the stance of Mother Laureate as she targeted issues in her weekly public speech up on Old Covenant Gardens, where males were welcome to listen-in and she was sure Omni would, for the most part at least, agree with what he heard.

The cartoons had stopped for an extended ad-break so Seattle and Otho decided on oats, nutmeg, and a sweet lychee purée smothered on top for breakfast. As she put on her slippers and robe she began thinking how long it’d been since she’d last done this, just hang out and watch cartoons with her young son. Right then inwardly she vowed to do it more often. Otho—clingy only when tired after such a restless night—loved locking-on to his mother for some downtime just as much as she loved experiencing this aspect of motherhood.

Lots of flashy kid’s toys were being pitched to mother and child alike with overly ecstatic voice-overs, filmed in such a way that eventually, any hopeful children would grab their normally obliging parents, pointing to the screen coercing and pestering them to pop the wallet, then the trunk, to fit an overly packaged item inside.

But Otho was frowning at the bed post; he seemed puzzled by something else as Seattle walked out through the already open door and down the corridor. ‘Bugs bunny sounds strange Mummy’, said Otho as she returned to the bedroom with his breakfast and a laugh. ‘I think so too’. She came back briefly, stroked his face with a smile while Otho, still gazing down at the bed post area in thought, remained perplexed—by the classic cartoon character’s wiseguy accent.

She began to tidy up the house, sorting clothes for them to wear that morning, mind adrift, pushing back against a distracting excitement.

491

iS BuGS BunnY FROM Bx OR BK?

‘He’s a funny little rabbit isn’t he’ she shouted from the bathroom. ‘Why though Mommy . . .’? ‘I wouldn’t know as to why! I think that’s just how Yanks spoke back in the forties or whenever, I know somebody you can ask later though, he’ll probably know . . . Now hurry up with that breakfast’!

After opening the ironing board, she walked to the window with her moby to send a text to Omni reminding him to be there for around eleven, then paused for a moment, flashing her mind back to the last time they kissed; Harbourton; questioning if Omni felt as puzzled about it as she did. Shaking off the tiny amounts of complex glee—mixing it with a touch of self-blame about the whole hospital thing—she plugged in the iron near the window and looked out: She hoped, begged, clouds to ease back to help jump-start what was left of their morning.

In Blackfriars earlybird Omni was already up, almost waterlogged and back from the shop wandering if Niv would want to come along with him; humming baseline of her stereo speakers gently gargled away upstairs—(often she slept with the radio on to dampen growls of pre-dawn street sweepers outside). After switching jackets he checked his eyebrows, grabbed his dried fruit, his phone, and walked up to the bridge towards Lord Nihilism’s column on Piccadilly, from there, only a quick march under low blanket clouds awaited him up the hill. Before long he was at the square with its unique combination of gore-texed-out sightseers sandwiched between busy shoppers and coffee drinkers. Omni saw a few groups talking, trying to attract attentions of passing punters out for the day. He wasn’t sure who was who but headed for the one that appeared the most organized.

A strong-faced middle-aged woman, freshly dipped from the leafy housewife’s set, sporting a short, striking grey wet cut and cream-on- cream polar with denim jacket and bell-cuffs, did smooth figure-8 manoeuvres around onlookers and passers by. He took one more look at how this seemingly androgynous and serious-looking woman was completely dipped-up. ‘Bizznanging!’ he appraised to himself pupils dilating, hidden under navigation-frown, trying to concentrate on where he was going but still holding an admiration for the neatly pressed garmz she had on.

By now he’d stepped deep into the main square, catching the eye of this, he thought possibly Dutch lady, mantis-like, brochures between her

492

Celine Flux

gloves coming towards him. He slowed his stroll right down but didn’t stop, expecting only to be handed a leaflet if anything, from her glossy batch. ‘Hi my names Volga, we’ve been expecting you; your Omniversal right’? ‘Darn it where’s the mascara woman!’ he first thought as she came up, disguising outrage behind nods and focusing instead, behind, at the group of people she came out from, all standing near the old shopping parade entrance. Seattle was nowhere to be seen as the connection was slowly being made between all she had told him about the temple and, as Seattle had put it, their anti-beautiful members. Volga at her height edged on to the frightening side from up close, but (it should be said for those who can extend interest) still hot with it. ‘Huh, not vulgar at all’ he considered joking—(obviously he didn’t).

The weather was still “so english” at nearly noon, but that kept the temperature from biting the skin too deeply, nevertheless everyone was wrapped up pretty well. Volga grabbed his arm, almost ceremony-style, escorting him over to another athletic looking woman standing on a podium. This woman spoke well, with the same sentiment as Seattle’s, and as soon as Volga stepped away, stopping another bemused brain to wash it with more lucid clarifications and mentioning the phrase ‘ex-fashion industry’ in her soundbyte, Omni stopped tiptoeing (over the bac-bucks blocking his view) to see if Seattle was anywhere in the square, which she wasn’t, so fully plugged himself into who he already guessed, to be Mother Laureate and what she was bursting from the tongue; the initial weapon.

She had her hand raised, diagonally, almost to the sky while speaking, and Omni (as far as he was concerned an anonymous member of the crowd) was now tuned-in and connected. ‘Remember when you first came to W1 and you walked down the circus?’ she shouted out in a controlled manner, ‘excited to see all those crowds crammed in around you? Swarming consumers consuming volumes of commerce? At first to be a witness, but then to do it yourself, it was amazing wasn’t it? . . . sometimes just to window shop and be a consumer yourself, to feel part of that collective while the money’s in your pocket, it’d induce that same sense of inclusion, that passionate lust’!

Such accurate poignancy in her words halted onlookers strutting near; ceased in their tracks by hardened observation theory. Mother Laureate was penetrating wigs. She stared at all of them briefly, aware she was getting some hedz open so, began to freestyle to them, to her devotees also.

493

iS BuGS BunnY FROM Bx OR BK?

‘Ja my fellow fashion-slaves . . . cruising, eyeing up classical gowns on Regent’s Walk, or in this shopping parade built around me, even gridlocked junctions and all that pedestrian-dogging, early on, it seemed a novel experience didn’t it, it felt just like a movie set, the massive store windows, and the fluorescent lights and adverts, pierced-up punks hanging outside the tubeway exit, free testers and canvassing further on down, near bootleggers boosting out of suitcases, and all to the sound of car horns, buskers, evangelists and doom preachers.

Yes . . . familiar to us all, this aspiration for a lavish life’. Fearlessly she continued. ‘We’d all like a scoop, wishing Material Girl, arms laden with different types of carrier bags while hailing a black cab you can blow thirty quid on, it gives you that theme park feeling, like wedding day luxury, or renting a birthday limo for some Westend clubbing all dressed in your church clothes, ready to buy something so good you’d wanna keep the bag, it’s like a drug, small plastic keepable containers depicting funky Japanese stigmatas, large paper ones, with whatever latest model inside, kept upright with a fancy ribbon bow on top . . . unsustainable extravagance . . .’?

Mother Laureate worked on the crowd, using a degree of humour but she switched tact at will, with force, a hammer then a feather for firstly, her disciples, but much was for the entertainment of all who stopped by, some of whom even put down their shopping bags to listen. ‘. . . Ladies and gentlemen this finger pointing at display is only to highlight it, and acknowledge how enjoyable and, inescapable it was, and still is for us, a national sport even, the wanting, limitless, uncurbed, denying it’s negative side effects, downplaying them.

My dear beautiful, ugly women of the temple, sharing your lifestyle is hard, and the sharers are outnumbered. A peninsular, and a colonies sharing of its own rainfall and water consumption, that takes public appetite, a public too busy consuming. The Z-nations are lobbied by groups of individuals, and ladies, these individuals are outnumbered. I say this in memory of the hot and thirsty; the polar opposite of pedestrian-dogging, here, through Old Covenant Gardens, and we can’t forget those liberated who urge us to bypass demigods, let the gold-winning rampant spending Olympians be included as our reminders’!

The streams of people coming in and out of the shopping parade couldn’t hear exactly what Laureate was saying, but any who did, also slowed their roll. Some spent a few moments standing behind, while

494

Celine Flux

their other, more unconcerned family members, wanting them to hurry along, became hooked themselves onto the humour and high-fidelity workings of Laureate’s speech, which drained the impatient streak in any who ventured in to close:

There would be only a special type of person impervious to this, with a full plate, that considered empty bowls mere disability, who couldn’t, or, pretended they couldn’t, relate. Often Omni tried to visualize this type of person. Like Mother Laureate and her temple sistren Omni had come to the posture that any launchpad for change, like most things, would come from middle-bretonian agreement first, and no doubt, some other brackets would have to disagree when faced with sacrificial practices aimed at highly coveted comfort-levels. Things such as this he already spoke to Seattle about in hospital and at the beach back in Harbourton.

‘I mean . . .’, Thinking back to open-opinion-season on the ward, he remembered Seattle trading with everybody one particular day, silencing that Glaswegian-philosopher-opposer who looked around, then to Omni for the answer, ‘. . . besides probably getting the sack, which leader would risk something like ill-gotten national interest, against, even less clandestine corruption, on other starving continents robbed naked in them bloody Middle Ages’? Although spontaneous scatterings of such questions certainly aided/hindered the departure of servings—after inevitable servings of lazy blocktime on the ward—Omni, even back then, always loved Seattle’s ardently passionate angles.

He remembered how after reuniting and on the beach, she asked him some questions—(but as usual only once he’d sufficiently wound them both up and sent them off into a good ol’ deep one), ‘Tell me a large corporation that’d gamble their market share? Or their workers willingness to take long-term paycuts or, district councils restricting lifestyles when the time came to—as bodyboarding friend would put it—“give the hot and thirsty a drink . . .”‘? At the time Omni recalled joking back, ‘Yea . . . maybe a seed and shovel too, we can go dig up that lost artefact . . . The Live and Ranting Seascrolls of Jordan!! . . .’ Chuckling back on the breezy coast they both gave that joke the verbal eyeroll as shoreline tickled sand, her arm around his shoulder in the wheelchair, leaning his head into her ribs, together as one for a while, simultaneously showing teeth in irony at the original answerless inquiry.

495

iS BuGS BunnY FROM Bx OR BK?

But right now Omni was still in the crowd, listening, occasionally looking around for Seattle. Thoughts of . . .’ I’m on this lady’s side for real’, swilled around in his head while taking it all in, crunching her numbers. It was written on all the faces around him, oratorical aspects uncrunchable to the unintelligent (author included), and just like Seattle, late but excited whenever they met, and with Laureate right now, there wasn’t anything mentioned Omni didn’t totally dig . . . wholesale.

He, amongst others around him were eager for Mother Laureate to speak on, which she did, finding what she was saying razor sharp, on point, and most entertaining. As she spoke out Omni quickly looked up at the buildings around, checking all high windows for burner scopes.

‘She’s bound to catch a carrot talking like this . . .’ he silently gagged when she rang true at the liars-target once more.

Moments later, while pondering another explosive dart sent high above the crowd like a firework, Omni got startled by a pinch on the back of the neck. ‘Got you again . . .’! Seattle leaned her head back and let out tiny cackle. ‘Yo what’s up with this ugly temple members business’ he asked while greeting, ‘isn’t good health beauty enough in itself ’?—She waved her answer till later.

As he asked that Omni noticed the short little boy standing beside her.

‘This is your son right’? Seattle proudly squeezed Otho’s little shoulder as he looked up at Omni. ‘Yep this is Otho’ she declared. ‘Hello mate, my names Omni’ Omni reached out his open palm facing it towards the sky but Otho didn’t know what to do. ‘Look Otho, you go like this . . .’.

Seattle took one hand out of her coat, dropping her palm down to liaise it with Omni’s. Their hands touched. Heightened significance their fingers kissed; because post “encounter one” until they accidentally did, whenever their skin met, it was like finding themselves swept by passions wind; enforced docking on new world.

Othellenius down there, seemed like a nice enough boy though, spiky black hair, big blue coat and apparently new boots scuffed-up too early for any mothers liking. He looked a lot like Seattle too. Omni could tell just by observing the two of them standing together that the beloved link between them was solar, lunar; a telluric love, as yet unplunged consciously into Govinda’s.

496

Celine Flux

‘Hiya Seattle’! ‘Abi!! . . .’ Seattle turned and greeted Abi with a big hug then made the introductions, ‘Abi, Omni . . . from years back, Omni, this is my dearest friend Abigail’ ‘But call me Abi, it’s nice to meet you finally Omni’ ‘Yea . . . and you can call me Maverick if you want’. Now Omni, mixing north and south twang like William Hague, was joking, but Seattle knew the joke too; an unsuspecting trick played on friends of other friends. ‘Hi Otho you OK’? Otho was in an uncooperative mood, rebellious protest at all the detours forced upon him. ‘Say something then!’ his mother urged animatedly. ‘Yeeeaaa’ came from Otho. ‘Tut, I dunno . . . guess he wants to go to his friend’s house; I promised I’d take him’ ‘You coming back then?’ asked Abi. ‘I’m not sure, but I’ll be there for devotional-tec-adoration tonight’ ‘Hey, err’, Omni interjected eyes up at the podium, bringing them back down for a predication and then moments later, one more for Seattle, ‘. . . I’d erm, like to come along, but oh yea let me guess, I can’t’. He looked at Seattle. ‘I doubt it’. Abi was glad the temple leader had touched yet another heart, ‘So you like what she’s saying though’?

‘Sure, few people wouldn’t’.Seattle and Abi both smiled, agreeing with Omni’s opinion (obviously)

‘Right, I’d better be off, come along then Otho. I’ll see you at the temple later, “Sweet becoming tasteless”‘ ‘OK then see you tonight,

“Sweet becoming tasteless”.

Seattle Otho and Omni began to walk. ‘Hey I want to meet your teacher, if that’s possible . . . what she said hit me kinda hard you know’?

‘I guess that can be arranged . . .’ Seattle said. ‘But I’d like you to come with me’

‘Sure, of course . . . if that’s what you want’‘I need to know why she named her temple “the temple for ugly

girls” . . . But only if she’s allowed to talk one on one with men that is . . .’?

‘Well she has an ex-husband so you should be able to put points to her yea, I’ll ask about you coming with me in a couple-a weeks or something’.

Otho held onto his mother’s hand, lost out in kiddie world as the two adults continued through the streets, as usual, crowded—While Seattle and Omni talked about things he was just as busy entertaining himself

497

iS BuGS BunnY FROM Bx OR BK?

down at kid-level, swallowed up by much taller folk, mostly shoppers side stepping and shuffling all around him, face way down in his coat apparently trying to duck the wind, or maybe (as only a kid would do) trying to bite off his zip done right up to the top, again fiddling with it excessively, but this time using his lips. This little “ramping around” game of Otho’s exposed the back of his neck, so, wanting his attention for the traffic Seattle pinched it, like she always does (as Omni was currently finding out) before they walked through a set of lights with a huge crowd of pedestrians around them.

‘Hey Omni, Otho wants to ask you something. Well . . . Otho . . .’?‘What!’ said Otho distracted by the zip, now the bain of his short

lifecycle.‘Go go on then boy’ Seattle spoke to Otho with a strict love in her

voice which took Omni by pleasant surprise, reminding him somehow of his own mother’s commanding style. The three of them stopped outside a shop with busy traffic and people moving all around them. ‘Erm . . .’

Otho looked up at Omni then rolled his eyes to his mother for further clearance ‘is, is . . . err, what’s the question again Mommy’? Seattle tutted just before she yanked his hand (old school steez), continuing on with their journey to the tubeway, ‘What Otho wanted to ask you was’, she said pausing her vociferation, silenced by a gust of Denmark’s own special breeze exported westward, ‘He wants to know; do you know if Bugs Bunny is from Brooklyn, or from the Bronx’?

* * *

498

IT TAKES A WOMAN LIKE YOU, TO GET

THOUGH, TO DEEP DOWN IN MOI

The temple hall was empty but other community workers were in and out, mostly upstairs. Laureate was in also, waiting to meet Omni, busy correlating some lecture-allied-research in the back office. Once he arrived Seattle led the way, escorting him down from the side entrance and on to the long corridor decorated with different picture collagès of kids from the crèche and 3-day youth club. As Omni slowed looking around they reached the temples office area, where just ahead most of the doors, including Laureate’s, were open. ‘Laureate?’ said Seattle coming into view and smiling, ‘This is Omni’. Omni straightened himself up, preparing to shake hands as Laureate stood to come out. ‘Hi, Mother Laureate’—(from Covenant Gardens she had transformed leaving him pretty awestruck.) ‘How are you?’ he said shaking hands. Right then, the sound of a lift opening ricocheted its way through to them from doors further down, then a couple of people came through, saying hello to Seattle and Laureate as they ambled ahead without stopping.

‘How are you, you OK . . .’?‘I’m good’. With smiling faces the couple passed on by.Next up in greeting, Laureate spoke to Omni in graceful tone, ‘Ah

welcome. Please, come’. Just when he obliged with a humble duck through the door, Seattle decided to leave him and Laureate alone, remembering . . .’ Oh I forgot; I left something in the meeting room last night, back in a sec . . . Ah while I’m out there would anybody like a drink? Omni . . .?’ ‘No, I’m alright’. She looked at Laureate. ‘No I’m fine too, thanks’. Seattle put her purse and phone on the tall metal filing cabinet and closed the door.

The office was small, and like the whole building, it had the air of many previous owners, regardless of attempted decor. ‘I must admit Omni, I had my doubts’ Laureate said guiding Omni to sit down, ‘Awareness of opposite-matter being so, infrequent and all, although I always stay on the lookout for it, usually, in peoples words and engagements’. Laureate

499

iT TAKeS A WOMAn liKe YOu, TO GeT THOuGH, TO DeeP DOWn in MOi

paced around, slow, talking into the back of Omni’s head, then gliding over to the window and slowly back round again. ‘I hear that your one of us . . . Seattle tells me you, like her, have . . . spiritual, growing pains.

She tells us all that you’re a rare breed; a man who’s fashion conscious and needs to retaliate against this, unsanctioned culture. Well, here at The Temple for Ugly Girls, we want to do the same. The question is though—man with the beautiful name—are you ugly enough to destroy present identification, and rebuild less polluted concepts of self, along with us?’

Omni nodded slightly. He looked, and he listened, thrown, not expecting Laureate to be dressed the way she was: expecting something more like an eastern robe, or that white gown from before, a sari, or something to that effect. ‘Although we’ve had a few men here, reporters, drooling after Katrina our spokeswoman, eager to know if we did sacrificial group orgies or something, and attendants, occasionally interested in our seminars, all beautifully presented sure, but have I accepted a male request to come see me personally . . . ever’? Omni heard; he felt privileged, still, puzzled by her appearance, not least the continual use of this word “ugly”. Compared to his mental image of a cult leader she looked inappropriately made-up, to the nines, like she had money, but at Covenant Gardens she looked penniless: all this was in stark contrast to a few weeks ago; now she was wearing this strange long ashy-grey dress revealing lots of hard muscle beneath her proudly ageing skin, a thick belt-like velvet band, the colour of outerspace-black, held the dress up, on one shoulder only, the same amount of extra thick ribbon formed a massive bow tie, the big loose knot sown on at the heart area, and another one on her thigh to give some off-setting ying-yang harmony. Maybe it was eastern-inspired after all, he wondered, looking around the walls for a crucifix or a sun, moon, and Suleman-star of Dravidia.

Laureate, political before, was an extremely perceptive woman with her third eye, and—already graduated from his stage of life—had a special idea of what puzzle young Omni was sat there calculating his way out of—she, purposely holding back the beautifully-ugly oxymoron from neophytes on the temple website, specifically to perplex the modern challenging heart. ‘Most people think we’re disciples of Lord Buddha, and yet know nothing of the term “Buddhi-yoga”‘. Now, Omni knew the real meaning of yoga but, he did not know what the word buddi

500

Celine Flux

meant, except for that inaccurate sculpture on everyone’s mantelpiece depicting an over-indulgent Mongoloid with odd ears—like all of humankind Omni’s level of spiritual enquiry was almost written his face when he came in.

‘You know’, said Laureate, addressing what she was convinced he must be thinking, ‘one Saturday in Covenant Gardens not long ago, I was speaking about the soul’s lifespan and I became embroiled in an argument, unintentionally silencing this atheist lady via heritage of Catholicism, shouting at me; huh, I said to her “What if I told you God was here for 30 odd years, but alas, you missed him”? “What do you mean I missed him”? She shouted, I shouted back “Yea, you missed him, by about 2000 years”. Of course the atheist lady knew who I was talking about, shocked I’d refer to Jesus Christ as God—who descended to play his part combating irreligious activity—It’s fair we don’t appear Christian, and I guess all along she thought we had some farout hippie doctrine, unsure, off the cuff, how to alter her excessive display which for the time being after that, she had to turn down in volume . . . I mean, what would you do if you were an enemy of proactive righteousness with deep pockets? that was the first thing I asked myself when setting up, I actually put myself in that scenario, and you know what I came up with Omni’? Omni looked puzzled but his ears were in their “Oi listen-up”, finely tuned mode, ‘. . . If I were an enemy of an organized religion, then I would infiltrate it with operatives of my own’! After hearing that Omni’s head molecules were seriously set in motion.

‘I’m wandering’ she said sitting down for a while, ‘since we share space on the vast rationale spectrum, so naturally Omni, I’m convinced you won’t accept this as, some disingenuous nosiness on my part but, do you love Seattle’? Omni paused, half-smiling his signal. ‘You do know what I mean by love right . . .? You do know how we define it don’t you . . .’?

‘I think I do, I’m not sure’‘I mean, the way that leaves you feeling like you’re engaged in a

combined assault; not you against the world but a type of person against the world . . . Well, you see us at the temple? When the talking is over and its heads on pillow time, we are precisely, that, type’

‘Then, definitely, I do yea. It’s just a shame my most sincere intentions—some less so you understand—are . . .’ pre-sensing his words Laureate smiled in recognition, ‘. . . are so . . . invisible’ ‘. . . not to all though Omni, not to all. I ask you this because she told me about

501

iT TAKeS A WOMAn liKe YOu, TO GeT THOuGH, TO DeeP DOWn in MOi

your girlfriend who passed elsewhere, Neon Light’? Omni looked at his thumbs with a smile of remembrance, and then looked—(as Omni would)—for her presence in the clouds passing by outside the window. ‘Yea, she was beautiful; an amazing woman. She would fit in here; she was one of us too!

You know, she told me one day . . . the best quote she’d ever heard was from a friend in college, I’ve never forgotten the story, or the quote . . . it went like this: she said . . . “Any date scientists or cultural newcomers disclose, quadruple it! . . . then quadruple it again”‘!! Slightly astonished after thinking Laureate laughed, slapping the table with her hand and chugging up and down with hunched shoulders. Omni started smiling too then. ‘I felt like proposing to her right there so I could be friends with the person who told her’! ‘Ah she sounds great, she really does’ ‘She was great, and I know she wouldn’t want me to be hurting now she’s no longer, material-regional’ ‘Material-regional huh . . .?—In peoples words Omni, in people’s words’.

Omni slim-grinned some more as Laureate continued. ‘Considering I know what you’re here for, which is inspiration, for, affiliation on deeper levels, there is a thing, a certain tool that’ll help you along, that I’ve written about, and I call it “interwoven connectivity”, hope, if you will, between two separate yet linked individuals in this “race” concept imposed on us, but dispose of it, this race idea, shot from the dark, but we all picked up, making things like land snatching credible, is to go against the institutional grain. You’re left feeling out of place surely, left feeling adrift, not subscribing to page one of any historical volume which uses the word “remote” in its first paragraph’. Thinking back of moonlight in distant Java, where after divorce she received her preancient sky-ground-techs and apps, Laureate sat up, then leaned forward with a broad smile, like she was about to share a timeless reworked joke of avataric disciplic succession. ‘So question it Omni, racers slowing down . . .? Unheard of in these parts but in other places . . .? Just so you know, here it’s a case of step aside . . . let tortoise through’!—(Thanks Maximillion’s sparring partner Rocky Marciano).

Omni thought long and hard, watching her rip off a blank page from a notepad. After creasing it, she tore it into two pieces and wrote a word on each, sliding them across the desk towards Omni who picked them up. ‘The best way for me to gauge the quality of your quantity Omni, is to ask, if you know the difference between . . . these’? ‘Not much if you look at the two words but, I do, yea’ ‘Good, that’s good

502

Celine Flux

child. Then, now—as you answered correctly—I’m going to treat you, and talk to you, as if you were a male temple member, unable ever again, to take advice of who we at the temple label as the “Unauthorized” or,

“Unqualified”‘.

503

“INCONCISTENCY OF THE TEXT

MAKES IT COMPLEXED”

Laureate asked questions which Omni felt, when answering, like, he had so much to say but, struggling to get it all out. So she put him at ease, explaining why this happens. ‘It’s passion Omni’. Forgetting what he’d learned Omni remembered, and fell back to explain, as best he could about things that concerned him and what, despite intention, he was feeling. ‘I, I see patterns Laureate, in movements, I see it in life events, ebbs and flows, retrospective risings, fallings, personal ones regarding my desires, peaks and troughs in these so-called world crises on TV . . . when I zoom out and look across the pattern and question what I want, it becomes mere repetition’

‘Like you said . . . patterns! . . .’ ‘Right . . .!! Like little uniformed blips on my instruments,

monotonous; it’s like, I feel like Morpheo tracking down “the one” or something. There’s been no one to talk to about this, well except Seattle maybe, without feeling like my intelligence is being insulted, so the questions build up then spill out on the, how can I say, the . . .’

‘The Unconcerned . . .’?‘Right, exactly, the unconcerned: Once, years ago, I asked a friend

I grew up with, if, religion will be here in say . . . 100 million years? He said its 7:30 in the morning and begged me to lighten up, which I did, but actually, his inability to approximate, just for the purpose of minute progression, made me even more depressed . . . needless to say, I struggle with the friendship nowadays’. Laureate turned her chair a little towards the window. She found it funny, smiling again softly like she’d experienced something similar in her own life, ‘So, you’ve paid that old . . . “Leaving your family and friends toll” you have . . .’? ‘Yep, I have; I still try, words fail often, but I guess you could say I’ve changed in unacceptable ways. And even as a teenager, my tastes were my own, I’d say . . . rare’!

504

Celine Flux

Emphatic mirror-movements on display Laureate leaned back into the chair now, fascinated by what he just said while still expecting, waiting, for Omni to inquire into her own spiritual qualifications like a student ought to. She decided to help him along.

‘Well if it began with life events Omni, which I agree, using subtle instruments, certain events do direct one, via pre-natal thirst unquenchable by wine, up the gradation of conversation, as high as you can go. All that said then, I wonder, which event can you say started the ball rolling, how would you say the attraction came to you, I mean, where did it begin, do you even remember’? ‘Yea I do’, Omni said, ‘I guess it was my Stepfather showing me this film, Snake in the Eagle’s Shadow; the title, everything about the movie grabbed my young imagination, the words Eagle? . . . and Shadow? With the old teacher, training-up the shaolin monk for vengeance . . . it all seemed so, subvirtuous. From then on I wasn’t the same boy, my background mentality was just “over there”, schoolbook scribblings, window heartdreams in class, so I travelled deeper, where, I noticed, fewer and fewer peoples interest had stretched down to, before I knew it I was alone in my fascination, although obviously I knew there were others; I’d found myself a twig, I passed the branch, ended up at the trunk, and now, I’m here at your desk, looking for the root system’.

Laureate smiled. Omni now felt compelled to ask her.‘How about you, if you don’t mind my asking’?‘No I don’t mind at all’Welcoming the question Laureate placed her two index fingers in

prayer position together underneath her chin and thought back.‘For me, it was a yoga session, half an hour, and a seriousness, clear

focus, that came over me after a few counterdioxide super-exhalations, out-tranquillizing any doctors opiate, amphetamine, or shamanic frog-licking in my modelling years—to what mysticism lay beyond, my hathatanga-yoga teacher god bless her, who always spoke about

“alignment”, pointed me. At first I thought she was only talking about the eclipse due later that year, but I was wrong. She taught me the first lesson in alignment by giving me ten minutes to drink a massive bottle of water in her back garden, observing the effects, dedicating it to the “hot and thirsty” oversees; like you say I found a branch, and followed it to . . . adoration within the heart’.

The door knocked and opened—it was Seattle. She came back clasping a cup of water, standing and sipping, while Omni pondered quickly if her early disappearance was somehow orchestrated. Seattle—already

505

“inCOnCiSTenCY OF THe TexT MAKeS iT COMPlexeD”

knowing his deepest queries—was assuming that maybe if the two of them just talked alone in private time would fly by better, which it had done.

‘You’re making a big impression on me you know Omni, like I hoped you would. Unfortunately though, I have an appointment, and given what we’ve talked about, I think it’s established in what direction your heart points, and what you’re looking for, here, in my temple’. Seattle and Laureate both looked at each other, as Laureate slipped on her shoes, standing also, ‘. . . but I’m surprised you haven’t asked me already, about the name, or, for you, because you’re enquires turn off the beaten track somewhat, I myself I still want to know from you, why here? Why my temple when, as far as you knew through Seattle . . .’ Seattle picked up her purse and phone so Omni stood for the question ‘. . . It was a women’s only temple’?

‘I know, but . . .’ he replied, ‘I guess I really did want to know why you used such a, such a seemingly inappropriate word, why this place was called The Temple for Ugly Girls, why ugly’?

‘I tell you what, I won’t tell you now, I’ll tell you, when I see you next: You know . . . I did expect this one day . . .’! Mother Laureate sighed, and then took out a tiny golden hair grip from the side of her head, reaching over and handing it to Omni, her, walking around the desk, much taller than him when she approached in heels, shuffling, pinching her high-quality ying-yang gown up off the floor and then pausing. ‘Welcome’! She said it proudly, with a motherly smile.

Knowing what this meant coming from such a revered person as Laureate Omni couldn’t believe it; but he forced it through, quelling any initial doubt like an unpopular government commons bill, taking the hair grip and looking behind, to Seattle, also containing—not too well—her electrified excitement. Seattle signalled to an identical hair grip parting her own hair and stepped over squeezing his hand. ‘Welcome Omni . . .! Welcome’!!

506

SIMON SEZ FALL BACK, EAT,

DARE HOPELESSNES

(BUT THEN, WHEN IZ ENOUGH . . .?)

All the way to the train station, past the new Perplexing Nonbeliever’s Bookstore Seattle was stuck to his arm. ‘Wanna come over to mine for a bit?’ she proposed thinking ahead, ‘I’ll be picking up Otho later’ ‘Why not’ he relayed, still mighty happy with himself, as they both walked, smiling, welded together while crossing the road. Now turning off from the dingy back blocks, heading down the nearby High Street, she wanted to know what it was Omni did that made Laureate give him, as a male, The Sacred Hair Grip of Symbolic Intention. ‘I just knew she was gonna do something’ she announced making connexions in her head, ‘but I couldn’t know for sure. I can’t believe it, I’m so happy for you Omni’.

The temple mood ongoing, since leaving Laureate’s office Omni had retained the die hard prodigious sensation of inclusion—of being accepted; To be given an apparently useless hair grip was one thing, but apart from this symbolic hair accessory on a complete skifflehead like himself, acceptance by such a sharp one, from such a spiritually helpful person as Laureate, considering it all now after leaving for the journey to Seattle’s, could be seen as, and actually was beginning to feel like . . . like his own little dramatic piece of manifest destiny or something! He looked at the side of Seattle’s face and that lost sense, of every action making immaculate his/herstory, was again found, making every footstep along the journey from then, an inwardly epic one.

‘So what did you say? What did the two of you speak about’? ‘Ah loads of stuff ‘ he replied. Seattle squeezed his hand, and the issue. ‘Like what’?

‘Basically the kind of stuff we discuss’. Busy relishing flashbacks, off in his own little world Omni seemed coy, but that wasn’t the

507

SIMON SEZ FALL BACK, EAT, DARE HOPELESSNES (BUT THEN, WHEN IZ ENOUGH . . .?)

case—Nevertheless, intrigued to hear the story advance if only a little, she continued to ask him other, more far-reaching questions. ‘And did she do the two pieces of paper thing with you? I bet she did, didn’t she’?

‘Yea, first she asked me if sweet things were becoming tasteless, and then she said she gauged me, writing down the words Semite and a Shemite, asking me the difference between’

‘And what did you say’?‘Well I said yes’‘What, to both questions . . .’?‘Yea, and from then she told me, and also I noticed, her, letting me

in, it was like, off the strength of my answers, she softened; she noticed that I noticed, so noticing I wanted to go there, a rare thing happened, she went! So I followed, to the core, near the incomprehensible. She then heard me speaking from there—that I’d followed successfully—and she showed appreciation by, not insulting my intelligence . . . It was one of the most helpful conversations I guess I’ve ever had’.

As the train station came into sight Seattle cast her mind back two weeks previous, busy situation crunching from the memory-of-bubbles, that particular day when Omni’s name first spread through the temple, from her, and then later from both Abi and she together.

‘You know what, come to think of it, when I first mentioned you to Mother Laureate, as soon as she heard your name her eyes lit up. I had a feeling something would happen after that. She spoke like she already knew you. I even heard Volga speak your name’ ‘What!’ Omni slowed for the ticket machine. ‘But remember though, I was the one who told Volga to look out for you that day, then a couple of weeks later Volga asked me why your name was Omni’ ‘And what did you tell her’? He asked while both entering the station foyer and then walking down some stairs smelling of rotting Edwardian wood. ‘I remember when you told me in Queens College about the whole Maverick-versal thing so, I just told her about that, and she joked, saying she may have to ask you herself ’.

Omni was pretty shocked.‘And she’s real tall ain’t she . . .? All of you are but she takes the

cake!’—(He said this under frownfull distraction, still irritated by the dead fox smell imposing itself on his nose). ‘Yeah she is, but just wait

508

Celine Flux

till you meet the rest of the gang as well, and Katrina, and Abi. Oh yea, have you met Abigail’? ‘I think so yea yea’ ‘Anyway it’s gonna be great. I can’t wait till Saturday’. Seattle was happy for Omni, almost rapturous, unable to contain her excitement for him regarding the day’s outcome.

509

CEREBRO-SPINAL COUNCIL BETWEEN

SEATTLE’S CONCIOUSNESS & OMNI’S EGO

Downstairs the two of them sat on the empty platform bench. Omni searched his pockets; he almost couldn’t find the hair grip. When he did, relieved, he took it out for a moment and turned to Seattle, ‘You’re a woman, bet you’ve got a jewellery box’? ‘Why’ she boniked ‘. . . want me to look after it for you? . . . OK’ without a moment’s thought she took it from him, placing it on the opposite side of her short n’ slick dark half-curls. ‘I’ll store it in there when we get home’. The wind had picked up since they’d stopped walking, letting deep cold announce itself yet again, so they both budged up close together. ‘Boy’, remembered Omni, thoughts popping into his head about the temple, ‘she sure does hold it back on the website don’t she’!

‘Who Laureate . . .’?‘Yea yo . . .! When I reached, I was surprised she weren’t more like,

austere, she was much more open than I thought’‘Well what did you expect? You know I speak about all my problems

with her, I told her about all the Adam stuff too . . . everything’‘What everything, everything’? Omni was referring to intimate

stuff.‘Well I told you everything didn’t I?’ she shouted over the train

bombing past ‘. . . And you’re a bloody guy!’They both chuckled, and Seattle stood, looking at the train times

halfway down the platform. It was scheduled to arrive in a half an hour—unluckily for them they’d just missed one so now had to prepare themselves for a long wait. Omni drifted off thinking back to the meeting again. ‘Oh yea’ he exclaimed, retrieving some other spectrum within the temple spectrum he forgot to mention, poking Seattle in the hip, making her yell, ‘Yo, you could have warned me about the way she dressed . . . blimey’. Agreeing, and still a touch on the chilly side, Seattle laughed aloud. ‘Yea, she always keeps us on our toes, it’s to do with spiritual practitioners and appearance—She’s just flamboyant that’s all,

510

Celine Flux

if you haven’t noticed just like we all are . . .’? Omni smiled back at her granting the concession. ‘She told us once she refused to abandon her wardrobe till she delivers her flock back to the Promised Land. She talks a lot about that stuff, appearance, and stagnation, and even tailors her speeches according to fashion weeks on the continent. In her modelling days she witnessed some whitemarket dealings in Milan which changed her, in fact, she still keeps the temple-programme based on their industry calendar, lobbying against exploitation and stuff ‘.

‘What? She’s an activist too? On that animal rights tip’?‘She’d say it was case of universal rights. She and Volga’ll be flying

down to Paris for some outreach work soon so you haven’t seen anything yet! She always surprises us, huh, sometimes a turban, sometimes as a grandwizard, and if we ever look shocked, especially in her Covenant Gardens outfits she lectures us, about holding different discussions in different garments—she tells us we should do the same’

‘What? Wear power-dresses’!‘Well, she says, we should speak to those fed up with their clothing

addiction dressed looking like them somewhat, if that’s who were targeting anyway, I mean we we’re the same, just like them, right’? ‘Right’

Omni nodded. ‘And so because of this, it’s our duty; we should go out get more pupils, so that, the knowledge will spread’.

‘You know what . . .’ he said, turning his body inwards, ‘She asked me, if I loved you’ ‘And what did you say’? Material elegance now before him external, but recognized, he moved his face towards Seattle’s, then, kissed it. ‘I said yes’. She closed her eyes and kissed him back, and within that small meeting space of warm, soft flesh, she chased, caught up, united, and parted. ‘I love you too’. Higher than the last Omni hadn’t been here before, beholding reflections of positive recognition, and neither since her days on the Isle of Wight, had she. Their foreheads touched as the mood made way for an upgrade broadcasting its Khemical name through a rush of passionate compounds, just as that sweeping opportunity with a first and Christian name—Mrs F Resh Air—appeared in Omni’s head, forcing him to ruin the wishy-washy mood totally, purposely, and satisfying the strange need to buss-a-joke.

‘Man, glad to get that off my chest . . . phew’‘Me too . . .’!Omni sat back bashful looking at gigantic clouds, his eyes rolling to

train tracks, then further to the scenery, then to Seattle still sporty-limbed

511

CEREBRO-SPINAL COUNCIL BETWEEN SEATTLE’S CONCIOUSNESS & OMNI’S EGO

in one of her many visors, touching him and smiling, Omni once again in life feeling like a lucky man, but one who needed confirmation on one final detail about the whole meeting. ‘So Seattle . . .’? Shifting his bum on the hard chair, suppressed waves of appreciation and love rising within, he asked, with Seattle half listening to train announcements none the wiser. ‘So it was a set up? . . . It was wasn’t it . . .? You never did leave anything in the meeting room did ya . . .’? Apologetic and hugging, she gave him a warm kiss, with the affirmation, a smile, plus a favourable look, ‘No, I didn’t’. With that admission so cleverly substantiated by naughty girl Seattle Omni gave a light huff to himself and joked.

‘Cool’She leaned forward to hug him once more. He gently squeezed her

slightly smaller body while looking over her shoulder, banks of barren trees behind the opposite platform roof with beautiful joints separating like veins, and re-separating again, each time thinning, from the sensory optics of his body, into almost ever-present grey-clouded light above, but, knowing the line of trees and their more lush, full-scale beauty, were just hibernating until the spinning marble again tilts for the countless time into another season, he imagined how all trees and bushes behind the platform, stretching way out of sight in both directions, would look in full glory, after a full belly of mid-summer lightfood—the mental picture he superimposed over Seattle’s shoulder felt severely satisfying indeed.

As they parted she started to stroke the back of his hand, momentarily enthralled, like discovering new terrain. Her head was down in fascination.

So Omni looked at both golden hair grips; a few silent momento’s stolen for recording yet another remarkable time and familiar place, for his own, personal, inner archive.

‘And I guess this means she’s gonna do it then’, Seattle pondered in estimation, fiddling with the pretty-yet-ugly little scars on his back hand which she knew from nursing him on the ward were from his accident. She had a resounding, measured tone, once again looking out toward the opposite platform briefly, thighs still close, generating heat, finality in her voice spoken like whatever was, going to be done, was meant to be done. ‘Do what?’ he asked also looking out to the rail tracks squinting from the breeze, the two of them sharing in a view dismissed as horrible to some but not to Seattle or Omni, both now secretly willing to twin their lives harmonised now by complimentary destinies; this secret

512

Celine Flux

willingness, until the rennunciatory stage of life, from now to then, about to be revealed. ‘Well . . . change the name of course; I suppose with your inclusion Mother Laureate will be changing the girl’s thing to, The Temple of Ugly People’?

* * *

513

ARISTOTLE ON DEMOCRACY (YET THE

CHARGE OF PAEDOPHILIA REMAINS)

Adapting to his new life as a singleton Nick kept the flat him and Vee shared in Blood Diamond District. It could be described—(not by those over-reaching letting agents but by the slangish, sluggish and verbally lazy)—as “high n’fly” property. With the incessant Zone1 swell people would spill over from the edge of neighbouring Chinatown keeping Blood Diamond wild busy, and the tourist season under way only made all major avenues and boulevards beneath his block feel worse—but still, a pretty good piece of covertly positioned real estate to anyone who gave a frig. The structure itself was a massive sweep of upgraded units purposely built to stand identical with old low-rise offices and The Shangxin Hotel opposite, where economic hitmen had been taking off tiger-wires since that eastern nation-building era of the 60’s. It had all the discreet brickwork of other apartment blocks in the area, well maintained and unimposing; quite rare for a commercial part of town hence the high price in rent.

That time of year—but officially autumn—was open window season, all over, everywhere in the zone. The azyagaia had tilted making the whole peninsular at that latitude, over-hot for the time of year, and although tilting back, the greyness on high kept Zone1 humid regardless of hour: forecasted storms everybody prayed would bring relief turned out to be a record breaking pittance.

Inside, the building was slick, like corporate playground butter, and ran for thousands of yards along a main artery of Zone1, actually stretching clear down, connecting with shiny luxury sports car outlets and quaint private minigardens down in Little Chanzen.

His section of the property though, was in Blood Diamond District proper, congested, clockwork eventful, arranged high over the local tube station and tea house on 8-ways corner, where fat, smoggy roads leaped out like a double crucifix, dotted with MI6 antirevolution traffic lights as far as the eye could see, and built along and above all kinds of

514

Celine Flux

stores from eurochange bureau’s and gift shops, right through to private underground car parks and expensive restaurants.

Nick was riding a sticky evening train homebound as his favourite toy—the banana Lex—was being serviced out in Zone4.

Some seats down he noticed what looked to him like a long running dispute over a chair: Now this was not considered really unusual to anyone travelling through the zone, especially if one did it on the regular but, as people cleared the way before the train pulled off (usually leaving some unfortunate soul bruised from a bar head first in the wrong persons lap!) the age, muffled tone, and attire of all three people involved had the incident noted in Nick’s mind as, quite peculiar (no banana-clip, no beard or rucksack? so no ghost of Laden pin-pulling action again right? Well good).

A lot of the passengers were no doubt wandering the same, trying to catch what was going on, and the interest—in trickle-effect—conducted itself, passing right through from elbow-to-elbow, meeting on each armrest, then on from germ-ridden safety pole to germ-ridden safety pole, through everyone between Nick and the ruction simmering away meters to the right—information then moving past his own self and heading down the carriage a few meters.

A smartly dipped-out geezer spoke under his breath, asking Nick and a grungy teenager leaning in briefly what the problem was, after first seeing him and the teenager holding conference with the family seated beside, now both sitting back like they’d just hit the bong of realisation, after apparent calculation of some breaking news not yet transferred the geezers way; Now out of their daze huddling to whisper, the trio spoke, but with eyes mostly on the lady down the carriage, quiet obviously demanding more answers than them. So as this woman (in premium Talibanland sandals) bordered on this arid argument frontier, practically in the open, more differing ideas and theories rippled outward from seat to seat, in both directions, till it reached them with Nick only a couple of stops from Blood Diamond Station, suit and grungy teen still swapping info with people further away like Bond did the CIA—and wouldn’t the KGB—only after the war apparently—(Dr Kelly . . . 70yr secrets act . . . only asking. Geez, so touchy)!

Speaking of agencies a few stops later the police came. And by now faced with such a level of unenviable awe, this slightly oval woman standing (all three considered by themselves way too classy to scream and shout on a tube train otherwise) seemed to strike on the notion

515

ARISTOTLE ON DEMOCRACY (YET THE CHARGE OF PAEDOPHILIA REMAINS)

of switching the frustration tables; she’d now turned this undesirable spectacle into some sort of impromptu sit down protest, yanking her hand away from the two Fedsheilds now trying the softly-softly’s with her—she for as long as possible, maintaining an attitude with resemblance to some kind of headteacher from his youth. Tourist and weekend shoppers alike, mostly seated, all bore witnesses to a possible train wreck moment, each taking notes on an ensuing scandal.

But while the other silver-haired, apparently married couple switched from lip-biting amusingly at each other, and every few minutes sly tongues poking mockingly out of cheeks, Nick noticed the lady on the floor smiling in response, unwilling to be outsmarted in an instance for which, it was looking more and more as if, she was not actually at fault; a strangely inappropriate, almost superhumane, compassionate pose, puzzling—it put Nick in a flatspin of guesswork.

Eventually something nearing the truth had worked its way down through yet another round of Yonagunese whispers, through each passenger, combined with neck-breaking observation that: the seated couple in resistance mode trying not to involve themselves too much, were in fact, a cheating husband and mistress. It seemed likely; both already looked to have all the stonewall mannerisms of the guilty party.

Before being escorted to the far door of the train in tears of enforced defeat, the lady stopped and threw her ring on the floor, symbolizing the broken handles of a long dreamscroll, and the end of an even longer marriage; everybody saw it. Nick saw it too, wishing he had a chance to throw his ring at Vee that fateful evening finding the file in their wardrobe, Vienna, all dressed up off to the Shadowless car park in creep mode almost three years to the day.

His stop was fast approaching. Seeing similarities between his experience of betrayal and this one, evoked by the drama, Nick grabbed his bag already knowing the synopsis and decided it better to walk the other way, following with a few more shoppers (holding even bigger bags) to the opposite door further down.

Exiting the train with consumers, each in column constellation snake-filing their way down the platform, he felt hot, so, stepping off the escalator, he determined to grab some frozen yoghurt before heading out again into the sweaty swarm of the street, patiently waiting his turn in the long queue, eyeing up magazines in the air-con, open-plan stationary store beside him. After a short time Nick paid his money, and picked up

516

Celine Flux

his bag to restart the journey outside and upstairs to the corner of 8-ways and Cubic St.

At this point, the lady involved in the train fracasow came up from platform level on the escalators, leaving the Bluecoats on the other side of the space-age turnpikes, they then heading back down the escalator giving the ticket inspector the nod to lau her through before disappearing.

She did look a tad mumsy, like she had adolescent kids away studying somewhere, a few, in a dark thin gown and loose cardigan, a shortish almost grey crop (notably with sweaty holding gel), slowing down to wipe tears from the, (up until then), even-textured make-up on her pleasant looking face, while walking away from the glass gate for disabled access next to the ticket inspector.

She looked up, and, their eyes accidentally met, she, giving a courteous smile like ‘What the hell was that all about eh?’ thereby exonerating behaviour a mature woman—such as herself—should never become accustomed to.

They walked out of the station along with scores of others at the same time, practically together, crowds in the late evening swarming past, across, pushing them close, him getting nowhere, not even left past her, and she, shorter, looking slightly dazed thinking what to do next. A gap came in the line passing them where he could file-in and walk round the block into his private entrance behind Cubic. The woman seemed confused, yet, with a show of strength in her hour of weakness, still wiping her nose, reddened at the sides, wandering what to do with herself. Nick knew the signs and admired her choices made under such humiliating circumstances, but which now had her alone on a busy street. Looking in wordless commendation, he had to ask on impulse. ‘Are you alright’?

‘. . . Yes . . . well, no’, she said, a slight accepting of irony contained within her stare back, both bungst forward, nudged, pressed into each other’s chests momentarily, her wiping her nose again but still defiantly lancing at encroaching obsession and unwanted predicament.

While managing to speak about her situation, Nick noticed she had no bag, and no pockets. Intelligence and empathy kicked in. Both were alike; struggling through but able people, plus, had shared similar experiences, only hers was barely five minutes ago!

Unbeknown to Nick and about to become clear, the woman had now made herself practically homeless after being thrown off the train with no keys, to his house: She’d read a msg and just like Nick followed

517

ARISTOTLE ON DEMOCRACY (YET THE CHARGE OF PAEDOPHILIA REMAINS)

her husband of twenty five years, trapping him (with just discovered and confirmed love cheat) on the train; that’s why she threw her ring at them, and that’s why life as she knew it was about to end, being mourned over on one of the busiest streets in this dark region of the known omniverse.

He knew how she was feeling presently: disorientated, damaged, disgusted, and in one nanomoment, grasped her impending difficulties (plus getting pissed-off on her behalf ) taking both her shoulders and guiding her over to a metal fence near a set of traffic lights.

They stood beside a newspaper kiosk, around teaming rivers of livestock, some heaving out of the station, in pulses, some heading onwards, or breaking off to navigate the even noisier roadcrossing complex of 8-Ways behind them. Gently pinning her soft shoulder against the side of the news stand with one arm, Nick binned his small cup of frozen yoghurt, staring deeply into her face, teasing forth sufficiently, her focus, both flinching for the bus’s rear view mirror roaring past his head, and the roof of the stand, checking for any other buses before leaning back on the fence proper, in humble remembrance of what was about to be said. ‘You know? . . . That’s pretty much exactly, what happened to me’! He shouted then pushed through a smile. ‘Yep, I followed my wife, caught her out with the “other guy”, only he did a runner and she’s in jail for murder right now’. Astonishment hit the woman’s face, almost unsure what she heard was right. ‘Yeah, and good riddance to a sorry lump of crap I say’. In response to that came amusement; a weak buffer separated herself from the amusement to some degree, but she did hear right, and she was slightly amused, grateful even, lucky, for the appearance of Nick with the kind of nobility you just can’t inherit from a minister-come-peer-lately, and which appeared it seemed, just at the right moment of life.

Although he looked two generations her junior, she felt like falling, melting over the sleeves of his loose cotton for restbite from visions:

Him and Her on the train down there, underground, proclaiming lost love, and what was even worse, them since—in her imagination—about to make new love; from behind, once lush memories of their marriage from now on reared up, like celestial houses, signifying only coarse, dried out lies.

518

BET YA MONTHLY TUBE TICKET AND

YA BOTTOM DOLLA

The Zone1 night air in summertime hardly ever really moved. Being shuffled in like cattle, surrounded by stiff buildings and a tube system providing more underground heat which only rose, warming the stenchy microbiotic habitat of back streets (plus armpits mostly unwashed since daybreak) didn’t help either, and capped off by all that smog, left the smell nowhere but inside the nostrils to go.

The lady with Nick was losing the fight in taking the bulk of her attention off Her and His face, still stuck on the sheer audacity, them, together holding hands, refusing to let go or answer her, in front of the Metyard-patrol, those mounting questions inside, interminable, unrequited. She became more overwhelmed, obsessing for satisfactory answers. In woozy desperation she held onto the bin for support.

‘You look like you need to sit down lady’. Flooded with confusion, stressed and lobstered-out she replied to the affirmative, ‘I think I do’.

Nick leaned off the fence pointing to his building above them. ‘Listen.

I live up there’. She turned her worrisome head up to the right followed by her shoulders. As she did this she stumbled back into his arms.

Nobody needed to say much more after that; the woman just looked at the building and nodded the concession as he played once again, the purposeful escort, directing her, emotionally scattered and weak at the knees, the quick five minute walk down slimmer streets round to his place. She blinked slow while he spoke, and moved limited, like she was about to faint.

‘What’s your name lady’?‘Janet’‘My names Nick OK’He supported her, arm with the bag—out of necessity—placed on

her upper-back, squeezing her shoulder, too tightly, keeping her awake,

519

BeT YA MOnTHlY TuBe TiCKeT AnD YA BOTTOM DOllA

his own shoulders and face turned inwards, almost shielding her, hunched in her direction as he signalled the crowds to part . . . samaritan steez.

‘Look Janet I think I’m gonna call an ambulance’‘No don’t do that. I’ll be fine when I get to sit down’. She paused for

a second, then, they kept walking, allowing enough time to remember with passionate compulsion, something else. ‘That bastard . . .’! She was set trippin’, over his set!—(or should I say asset? . . .) It hurt; anger, on its way . . .’ That sly, little, bastardo’!!

There were two entrances to Nick’s building. The second one was a quarter-mile south and on weekends, quieter, with no twin concierge sealed off at both front and back desks like on weekdays. Leisure area with WI-FI connection and in-house confectionery store, selling all kinds power drinks from clear fridges, along with the stationary equipment spot, were all tucked away downstairs on lowerground floors.

While switching hands, holding that shopping bag of his he stepped in and gestured Janet over to the lift. Janet tutted, ‘He’s a daring little shit I’ve gotta give him that . . . wander who she is? . . . bet she works with him’.

Adamant in her guesswork, back hand on her forehead, she pressed her skull up against the supporting wall both waiting for the lift. All the conviction she just held had suddenly vaporised.

‘Shit, I feel like such an idiot’. She gave out a big sigh, head still tilted back as if looking to the heavens. ‘Well if I can give you any advice, it’s, don’t let the next thing to come out of your mouth be that you blame yourself ‘. Although taller, the muggy heat had Nick’s head tilted back also, in fellow intuition, mimicking her body language. Then the lift came.

‘Take it from me, resist for now and surrender fault and your part in it on another day’! Looking off into the mid distance Janet continued to verbally kick and hurt herself.

‘Darn it, should have seen this coming months ago’‘Nope, this is a point of life you couldn’t have ever prepared yourself

for? . . . But at least you threw the ring . . .’? She stopped fiddling with her long beads, staring at nothingness down her nose and rubbed her wedding finger for a protruded moment. Nick continued, ‘. . . good move I must say’ ‘Thanks’. She cracked a tiny, condensed smile in response, showing some of her costly upgrades. ‘Oh well’ she figured, ‘. . . common state of affairs I guess; you? me . . . probably half the married people on this hemisphere’! Nick leaned off the lift wall and smiled back in replicate.

520

Celine Flux

These were new, virgin smiles they gave, all slow and considered, acute, intent on helping her get through, created there in a skyward lift, scenic admiration for each other—priceless alliance.

Through this particular situation they had, somehow, been enabled to bump heads into a union and trade symmetrical experiences which made Nick and Janet now, friends.

The lift continued shuffling its way up the floors. Dim lights in motion punctuated omnipresent shadows though the glass as it climbed up the building. On the boomerang now, regarding their introduction before she nearly feinted Janet wandered briefly, what else had happened with Nick’s ex-wife.

‘You . . . And your wife earlier . . . And . . . jail . . .’?‘Mmm I know’ one eyebrow rose to greet poetry.‘What was her name . . .’? As she asked the lift door opened. Nick

huffed, searching for a way to put it, each thankful for the refreshing air-con blast that hit them after exiting such a confined space.

Turning out the pair walked, with Nick pulling off ahead dipping his hunched shoulder, searching around for his keys.

The low moon approached the view-angle of a large, tall, sheet of glass as they continued down the hallway. The entire sky was empty, permitting wave-particles of light to rain down from lunertia planet, defining nearby buildings, and afar, past Blood Diamond, the whole grandiose 14th floor scene integrating features beyond description using this particular Al-phabetos.

When they got in and closed the door he sat her down placing bag and keys on the coffee table. Checking she was all right he rested his hand once more on her shoulder, a kindness and attention Janet entirely appreciated. He then disappeared and came back with a glass of water before himself sitting down.

‘. . . My wife’s name was Vienna. But I called her Vee. And withdrawing care for someone you once loved, trusted’, Nick spoke leaning in with involved hand gestures, ‘It’s almost impossible. Maybe you can for the most part, maybe . . . but not completely’ ‘Guess your right’, she admitted, taking the glass from her mouth, ‘but I’m not sure what I can do about them. So many questions in my head right now’

‘You’ll be all right’—Nick had scored enough leveraged experiences to enable much detail on the topical matters of abrupt separation.

521

BeT YA MOnTHlY TuBe TiCKeT AnD YA BOTTOM DOllA

‘Do you mind if I use your phone, I’ll need to speak to my daughter, she can pick me up? . . . w-w-wait a minuet! . . .’ Janet paused. ‘How the hell am I going to explain to her what just happened’?

‘Just tell her the truth’‘What, that I read a text I thought was suspicious, followed her father

onto a train where he proceeded to kiss and cuddle another woman’!!She was almost smiling, and Nick was grateful for the presence of

mind to follow up and show this levity. ‘Well I don’t have kids but I doubt there’s any clean way of doing this. And the ensuing mess remember, ain’t yours and plus, consider the charge: he didn’t seem very remorseful from where I was sitting’. Janet responded, ‘He wasn’t! Of course at first he looked startled, but didn’t say hardly a word after that, he either foot gazed, or held onto that heifer the whole time’.

Nick walked over to the mantelpiece for the landline shaking his head. ‘Disgusting behaviour if you don’t mind me saying . . . but at least he didn’t just up and run off ‘. He handed over the cordless sharing in the astonishment. ‘Thanks’.

Janet took the phone and tried to work out for a minute by mind-mapping, the best way of getting her daughter to do the unusual: drive into town at night for her mother, who’s no doubt going to be asked the obvious question; why is she stuck in Zone1 without her own car! ‘What’s your daughter’s name?’ Nick asked. ‘Mishca . . . And she’ll probably wanna kill him too if I just tell her outright’.

Before Janet dialled the number Nick had decided on food, offering as he neared the kitchen, Janet following a few seconds behind, phone in hand. ‘. . . I don’t think I can, I feel nauseous enough as it is’

‘Sure. I’m not surprised you’re not very hungry’. Nick opened the cupboards and scanned, high, then low. ‘But I’m sure the practical side of you begs to differ’??

‘No your right, I should try and eat at least something’‘That’s more like it! I’ll twirl some pesto and pasta together’ Nick

half-mimed this idea to Janet, standing in the passageway, preparing to make her call. She signalled a meek smile of gratitude, pacing the mock-stainwood before attempting to lure her daughter Mishca to Zone1 in her tiny hatchback and come, for the second time in a day, into the zone.

522

PEN PREDATOR, EXCETERA (YEA RIGHT)

Squeezing her thumb to form a fist, waiting for the phone to answer she cleared her throat while Mishca, at the other end, didn’t recognize the number but accepted the call, all groggy voiced, looking at her alarm clock. ‘Hello’? ‘Darling it’s me. Listen. I’m calling off a friends line’ ‘Mum?’ she horsed, ‘it’s half ten you know’ ‘I’m aware its late Mishca, but I need you to come pick me up . . . please darling’ ‘I can’t believe this . . .’ Mishca replied, ‘. . . why didn’t you bring the car’?

‘Errm, you know how it is in Zone1? I didn’t want to park too far from the restaurant so caught a cab in’. Janet’s little red lie had worked; diversion, like a hazebomb, to reappear just like shidogaiden. ‘Oh Mum, why can’t you get a taxi out then? . . . I’m in bed you know, and I’ve got work tomorrow’ ‘I know that also Mischa you don’t need to point it out.

Anyway I . . . seem to have misplaced my house keys’ ‘What do you mean you’ve misplaced them, they’re here, I came in and they were on the table. What’s going on Mum’? ‘I mean I lost my purse, that’s it’

‘Are you sure you’re OK Mum . . .’?‘I’m fine’‘Well you don’t sound fine. Where’s Dad’?‘Oh, err, I don’t know, I’m not too sure’‘So who did you go to dinner with then’?‘That’s not important right now darling, I just need you to pick me

up, I got myself in a bit of a jam and I didn’t know what else to do’By now Mishca was already out of the bed heading for the car in her

night clothes. ‘OK Mum I’m on my way, tell me exactly where you are now’ ‘I’m about a mile from your workplace, down on the corner of

8-ways, opposite Xeno’s restaurant’ ‘What, on the street’!‘Well not exactly, in someone’s house further down’‘With whom may I ask . . .’?‘Oh, a colleague’‘Would this be a male colleague by any chance . . .’?

523

PEN PREDATOR, EXCETERA (YEA RIGHT)

‘Yes darling but it’s not what you think—far from it actually’ she added under her breath, still pacing the hallway.

Mishca hopped in her cellcar, started up and began to drive. ‘So, what you doing, with a male colleague on a weekend mum . . .? Is he hunky looking . . .? He better not be hunky mum’. From unnecessary stipulation Janet’s sigh blasted off; an effort NOT to flip the switch on her daughter in front of Nick, rather, opting for a more subtle form of child-regulation. ‘Is that important right now Mishca . . .? No its not.

So just pull up in the car park behind Blood Diamond Station and you call me when you hit the orbital’ ‘Alright I’m on my way’. Listening to all these abnormal answers had Mishca more than slightly worried, becoming overly intrigued while driving, by her Mother, and her current scenario. ‘. . . But . . . hold up one minute Mum, so what you’re saying to me is, you went out to dinner, without Dad, lost your purse with a probably good-looking guy you won’t name, and you want me to pick you up from his house’?

‘It’s a little bit more complicated than that darling but . . . Look I need you to hurry’

‘OK OK stay there, I’m nearly on the motorway. I’ll get there as soon as I can’

‘OK then, see you soon—As quick as you can though baby’.Janet hung up the phone biting her lip, and approached the doorway

looking a little apologetic towards Nick, as the big kitchen window on the other side, let city-sound trough, but, moved not much moisture of the kitchen air, out.

‘Sorry about that’ she said referring to her daughters selection of investigation over obedience. They both had smiles on. Janet leaned against the door frame and Nick, in his spotless navy-blue apron, moved from adding par-boiled taglietteli, over to rinsing and organising plates—Being a general-practitioner-cook herself Janet was quite impressed by the presence of mind displayed in the kitchen, busy splitting attention over different aspects of foodstuffs and crockery, in command like it was a mere daily operation for him. She fanned herself a few times with her cardigan.

‘So my daughters on her way now’ ‘At least that’s one thing sorted out then’ replied Nick. ‘Mmm’, Janet agreed, looking around at (to her estimation) probably the ex-wife’s relics. ‘Her name was Vienna right’?

524

Celine Flux

‘Yea’ he answered looking round at them too, wiping his brow before doing so.

A few minutes of preparation later it was time to serve. ‘Right, take these’. Nick placed down the colander, and purposefully handed Janet a jug of carbonated icewater and two frosted flutes to drink them in. ‘It won’t be long now. You just sit yourself in the front room and I’ll bring it out to you’. So, tired-eyed, stifling her yawn, Janet shuffled off (in her Taliban sandals) with hands full along the hallway into the front room and waited.

Not too long after that Nick came in balancing a salad and two steaming plates of food grated with hard cheese sending violent, trigger-happy aroma’s into the room (resembling that of in-between poorly-tendered toe). Mannish, Nick got busy, tucking away into his massive plate whilst Janet on the other hand continued to struggle with her background nausea—It remained; the day’s ongoing drama stubbornly laying test to her intestinal fortitude. She sat nibbling on a lemon-drenched ruby leaf in an attempt to gradually persuade her stomach still.

‘So what do you do’? ‘Oh’ she replied, mind jumping off the smell of parmesan. ‘. . . Headteacher, in a comprehensive school in Cornershire’.

Eyes back upon plate Nick pulled a slightly surprised and puzzled face, listening on. ‘I teach creative poetry at nights too, twice a week—that’s my real passion. And yourself? . . .’ ‘Oh me, oversee fiscal transactions, streamline a thing called “enabling mechanisms”—tech-stuff, pays well.

Hate it though. But you know how the saying goes . . .’ Nick slowed down on his food, ‘. . . It’s the only thing I’m good at. I’m considering a transfer to the Empire State’. He paused for a moment staring at his plate once more, dragged back to an unwanted thought. ‘Your wife . . .’?

She gambled on such speculation softly but Nick didn’t need to answer, it was obvious. He wiped his mouth and reached over the coffee table to touch-up their glasses with more icewater.

‘My daughter, Mischa, great girl but passive-aggressive, you know’.Nick replied, ‘Actually I’ve never come across anyone who isn’t’. Janet

gave off a slight laugh, ‘. . . Better than active-aggressive though . . . no’?

‘Exactly!’ gestured Nick pointing expressively with his fork. ‘She works in a hotel over in Chanzenton, other side of 8-ways’ ‘Oh really’? ‘Yea . . . It took her about two hours to get out of Allzones this evening.

525

PEN PREDATOR, EXCETERA (YEA RIGHT)

So she wasn’t too happy about retuning for me . . . I don’t know how I’m going to tell her what happened today. Actually . . . you know what’! Janet placed her plate of food down on the table and stood slowly, edging towards panic, ‘. . . I’m not even sure I should be up here when she comes’? She sidestepped out from the centre of the settee and coffee table. ‘Look, wait a sec’ Nick blocked her hip with his hand, ‘. . . calm down . . . just wait a second OK? Look . . . Text her, saying to make sure to call you back when she’s near, and I’ll escort you down, then that way you can tell her whatever you want to in the car home’. His hand now sliding down her hip Janet saw sense in the plan, and after, as it gently slipped off her knicker-line for him to resume eating, struck with a little consideration she sat herself back down. ‘That’s it . . . At least have some more food . . . you’ve hardly touched it’. Though his auto-touch affected her positively Janet did feel a little bad about being unable to eat. Sat and strangely sexualized she shifted herself forward more, almost perching, this time determined to at least eat a few mouthfuls in gratitude. ‘No, I see what you’re saying’.

Again wandering if Mishca would detect gravity and thus follow instruction she looked around, and then down at this large, deep plate gaping in front of her. ‘My heads all over the place right now that’s all’

‘well why wouldn’t it be? It’s OK’, said Nick stacking his fork. Janet leaned some more towards her own plate on the table; She drew it near, lifted it, and stabbed at some pasta covered with intense red pesto, picking up a forkful and placing it in her mouth—She really wasn’t in the mood for any food.

526

YOU CALL THAT SUBMISSION CHALLINGA?

(IT’S THERE BUT YOU GO ALONE)

Janet’s endeavour but, however small, was a subtle display of courage overcoming upset. Yes it was minor but to him endearing nonetheless, knowing inside she was trying her best, listening to that personal well-wishing fairy godmother no doubt saying . . .’ Come on Janet, it’s been over twelve hours . . . you’ve got to eat something’! Janet took a deep nasal breath and washed down the mouthful of food with some water—the first small victory over open-ended misery. Nick on the other hand had practically finished. His pasta had been massacred, physical systems taking over to do the rest (converting starchy carbs into glucose). Janet was on her second mouthful now, and her body being subject to the same laws (but she, forcing her tummy out of shutdown mode), was trying not to gag, fighting the food down valiantly like a well-pampered celeb thrown in the jungle with nothing but bush tucker.

To Nick, also stiff at the upper lip—Britain’s priceless commodity—(but Japan and those countries who share the Alps have a more concentrated form hands down)—this was almost glorious, epic, something very few of us (with our region-specific sensitivities) could ever do and Nick just witnessed it, facing Janet on the other side of the coffee table watching, considering what she was going through—pretty much what Vienna had put him through—a sensible effort such as this was a display after Nick’s own heart.

He stood up, calling time on the struggle to eat (she having eaten nothing since breakfast and not long afterwards having her whole world flipped upside down!) reaching over mercifully to take the plate. They’re hands touched; it didn’t feel wrong; he didn’t feel too young, she didn’t feel too old, his respect and admiration for overriding her puke-reflex now making them both emotional for a split second. Janet never gave up chewing until his large hand swallowed hers and he had a firm grip on the plate, putting it on top of his own. He broke the moment, heading for the kitchen. She filled her glass, fresh, loved-up spirit sweeping its

527

YOU CALL THAT SUBMISSION CHALLINGA? (IT’S THERE BUT YOU GO ALONE)

way into her body by way of her eyes. He popped the membrane of platonic friendship, barely hours old, and she loaded it with possibility.

Once in the kitchen Nick put the plates down. ‘I’m wondering Janet’ he shouted, ‘how you managed to get on the train with no money’?

Janet twisted round on the settee to talk. ‘I may as well start from the beginning; we can swap war stories’? ‘Yeah right’ Nick chuckled in agreement walking towards her from the hallway. ‘Well’ she said with Nick sitting back down, tired and stomach-laden ‘it all started with mumblings I heard in the bathroom one evening, a while ago now. It aroused my suspicions but stupid me ignoring the feelings I went and gave him the benefit of the doubt, for months. But I became aware of things, little things I didn’t want to face. I made excuses, as he was changing things, gradually’ ‘Like what’? Nick asked. ‘Things like, for instance, becoming more careful, too cautious with possessions and appointments. He’d practically gotten himself a whole new wardrobe.

I tried to tell myself it was just a mid-life thing you know, or rather, some aspect of my reasoning had convinced my own woman’s intuition’ ‘uuhh allow me to correct you there’ Nick interjected, creating some flippant relief in the process, ‘I’ll have half of that so-called “woman’s intuition” thank you very much’! Right then for some unknown reason, maybe to ruin good work, the Vienna factor, her remnants and memories, made its way into the conversation and Nick’s reactive lobe, ill-timed and unannounced. He pushed through it.

‘Did you have anyone you could speak to about it at the time’?‘Mishca wouldn’t detect something like that not in her father, she

loves him too much. I did speak to a couple of my closest but, you know, how far can they push their assertions? Anyway it wasn’t their concern’.

Genuinely interested in the parallels—given condensed meaning by his own far from unanimous perspective—Nick listened on keenly. ‘Things came to a head the other morning when I looked in his phone and I saw a date confirmed for the weekend at our local train station . . . It was obviously sent by a lover . . . I just knew it’

‘How could you have been so certain’?‘I’d already built the certainty up in my mind, so, wrote down the

date and resolved to follow him, I had to make sure, by now, slowly out-growing all my denials. But I almost forgot I was double booked for this weekend. I didn’t even have time to grab my bag when suddenly I heard the door shut, then I remembered so I just threw on my cardigan, ran to the window, and then headed for the train which I knew he knew

528

Celine Flux

came on the hour—Luckily I also knew the gates were unmanned most Saturday evenings, and Sundays too.

I crept up on him, noticing this woman. I thought at first she was some tourist, then they locked hands as the train came and it’s like he couldn’t let go! I leapt onto the train carriages further down, and as I came through each carriage heading toward him, he just stared back, mumbling to her. She looked at me, then they just squeezed each other’s hands while I questioned him, asking why, and who she was. He told her not to say anything, without replying either. But I was in shock more than anything else’. Nick cut in, compassion’s hara deep behind his belly button, where secondary nerve-endings gather to form the second brain, ‘I came on the train at my Postiga Street Station. I did see you ya know, holding onto the bar checking everything out, looking pretty pissed I must add’

‘I was . . . and wander who called the police’ asked Nick. ‘Well it wasn’t him I know that for certain’ Janet replied, ‘I never took my eyes off them. I felt like taking off my slippers to them both, but I was already playing into his hands looking like some typical jilted obsessive—if I had my wits about me I would have headed straight home to burn his stuff ’! Janet’s afterthought released anger. It crawled all through her veins, marauding, unrestrained. Nick sensed it.

Feeling bad also he came and sat down beside her, placing his arm on her back as she once more stared trough her knees, deep into internal memories, correlating them, measuring some against others, damaging herself. He noticed tears on the way. His eyes felt like welling up on her behalf.

He squeezed her shoulder some more like a comrade in arms, jolting and swaying her soft body slightly; both stared in the exact same spot.

As she looked across at his determined frown she decided right then, to tighten back up her own resolve, some symbolic suspension for the bumpy road she now found herself travelling on. ‘Janet, I have a favour to ask’ ‘What is it?’ she replied, removing the tissue quickly from her nose. ‘I want you to take something, carry it home . . . keep it on you till I see you again; It’s my viewpoint; just like you said . . . us, now, “trading war stories”‘. She smiled again exactly like Nick intended.

Her mind came off orbiting her situation (less frequently) by him revealing more details of his life: old and new friends, Peter, work and war, right up to the point of Vienna’s conviction. He struggled but felt Janet deserved to hear all of these, possibly helpful tales.

529

YOU CALL THAT SUBMISSION CHALLINGA? (IT’S THERE BUT YOU GO ALONE)

Later, both sunk low and drowsy to an extent, he welcomed her to join him in resting their feet on the table. It was late, very warm, and both were influenced somewhat, ever so gently, by the moon, in a surreal, dark night hour, but still, a strange, excited realm. Then holding it up for isolated, systemic dissection, he went back to speak of his romantic entanglements with Vee, from the beginning, everything, how she resisted having kids, and what little he’d learned from Burt of her vague 731 involvement with Shadowless. He explained how he felt finding incriminating evidence, following her, the crash, Neon’s death, the sentence, the letters unopened in his bedroom, and of the mixed emotions the whole situation entailed for him nowadays.

Janet was shocked. She drew up further parallels also, from her own life story, travelling back to adolescence, when Nick was still young skimming stones on rivers and skinny dipping with even younger Niv and Neon. He drew sketches of the recent tragedy, handing her the felt-tips to colour them in, swimming into the details while Janet held onto his arm and followed—these tales of love and loss—common among any householders wishing to start a family—Such pastimes had their air brushed highs, and lots of conveniently photoshoped lows.

She became more engrossed; Nick remembered things Janet could tell he didn’t want to face yet, but he was out in those waters. She jumped in at the deep end, they both scrambled out, she plunged in to say something regarding her own loss, he jumped back in to save her, barrier after barrier of empathy was being broken, and all the time their world of love was undergoing a reconstitution, placing them together, she, older than him, but Nick, still attracted.

Candid words were spoken that night; truth from under the breastplate—Janet had so much spirit, visible regardless. He dug her; she still had it; beauty and brains. And the terrain they were on, rough, heading to towards help, offered on the, at times, speechless plane, was understood through proximity, extended and received, each way, because they both knew—Nick from his own experience, Janet from her longer life—that things like legal divorce, detaching from so many years of love and affection, was a long journey, but themselves, as a couple, were just beginning.

530

MASTERED THAT ART IN 95’

NOW I AM SO BORED :(

Sat speaking for a couple of hours there the conversation had stirred them up inside, both of their feelings, heartened, now mixed and blended together. Still making the return leg of their distant, potentially risky voyage through circumstance—past present and theoretical—Nick’s house phone begun to ring. He picked it up showing Janet the number.

And already suspecting who the caller was he sat next to her on the armrest, carefully taking his sails down for an emotional breather. ‘That’ll be your daughter’. Janet sat up off the cushions taking the phone.

‘Mishca? . . . You near . . .?’ ‘Yep, I’m not too far now’ ‘OK I’ll make my way down to the car park’ ‘Mum, you sure you don’t want me to come up and get you’? ‘No no, it’s fine I’ll get my friend to escort me down’ Janet grinned looking at Nick. ‘I thought you said it was a work colleague Mum?’ ‘I haven’t got time to answer your stupidness now; I’ve got to make my way downstairs!’ ‘OK see you outside then’.

Janet handed the phone back to Nick. He hung it up. ‘Do you mind if I quickly use your loo?’ ‘Sure go ahead it’s that way’ he shouted as she toddled off through the open door.

When she returned, Nick locked his front door and then escorted Janet back to get the lift which took them to ground level. Many metres apart, those two massive widows at each end let cooler breeze through the hallway shaft as they walked; whitewashed brickwork scathed also, releasing the day’s solar heat, guided their journey down the wide corridor, posted foliage clashed with the paint every few meters or so.

Once there, Nick called the lift and when it opened, stepped inside.

As the mechanical door crunched to a close Nick gave out a reassuring smile before it gathered speed, accumulating descent. It hummed its way toward lower floors, in a strange example, almost, of sexual friction

531

MASTERED THAT ART IN 95’ NOW I AM SO BORED :(

increasing between them, the lifts motion through non-light, and matter, their bodies, in constant therefore undetectable transit.

‘Look Nick’, Janet said throwing her head across to apologise, ‘Sorry to start, like, a whole post-mortem and stuff in your house’ ‘Oh don’t worry, glad to help. I’m no counsellor but it’s kind of cathartic, speaking to someone—at least outside my own group of friends. I should be thanking you instead!’ They smiled at each other, until the lift, buzzing away indicating a stop, opened, finally reaching the ground floor.

Expected, against air-con it was muggier down on ground level and falling night temperatures provided slender refreshment. They both headed through the carpeted foyer talking to the door and together stepped out into the car park to wait for Mishca.

To their far right, some corporate drunk in hard argument mode with his girlfriend, stormed off, across their eye line over to his hand-painted, chrome-trim thing from Sweden, yelling intensely. ‘You were the only one at the table without even a Master’s Degree, everybody knows without a PHD you can’t speak!’ She, mod-red-sheen at mid-length, shouted back at him. ‘Trust you to make that, of all things, that, into a big blogumentary!

What a convenient truth this is for you for f***k’s sake, I mean sh*t . . .’

He quickly returned fire at the juicy pear, abstract tulip-print on wispy off-white, purse with thin chain falling off her shoulder. ‘Huh, well for your sake b-tch . . . you want an example of how to live, St Prabhu!

There’s one . . . there’s an exemplary life for ya . . . you f##king idiot!’

With that he hopped in his car and spun off, leaving the woman just as liqueur’d-out to walk back onto 8-ways, all upset, flushed, and in that heat, sticky too. Her footsteps faded away—Nick and Janet just looked at each other bemused for a heartbeat, and within another, he’d rubbed her shoulder seeking to recharge her resolution batteries. ‘You’re gonna be alright you know, trust me’.

As the polished black-low, meaned its way over rows of car space, weaving around saplings and infant trees bordering isles of white on encrusted tarmac, Mischa’s tiny electric hybrid came into view from

532

Celine Flux

down the road. The two cars then crossed; that millennium knight-rider, sending fossil fuel as old as Planet Asia into the moist, static air.

‘What’s was his bloody problem?’ said Mishca pulling up to her Mum,

‘is he trying to kill somebody! . . . Not anyone you know then . . .’?She was looking at Nick, aiming the third question his direction

as her mother turned around, Janet stopping to ask . . .’ Listen, Nick. Let me take you to dinner? Like a thank you for all you did for me today’. He raised his eyebrows faintly, with quantum indications ‘. . . a day that doesn’t seem to be over yet . . .’! That was intended for Janet’s daughter, more concerned with looking around all the back streets signs leading from the corners of the car park area, dark, and unfamiliar to her, although she parked quite near over in Chinatown to walk into Blood Diamond most workdays.

‘I’ll tell you what, gimme a call. First see how the whole ship sails out’ referring to her husband. ‘Will do . . .’ Mishca started up the car. ‘Any weeknight? . . .’ she checked once more. ‘Yep, after shift will be fine’.

Janet locked her seatbelt then leaned over Mishca looking up through the driver side window. ‘Right . . . And thanks again’! ‘No problem’. Nick waved them goodbye as they exited the car park, but Mishca cottoned on to something—though she wasn’t sure quite what.

She checked out at Nick, still there, waving. ‘Something’s up you’re not telling me Mum? What is it? . . . Why are you out with a teacher so late and looking at him like that?’ ‘Like what . . .?’ asked Janet wanting to smile, only images of an ensuing row between her and husband Michael keeping the smirk off her face—an all-round expression Mishca on the other hand, detected as . . . out of character.

‘You never went to Xeno’s looking like that did you?’ Janet was struggling to lie. ‘Look Mishca, do you mind if we don’t talk, it’s late, I’m hot and I need a shower. For now I’d just like to rest my eyes, just for a while if you don’t mind babe’? Welcoming more air Janet fully wound down the window, placed her elbow on the frame, head, on the rest propped behind and just contemplated things for a while, as she glanced at whatever caught her eye before motion eventually closed them.

The Blood Diamond streets were crammed-out, and as per-usual so was “neon city”—(Chanzen’s bright idea of advertising). But the outer zones grew progressively quieter so, by about forty five minutes later they’d reached Zonelimits, where by then Janet had fallen fast asleep

533

MASTERED THAT ART IN 95’ NOW I AM SO BORED :(

cruising with her inconvenienced daughter, tired too, the M road homebound.

When they pulled up to the driveway of their, once, working farmhouse, now a moss-strewn adaptation, Janet stirred and began to brace herself for possible doom.

‘Did you leave the light on darling?’‘I think so’. Mishca locked the car, wrapping herself up properly in

her lengthy cardigan. ‘I wonder if your father’s back’ mumbled Janet hugging psychological sandbags. ‘Guess we’ll know in a sec’, replied her daughter pushing the key into the door.

Curiosity and security hardwired since grasslands or caves, her mother crept over to the frontroom window in early appraisal; this considered a sure sign of shady movements by Mishca, as she instead stepped inside and checked for her father. ‘Nope, he’s not in yet’.

Mishca then went to the kitchen for a glass of water while Janet closed the door looking around. ‘And he hasn’t called you today . . .?’

‘We spoke this morning. Where’s your phone Mum’? ‘Oh, lost that too, I think I left them in the cab’. Mishca frowned down her nose mock- patronizing at such apparent lapse of concentration, indeed, situation.

‘Don’t worry . . . I already phoned the banks from Nick’s house and cancel the cards’ ‘OK, so I’m off to bed’; Mishca seemed fed up though, enough to signal a yawn while walking from the sink about to head upstairs. ‘Goodnight then darling’.

Janet sat down at the kitchen table, a distant glaze over her focus, labouring with thoughts of what to do next. She stared at her bunch of keys and then picked them up in a symbolic squeeze. Memories of that afternoon entered the room as she fiddled about with its keyring, toying with ideas of retreat and surrender, practising mental wargames; psy-ops with the man she loved for most of her life.

Now fully alone she prepared for a gruelling night ahead moving slowly to her feet, calculating, assuming Michael wasn’t going to return at least until tomorrow, so plodded her aching chest up the stairs, ran herself a bath, shedding clothes, chewing memories over, cutting internal ties as best she could, while remembering, back at Nick’s, with his wonderful efforts to cushion her fall, and the growing appreciation for him, an enroaching contempt for Michael, anger, regret, worry, vengeance, answers all combined; she sat soaking in the tub for as long as she possibly could.

534

Celine Flux

Next morning, the chestplate covering her cardiac muscle battled with re-expansion and inflation even though the day itself held out a promise of summer beauty. The morning air was lighter but still, she felt immediate, that sense of distant approach, collision, unrest, soft rolling dales of withdrawn melancholia nearing from afar, a throwback into yesterday since picking up Michael’s phone, confirming all her suspicions. She rubbed her eyes to look around. Daylight came through open curtains, door and window, ajar, sensing no activity in the kitchen, no usual salty swine with radio together rousing the sense organs.

Mishca had left for Zone1 so, sore lids heavy on the alarm clock she got up, last night’s bug-out still hanging over present, and semi-operational.

She picked up the house phone on the dresser, speared into action by righteous upset and valid vexation. Then she dialled the number and waited.

The signal took its time bouncing off more satellites than usual, only to return automated. “This phone is currently switched off. Please try again later”. She put down the phone slowly, remaining still yet active, body on ortow pylit but inside, up top, sat crowned in the throne, the organic super computer crunching away, categorizing problem documentation, compulsively—She couldn’t stop:

‘He’s with her now, I bet? He didn’t seem scared yesterday? Wander why not? Will he come back today? Every thing’s in his name . . . shite!’

As quick as she could she ran around the bed and out the door to check the study room. Nothing appeared missing. Right then another thought entered her mind and she headed back to the bedroom . . . shoes, blazers, shirts and trousers, all in the wardrobe. ‘He must return today surly? What if he doesn’t? Think I’ll take the day off tomorrow . . . see a solicitor’.

She walked over to her dusty dresser: Sunday was wipe-talcum-from- make-up-station-day; that could wait. Bewildered, she sat down at the dresser and looked around at jewellery boxes, open, pearls, broken broaches, hair combs, perfume. She fixed the small round buffer properly onto an open tub of scented powder, then closed the lid looking up at herself in the mirror, still glowing despite recent events, skin, good, visgothic nose, ancient bridge, recent nostrils, rosy cheeks, healthy, erotic sophistication immutable, short grey hair, styl-ish, controllable, shoulders and collar, fine, chest and large breasts, unsupported by

535

MASTERED THAT ART IN 95’ NOW I AM SO BORED :(

nightwear, tummy, hips, thighs, beyond government guidelines, a pressure she could do without. ‘I’ve let myself go’. She admitted it remembering when back to when she was younger, solid, and looked more athletic. At that moment she thought of Nick; she’d seen into his heart completely by chance. Younger, dark haired and handsome—Such a great guy she thought . . . Such a great heart. Janet was seen as mature and intelligent but inside to herself only, still just a girl.

Lamenting upon Nick’s heart it occurred to her, that luckily, she knew the way back there, to it, which made her sit up straight wandering how Nick perceived her body image. Those possibilities alarmed her;

Leaning forward, looking into her own hasburg-blue eyes, Janet vowed to fix the juice-problem, neglected due to another problem called, “I have enough problems”.

536

THIS GRATIFICATION, HORNY WOMAN, IS

AVALIBLE TO THE PIG AND THE KNOB!!

Monday Nick went to work airing on the rather fluffy side of life—not too much though, he felt it discreet, still currently unsure how to take a future, or the idea, with this new woman Janet. There was definitely something there he was sure of that, but was it appropriate? ‘It would take some getting used to if I was to, if we were to . . .’

Janet, being older by a decade at least, brought out the mature side in his person; Nick quite liking this upright, “if it ain’t funny why laugh” side of him. He could just see Janet in school now, doing her thing-thing, taking no shorts. Average height, valorous in conflict and mentally touchable, Nick couldn’t wait to tell Peter and Omni about his weekend and of course, see Janet again hopefully in the week—For some reason, Lord Jesus Christ at the side of Elo-Yaweh-I, the had done most of the compassion work on his behalf!

He got to his hardly-an-office and waited for Peter who he could see not far in a Cogni-pod, him and a colleague holding that Monday prac-run, crouched in preparation to blitz Mr Murphy with up-to-date paperwork later on that day. Nick took a large bottle of Gaulic water from out of his bag, and that’s when Omni strolled in, trading good mornings and formalities, cruising all the way till he came near to his own demeaning hardly-an-office. ‘Yo Nick, shalomallah, how’s things?

I gotta tell you about my weekend squire, and I got delayed at the bridge on the way . . . another bomb scare or something’. An, until then, unknown female co-worker glided past, ‘yea I heard it too on the radio coming in’ she exclaimed rushing by. Omni reached and dropped his coat on the back of his chair elaborating. ‘Yea, like, a thousand of us, but you know what’s deeper still?’ he asked everyone but specifically Nick, looking at him and a few other workers walking by before heading back the way he came to the men’s toilets, ‘. . . I got trapped-off geez. And just my luck, I tried my three litres today . . . early!’

537

THiS GRATiFiCATiOn, HORnY WOMAn, iS AVAliBle TO THe PiG AnD THe KnOB!!

Omni hurried himself off shouting to Nick, ‘Back in a bit’. Nick threw up one hand, activating his on-screen display panel with the other and prepared himself to knuckle down into some heavy trade-divisory work, gripping up phones to calm down amongst others, The Youngreys Net, over in their yakubean, smoke-filled stripy-tie house, where members sat polying over cash not yet digitized—money they’ve never actually seen (supposedly bundled in a neutral vault somewhere)—and, that only fiscal accountants had receipts for, stamp-marked and tally’d up on banking IOU-paper but recognized as a whole gang of zeros. This was mostly how Monday’s started from the eight-thirty prelim-sirens.

And from then, always on standby in this—their Tri Kilo Merchantine Representative House—such commercial trade and development systems built seemingly only to regurgitate Gammatec’s liquid and somehow ever-transforming world terms, a little known valuable fact Peter and Nick were helping each other out with, both “on the diddy-low” with the said fact, quietly dealing with it as a “side matter” of dirt and unfortunately, without Omni.

Peter came back from the cluster of Cogni-pods holding bundles of papers, placing them a couple of desks down from Nick. ‘So how was your weekend Peter’? Nick asked. ‘Oh me, just more of the same—80’s Kerrang and salty corn chips. How about you, beat Omni to the punch with that jacket you were beefing over?’ ‘I did actually, and I got some dapper shoes to go with it, but you know Omni would never wear them’. Outraged already, Omni overheard Nick talking about the shoes on the way back from the toilet. ‘Maan there’s nothing you’d wear that I wouldn’t dare to . . . c’mon you know how I do when it comes to virgin-cloth territory? You know the motto!!’ ‘Yesss we know the motto Omni “Commies on peasant-back”‘. Omni pulled up the chair to his desk, now satisfied by regular and correct drill recital. ‘Yea man, born to conquer new clothes me’. He sat himself down.

‘Wait a minute . . .! Don’t tell me you got that jacket’? ‘Yep, I caught the train. Hot and stuffy mistake really. Well it would have been, until, you won’t believe this guy’s . . .’ at that, Nick had about five people within earshot all tentatively awaiting the revelation, ‘Until I met this woman’

‘What do you mean “met this woman”, what on the train’?‘Yea . . . We both got off at Blood Diamond; well actually she got

thrown off by the police!’ ‘What were you doing on the train?’ asked

538

Celine Flux

Peter. ‘I had to have that jacket before Omni . . . simple. So after breakfast I took a walk into town. My shoes were rubbing so I got the train back . . . and my cars still at a garage in the outer zones’. Peter and Omni leaned across other workers sitting, all just-in before the bell trying to log-on, or type, but ears wide open too, totally sucked into this oddly fascinating plot.

‘So, I’m on the train and there’s this woman having it out with her husband. At first it was no problem, some typical wildlife viewing. He was cheating with what to me, didn’t look like much of a younger model or nothing, but the jilted woman was so nice though, she was just so nice. ‘Geez what do you mean “nice”? Explain “nice” blood’ ‘I mean she was nice about the situation too, most couldn’t but I could tell there was something deeper than met the eye, cause she was handling it, the fury, in a certain way, reminding me off when I caught out Vee’ ‘Oh’. Peter fell back, a touch more solemn (while Omni stood further informed and corrected).

‘Anyway when the police were called she held some sit-down protest, then it came out, everyone was whispering about it; that she caught her husband on the train with another woman, confronted him. By then had I to get off the train, so, upstairs I stopped for a paper and some frozen yoghurt, turned around and there she was, distraught but holding it together, impressively too, well after just being escorted off the train!’

‘So what happened?’ Omni asked fiddling about with something on his computer. ‘Well cut a night-long story short: near the entrance I offered to help, she nearly fainted, I took her home then on the way told her what happened to me my sis and Neon, and how Vee’s now in prison, she sat down twice-bowled-over borrowing my phone to call Mishca her daughter, then we sat talking all night till she was picked up to be taken to her shire, and you know somewhere along the line, I think I fell in love’.

‘Holy Torah . . .!’ Omni joked, to everyone listening but busy, ‘sounds perfect! like my favourite romantic flick yo . . . “Why are you smiling, let me let me guess . . . a worthy adversary?”‘ Omni then turned to the guy on his right (who hardly heard and looked puzzled) mock-echoing the rest of the world’s preferred romance comedy quotation . . .’ “It was only a mission statement!”’

‘But, there’s one thing guy’s . . .’ ‘I knew there had to be something’ said Peter. ‘Always is. What is it?’ probed Omni. ‘You see the thing is . . . she’s a mature woman’. Omni and Peter didn’t say anything for a while,

539

THiS GRATiFiCATiOn, HORnY WOMAn, iS AVAliBle TO THe PiG AnD THe KnOB!!

and then Omni asked, with some uncertainty, ‘What’s that supposed to mean, you’re saying that like it’s a problem’ ‘Mature but sexual right? She is hot right Nick?’ Peter too enquired. ‘Of course, well I think so anyway’ ‘Would I . . .?’ Peter pursued. ‘Of course’ ‘Yea but would I’ Omni asked straight afterwards. ‘I don’t know. She’s hot but not what you’re thinking . . . hot’ ‘OK?’ Omni Peter and Nick mentally headed different directions, each delved into respective rising orbs of imagination for a second or two. Nick climbed out first and sat up looking at some error on his CPU screen. He began to type something, tapping the pink rubber tip of his pencil on the keyboard.

‘She’s calling anyway so we can arrange dinner; she said she wants to thank me for cooking for her’ ‘You cooked for her and you only knew her for a few hours’! ‘Did anything else happen we should know about rudeboy?’ ‘Nope, but I’ve been worrying about her since Saturday; hope she’s alright’ ‘Well what a weekend you’ve had then, daym, I was gonna say me and Seattle had a great time at the temple but that can wait, tell us what else happened with you and . . .’? ‘Her names Janet and check this guy’s . . . she’s a school teacher’ ‘A schoolteacher!

Huh. You know, if I didn’t trust your judgement 100%, I’d preside over this story as kinda kinky’ ‘Yea, she had on a cardigan with a nice mid-cut dress, costume jewellery I think, on her hands and neck running down her chest, and her hair was on the quite funky side too! I tell you guy’s, she’s not at all what you’d expect’. Peter looked at Omni who projected towards the both of them, ‘I don’t know about you Peter, but I’ve got some ex-cameralady-for-televised-revolution-type in my head’ ‘Yea she was a Lady Omni, she spoke a bit like Vee too, nowhere near as stern as your thinking, really mild mannered you know? Like I said, really really nice’ ‘Well good for you I say’ said Peter. ‘I second that motion’ said Omni.

‘Me too’‘And us! . . .’ came from a couple more workers, still half listening to

Nick’s quixotic weekend.By now everyone close to Nick at Shadowless knew what “that bitch

from 731” had done to him, and considering all that had happened, there was no objection from anyone to the age gap. He seemed happy—it was a timely luck of the break everyone agreed, that Nick definitely deserved.

* * *

540

“THIS IS WHAT IT SOUNDS LIKE WHEN

YOU’RE CAUGHT IN A WHIRLWIND”

Seattle, Volga, and Abi were out in the garden talking about how each of them acquired their beautifully ugly scars—and talking boyfriends; brief romances of yesteryear included, (Volga’s tale in particular involved a mixture of the two). After requesting batches of sage and peppermint, torn and handed though the window to stock jars Katrina prepared tea while still engaged in conversation, arranging mugs on a tray, all four of them laughing at old fools they attempted to love in the past, nowhere near, in fact, quite opposite to them on the civilization spectrum. ‘It reminds me of Under Superior’s data retrieval on today’s lecture, “Duality of interconnected individuals”‘ Katrina shouted.

Abi, and Seattle—now happy with temple member Omni at home with Otho (steadily preparing himself for want of nothing but the supreme conception beyond nothingness)—were both sat together on the kitchen step. ‘Yea, your right’ threw Abi, acknowledging similarity between the two topics as the others listened on, thinking about it.

Today, for each of The Temple of Ugly People devotees here, taking a quick break before bouncing home, although alloyed with mundane birdcrap unacceptable to the supreme, these were inquiries which stayed on their minds and peaked interest even while asleep, from youth it remained, continuous—Unable to be shared and explored with past lovers, unfortunately for the transcendental plane of par-sensual love, these lovers became, lovingly . . . unlovable.

Seattle listened and thought about Katrina’s connection, sounds of clinking crockery coming through the open door spooking her far-out reasoning’s to jump back into the present. Feeling to offer some assistance Seattle twisted round on the garden step using Abi’s shoulder for support, ‘Sure you don’t want a hand in there Kat?’ she shouted.

‘Nah, no problem now, almost done’. So she turned back around to Volga still stood on the grass.

541

“THiS iS WHAT iT SOunDS liKe WHen YOu’Re CAuGHT in A WHiRlWinD”

The time of seasonal influence was most precious of late, with a cool breeze nice to the skin. Dry once again, it felt like some starwars planet, but it was earth; home; tilting close to its star, shifting on its belt, oscillating for incalculable eternimoments at vishnuspeed. Everybody relished the temperature and dressed light welcoming the luke clemency.

This sporadic “picking scabs” conversation being held outside had made its rounds and was now in full flow until the tea was declared ready and taken out. Each took their cups from Katrina when she came onto the top step lowering the tray. Then she stood too—for a little while—beside Abi on the bottom step.

‘Mine was while modelling’, said Volga dramatizing, dressed simply, but healthy—and neat (as ever) ‘and way way before my temple days, when I was chatted up on a photo shoot in the Caribbean; I was greedy, and the photographer, well let’s just say his luck was on the up’. Seattle looked at Abigail, who looked at Katrina; both holding down the shock, stifling it because they all knew Volga was about to share her story of how she became hospitalized, needing surgery on her skull now covered up by short hair, the front pinched sideways by her golden hairgrip.

‘Yep, I know, like a fool I was thinking, “Like OK you know what, career move, that’s it, yea, I’ll succumb to his worn out charms . . . Maybe I’ll progress, why not? Who knows right?”‘ Katrina decided to sit down now.

She walked over grabbing a seat near the drain still listening vigorously, enwrapped by the story so far. ‘So he took me out for a date. I ordered dead lobster boiled alive’. As Katrina placed the chair beside her cup then sat, she and the girls popped out a laugh which made Volga start to laugh too, expressing her tale of folly with even more detail and pale humour.

‘Later, while bragging about his place, constantly pointing to it up on the cliff, he paraded me at a bar he claimed to co-own. But he did know the staff well and all night I was like “Hey how you doing nice to meet you!” talk about tedious, at the bar like “Let me get thisss” and “let me get some aaa . . .” you know how it is.

Cut a long story short the drinks flew and I ended up spending the night with this photographer instead of my own hotel room. The next morning—in this man’s house remember, the estranged syco-wife knocks; Scared me half to bloody death!

He told me to get dressed and wait on the veranda, but the commotion, kicking away clothes and initial refusals from me were all

542

Celine Flux

heard through the letterbox’. Kat, Seattle and Abi held their teas totally aghast, enjoying the suspense so far, but tinged with worry, anticipating where this memoir was no doubt heading. ‘So he goes to the door, his powers of diversion collapsed and before long she steps in, and looks like she’s gonna go flipazoid when she walks past and spots me. Well . . .’,

Volga continued ‘that was that, I felt like the words “you’re wrong”, were flushed over my naked body . . . I could’ve died, and there wasn’t much I could do considering the situation, I was totally sprung, both of us, thankfully wearing underwear, hair messy, down to my shoulders them days’. As Volga pointed to her shoulders Katrina shuffled in her seat.

‘Oh, my, goodness’ she said after a hiccup. Seattle and Abi stupefied too, replicated the sentiment.

‘I felt like I was gonna be sick, the game was definitely up. I couldn’t smile, couldn’t frown, and feeling completely to blame. I could have kept the drinks to a minimum and my legs closed, you know? What a mistake’! ‘So what did you do?’ asked Katrina. ‘Well first I was told to go sit on the settee. I looked at him, and all I saw was a block of ice with its jaw on the floor so I did, I went and sat down, just sat there, looking like a dork, both of us. He wasn’t saying much so I requested to speak, try to explain, I’d done it before, you know, laying on the “Daniel in the lion’s den” charm, I thought I could do it again’. Abi was on the edge of her seat. ‘So what happened next?’ Volga huffed, posting her reminiscent facial gestures, ‘Well, boy, needless to say it was tense, one miss-gesture or wrong word, and it could’ve popped off, which it finally did, badly, and in the tussle I raised an arm to block a flying picture frame. The photographer guy, he, like a fool held back the wrong woman and it smashed upon contact, tearing up my skin, splitting my head open’. All three now fell silent and finished up their teas, sipping away imagining the scene, all ears.

‘And there you have it, that’s how I got this disfigurement on the side of my head and how I needed a new ear; you can’t see most of it, come!

Look!’ Volga parted her hair, bending down as they each converged leaning forward to take a peek. ‘See? . . .’ ‘Yea, I see it’ said one. ‘Wow!’ said another. ‘A long time ago now mind you; fading memories you know how it goes’.

The sun shone brightly on the vegetable and herb garden behind Volga, tall, even for an ex-model, pretty much a Zone1 prize commodity.

543

“THiS iS WHAT iT SOunDS liKe WHen YOu’Re CAuGHT in A WHiRlWinD”

Two apples and an old pear tree in full bloom held sweet flowers high, some to wasps, bees, and minute insects, and some, triumphantly raised up to our nearest reminder-star shooting heat downwards—it all seemed to give the moment an ethereal quality, birds, sharp greens, rugged browns, the zigzagzig of more insects enjoying their short encasing, active preadamite particles, here; interconnected individuals within a complete whole. The combination looked magical as Seattle and Katrina jostled in jest, one with a striking physical cicatrix, and one having a large emotional blemish to describe. ‘Hey, let me tell you about mine!!!’

* * *

544

“THE ORIGINS OF THIS HIGH CULTURE

ARE A COMPLETE MYSTERY”

A week later, Nick, tie yanked loose, hopped out his Banana Lex feeling kinda bugged. Earlier Omni put some hot revelation on him, confirming suspicions of an implication trail leading his way—Now to his thinking, if his own junior could clock all this then, who else could? So Nick wasn’t sure how to take the impact of Omni’s humbly put claims. But take it he did, and he’d been dousing the smouldering debris of exposure all day (so to speak). ‘Enough’, he thought, slamming the car shut activating the alarm and pocketing the keys.

The days Blood Diamond smog was deep, just like the whole zone bustling behind the car park now entered, and massive L-shaped building complex adjoined. He changed hands holding his briefcase checking the time and made a conscious effort to switch those work ponderings . . . off—it was late, all that work self-bugging could wait till tomorrow’s shift. So, crossing the car park like he did every day since their encounter, he stumbled on remembrance of Janet; the look she gave him witnessing that drunken argument, and half-breaking her neck to hold a wonderful stare on him just before he stepped off the train—she made him feel post-man . . . uberman. The thirst to discover how she was fairing since then, stayed with him unquenched.

Inside his imagination all that was Janet over these past few weeks had mushroomed into a whole load of intense concerns denoting feelings of affection. Knowing about such destructive properties of the inefficient, gruelling, and tedious partnership all too well he inwardly set course for a new direction in his love life, setting sail for new land with long established inhabitants, and while on board, he drew up a campaign, a strategy, seeking successful of outcomes for, of course, Janet’s personal predicament, and the crown concept for him, of them two together as lovers.

He constantly thought of Janet: comparing her to Vee, measuring her against himself, affording attributes he doubted until then any woman

545

“THe ORiGinS OF THiS HiGH CulTuRe ARe A COMPleTe MYSTeRY”

could possibly posses. But when reconsidering (as he compulsively did) the age gap, her words, the graceful concessions in her tone, the calm, how she moved, upright, and that day in the lift, the one he was in right now, how she spoke after those tears, all this had his heart in deep namaste-recognition mode. The large open wound of that event inflicted what he knew was painful, yet he loved all the subtle displays of maturity, and strength of command, he remembered how impressive that was.

Cursing Vee’s memory in comparison he stepped out the lift, Janet’s personality again coming straight to the forefront, overlapping, she to him seeming to register a much deeper spiritual awareness, sword in hand, lunging-shield ahoy. Plus that sturdy, stiff, old school mentality fast dying out made him smile, and unintentionally, it even boosted those old rechargeable batteries in his own back through mere words and action.

Vienna’s court case jackknifed through this minds projection, so he played with it up there in his head for overview and calculation.

Whilst considering this against his own sense of betrayal held afar for cold variable analysis, Janet had taken her own sledgehammer blow well, yet and still, she purposely paraded for him the type of command he especially admired—by extension, coming from a woman, it turned him on. Whenever factoring the two of them together like then, he felt his passion-senses go all-aflutter.

While sexually titillating thoughts slid downwards from his mind towards his belt he opened his apartment door. But he sobered his feelings up for this the crucial element; reachability—and what made Janet verbally reachable to Nick, he put down to age. Vienna, although an adult, her every tactic and desire, viewed hot, cold, abstract or not, when isolated, was just incessant blame, astonishment, and complaints of a girlchild, but how Janet behaved under omniversal waterfalls of misfortune had Nick straight captivated. These attributes he reckoned, surly made any sense of partnership impropriety which may come from Omni, or Peter—when they met her—seem relatively meaningless.

He came through into the front room, fell down on his settee and cocked his foot up on the table, slapping remotes off the cushions placing his elbow on them, hormones rushing off thoughts of Janet and her little micro-displays inspiring smaller nano-deeds. To him she was reachable, or, as doubt crept inwards, standing between faith and experience, the deluded concept retracted to a mere possibly? Propped up on the chair

546

Celine Flux

after a long day Nick rested his head on his hand and fantasized, staring out the window momentarily, in hope. ‘I could ask’ he thought, ‘if together, maybe? In the right place or right time I could ask Janet “Are you with me?” but without words, without asking . . .’? Nick seemed convinced Janet knew of that silent language, that grown-up language of anti-complaint, acceptance, blaming instead stringent principles that even the world’s most adored are subjected to.

The art she created and indirectly taught pupils, already aware Janet was, that it was all inspired by deep yearnings of precog-processes, and she also knew who the energizer of that drive actually was, for she was lucky; a hippie broke it down for her many years ago as a teen, pointing out what’s top on the “pyramid of ideas” (ooh spooky); the light beyond dark idea, near the zenith, but leaving space for the uppermost idea just above the notion of void:

As he explained, to be guided by a person, all form and oblivion within him, from this visible side, over to the other side, letting the invisible spirit within, influencing matter without, call, to be delivered by him, wanting to literally sit by a tree and jux with him, hearing pleasurable sounds, doing things pleasurable beyond what the lower animals can do, now this conception, would be a mental bench-press for any being Janet is to ever meet!—up until Nick.

He was still slouched, daydreaming . . . trying to stop. So he turned his focus of attention elsewhere, still infatuated with how terrain might look on newly discovered Pan-Janet-Dimension: After her initial bombshell he wandered how all the subsequent fallout with family down in Cornershire was going, with Mischa, and of course husband Michael.

Mishca’s cell number was on his landline plus on the bill in front of him under the small fruit bowl. Like yesterday, he picked it up and checked it again. ‘Should I?’ he thought. ‘Nah, I couldn’t, it wouldn’t be right . . . right . . .’? Nick reasoned with taking the initiative, sat up, looked around, then suppressed the idea while bringing forth hints of scorn. ‘Nah don’t be stupid’.

Sensing distant excitement rush forward trying to dissuade his more sensible side, he ran his fingers through his hair and decided it better to go shower, change, and see what salty fatty prefabs he could quickly stick in the oven. So, cushion in hand he forced himself to his feet.

547

“THe ORiGinS OF THiS HiGH CulTuRe ARe A COMPleTe MYSTeRY”

‘Omni’s learning fast’, he assumed heading for the kitchen, ‘can’t believe he picked up on that “me and Peter stuff ” though; any heat comes from him tomorrow then I’ll have to tell Peter; I should call him now? . . .’

Nick really did want to drop all this crabways trading he was mired up to his neck in—Out, he wanted, and maybe Omni’s uncanvassed alert was an omen, an opportunity to close certain Wirecom ducts that shouldn’t have been opened in the first place! ‘Arrgggh!’ he fought compulsion pulling on the freezer door, giving top draw first appraisal, ‘. . . we’ll just have to see what happens tomorrow’?

548

IF CHILD’S IMUNIZED FOR MMR THEN

GETS MUMPS WHAT WAS THE INJECTION?

After successfully selecting some frozen food to warm up he popped the box, set the oven for forty minutes and then headed for the shower. Just as he walked down the short hallway of his house the phone went off,

‘. . . Must be Niv or Mom’ he thought OK’ing the call, leaning over the settee to rearrange cushions.

‘Hello?’ ‘Hi is that Nick’? ‘Speaking’? Nick headed out with the cordless for a towel from the airing cupboard. ‘It’s Janet’. Right then, as he heard that, he stopped and turned back to sit down, lust, hitherto permitted by theory, straight away rushing forward. Sufficiently aware of her qualities to make particular assumptions he spoke, determined to save time and skip the whole over-cautious-courtship-twirl-thing, quite sure she’d acknowledge and appreciate, both being too old for all the “how’s the weather?” bullabread.

‘Hey I was just thinking about you’, he said, ‘finally . . . you called me up’? ‘Yea it was, err, the situation’? ‘Don’t worry I can imagine; that’s all I’ve been doing you know, worrying a bit. Couldn’t stop myself! It prompted other stuff too’. Janet was unsure how to describe the past few weeks and she felt vulnerable. ‘At least someone cares about me, well, in that way’ ‘Sure, just don’t you forget it woman! . . . apart from Mother in Southshires I’ve been speaking to girls all my life. I love the fact your . . . well . . . a woman, no doubt handling things as such. Truly inspiring, you were that day you know Janet’. Janet glowed, false-ego lapping it up sat down in her kitchen.

Apart from mainly Mishca who came in late working or not Janet was pretty much alone now, just her in that old cottage thinking of either Michael, family mess yet to be swept, hope, or Nick. ‘Oh I wouldn’t say that’ she replied to his compliment. ‘No but its true, your inspiration has inspired me, with Vienna; I’ve decided to go see her’ ‘exactly how did I err? . . .’ ‘What I mean is, my whole family has questions’, Nick shared his afterthought, ‘and probably others down in Southshires too, so . . .’

549

iF CHilD’S iMuniZeD FOR MMR THen GeTS MuMPS WHAT WAS THe inJeCTiOn?

‘Oh, right’. She seemed surprised. ‘Well, glad to be of assistance then’.

Nick was still enraptured by the sudden phone call and assured of her survival by their discourse in total, which dipped, clutched at straws but swooped back again up to philosophical plateaus where she perched, surveyed, and for semi-aloof entertainment purposes only, described.

‘Can’t believe it, I’m so glad you rung me though. I was considering calling your daughter . . . then talked myself out of it, you know, just in case’

‘Oh it would have been all right with Mishca’‘I wasn’t to be sure though’‘You know she thought you were a teacher’? ‘Ha!’ laughed Nick.

‘That was till I straightened her out the following day’ ‘Sure, sure . . . bigger fish’!

‘It’s always looming . . . so hard to forget too’‘Yea, tell me about it, I trusted Vee and look where that got our

marriage, let’s not forget her in jail, and . . . well whatever; guess me and you wouldn’t have met without it’ ‘suppose your right actually’.

The courteous thing to do was reaffirm his offer to support in some way, which he did, suggest help, in shoring up her foundation from a continuing misery Janet had no option because of Michael, but to plough straight into.

‘I want you to know I’ll do whatever, in any way I can Janet’ ‘Thanks Nick, it’s really sweet of you, in fact, remember I offered to cook for you? . . . Well I’m eating alone . . . again, that’s why I called. I thought I’d ask you over for dinner, tonight?’ Nick thought about the fatty meal in the oven and his weight obsession, ‘Sure I’d love to, what you having?’

‘Oh, just quick prawn-pepper salad, noodles too’ ‘Yeah sounds great, erm, but how will I err . . .’ ‘I’ll tell you what if you don’t drive I’ll meet you at the train station, it’s only ten minutes for me. When you approach, call . . .’ ‘. . . then direct me to where you’re waiting right?’

‘Sure, sure, and don’t bother bring a bottle, I’m not drinking’ ‘OK then, so, I’ll head over to the Old Transit Link and call you later, nearing the station’ ‘OK, it’s the last stop . . . simple . . .! And remember don’t dress up’, that put Nick in chortle zone, ‘Mmm, I’ll try . . .! See you then . . .’

‘OK, bye’.Measured, Nick put the phone down flirting with his new found

sublove for Janet, and now, an even fresher subhate for this man,

550

Celine Flux

Michael, just because the cinema of her reactive mind was still screening his distressing pictures! He wished he could give Janet his own symbolic scissors, conjured up in his own reactive gland the moment he severed extreme emotions from Vienna—a turning point in his own life.

Thoughts now on expensive attire, he did a U-turn right up to the present moment, smelling that now-abandoned food still warming in the oven. ‘Shoot! What outfit am I gonna wear’?

* * *

551

HOW MANY SUFFRAGETTS WORE

MOSLEYS BLACKSHIRTS?

The Overbearer often collected Otho on Adam’s behalf, safely dropping him in Satelliteton some Fridays, but judging from Otho’s reports the following Sunday evening only to be shuffled along with playmate cousins to various family members around town with either her, or his Aunt Vernice anyhow. Seattle, Omni, Abi and co, all attended the temple early that following day.

Still a rare treat on this corner of the continent yet welcomed by few, past kids, and maybe tropicasian migrants who feel it even in wet season, high temperatures had been constant for a while, with leaves just edging on the over-lush side unlike two, three weeks ago. A clear, more clement night sky sent moon photons to clash with the surface of ordained rooftops and cut the world of colour oscillations in two.

After parting the curtains, days back, reinforcing repeatedly since time-mis-manipulators on TV, again declared autumnal storms over the current week which was almost at its end, Omni made jokes of it with Seattle and Otho, determined to conduct outside affairs—like their two-lap walk around mossy Hoeswater Square—as usual . . . (Only if this pale-horsemen-beholding-apocalypse—“flood warning” decided not to happen the following week).

‘Yo it’s inspirational! . . . It is!! . . . well . . . with the right footwear on . . .? Yea, think suede Norseman, ginger nappydreadz and green wellies’!—He then sent Otho to stick a post-it on the fridge door reminding him to buy exactly that!

So, after all coming together till late morning—to salute what preoccupied ancestor saints and sages deemed salutable—some sisters went to buy extras in the market while others, more advanced, past Godcode Development Level, remained split in differing parts of the temple, some prepping for returning sisters in the kitchen, some in the cushion room, extending something Laureate called an ‘Adoration in the Heart Process’. And on mock furs in the main hall others sat

552

Celine Flux

for their, Unseen Effecting Visible Blisstheory; a life-long “expander system”, descended from ancients directly to The Under Superior and her grandteachers—a course, or glorification method, copied off gilded totem poles, avoiding eradication through conquest—luckily—due to preservation at high altitude with the Purple Shamanic Eskimasians near the north pole, and now gratefully received and being taught to qualified sisters and beginner-members who showed promise—like Omni and Seattle—in the not too distant future.

Around noon, Laureate disciples Kat and Seattle were again talking scabs vs youthful picking while stapling replisheets for temple members to take that night. For over an hour they swapped monologues, Seattle referring to Adam and his close family, both alone the side room, with Katrina rating different creams and potions she used to treat her particular scars. And they’d nearly finished, when Katrina—deeming now the right time—began to reveal the moments surrounding being crushed, becoming a casualty, thereby involved in, literally dragging herself out from one of Breton PLC’s worst train crashes, losing her boyfriend Marcello, sister Jasmine and close friend Elaine in the process.

553

NECRO, DMX & 50CENT WERE ORIGINALLY

ONYX MEMBERS . . . CONSIDER THAT!

Rolling his eyes again at the stormy weather plus his own remissness, Nick looked outside before the man next to him gestured the same, almost, standing with a few other gentlemen in sight to pull belongings down from the support shelf. Five minutes later, as the train raced once more through the shire to the next stop, the intense downpour they all previously groaned at had moved on just as fast as it appeared, leaving the night clear enough for Nick to work out where he was. He looked at his watch making calculations. Close enough to the arranged time Nick, as promised, made the call to say he was nearing, just a few small villages away giving Janet time to head down Main Street to meet him.

Now at last the carriage line from Zonelimits, jostle-spanned with plenty of stops, steady losing passengers until the terminus deep in costal Cornershire, had finally reached, and the platform, shiny, well-maintained, directed its last batch of users to the small foyer. Janet was approaching the station too, strutting quickly, arms folded, Nick, by unanimous agreement, falling into the “pretty as any female category”, striking, instantly recognizable through the door window amongst weary commuters, wispy grey scarf, yoganeck without the practice, grey cowhide-trim jacket unblemished—(Nick splurged his paper for garmz hard, constantly upgrading out of sheer vanity, always remaining utterly dipset).

After flashing permit cards then filing through gates the crowd elongated across old tilework for the exit as Janet came in, hard breeze thrashing her brow from a noisy ventilation system mounted above.

Stood aside now, she waited smiling, him bodies behind happy to see her, also in mid-length sky blue cardigan, mock Figaro chain strewn with mauve or indigo spheres, patterned orbiting her stretch indigo polar and welcoming face.

Eager to see the house Nick squeezed her arm to press against her soft cheek, continental familiar fashion. ‘Hi Nick’, she said between kisses,

554

Celine Flux

‘how was your journey?’ He huffed softly behind her ear, thoughts of crumpled idiotsheets waiting for economic migrants to get busy bagging before the return leg leaving his cipher, ‘Hmm . . . uneventful. I do need departure times for later though’? ‘. . . last ones around midnight . . . I think’, together they stepped into the street ‘. . . We’ll check later on, at mine . . . it’s not far so didn’t bother with a cab’. Leaning in she pointed towards a petrol station halfway up the hill, both marching against the latest gust, brisk, vigorous, before quickly relenting, ‘We turn at those poplars just up there see’? ‘OK’ smiled Nick, looking back to Janet briefly, peculiar circumstance of their first encounter returning, eyes meeting to re-say hello, both thrilled to see each other again as ribs firmed up against the sticky breeze swirling all around them blocking the breath for a hot second. ‘Come, we’d better walk faster’.

By now arms entwined, chins in from increased wind, the humid season’s gift interfered with their vision even more once they sped up, marching through small speckles of debris, with its random contact snapping at lids and lashes while turning the corner, passing those poplars which swayed and bended as Nick tried to look though to land and properties between them. Nearing the house, cloud storms picked up, brought by more sweeping, churning winds. It howled from behind them, then down the dark road breaking small pieces off evergreens, tall and pointy, of which, some flew crossways, past sparing amounts of streetlight.

Considering for a moment changes made inside the place since her and Michael’s “incident” Janet remembered to give her usual heads-up to visitors, finally approaching the house. ‘Don’t you go and expect much when we get there . . .! Most of his things are gone now, shipped away; should’ve burnt the bloody stuff ’!! She smiled approaching then opening the door, ‘Oh and Regan, this new woman? . . . I was right about her; two of her own in Zone7 . . . that’s where he is now’. She pulled a mock-disapproving face—they both did.

Quickly slipping off her damp cardigan, once inside Nick entered too, through what seemed like a shorter than normal door, eager to duck raindrops, stepping onwards from the doormat inside, persuaded by the smell of food. Janet got straight to it after insisting she take his coat, which he couldn’t really refuse again. So hanging his jacket too she walked past the first room, open, cosy, into the kitchen visible on towards the right. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Make yourself at home . . . My

555

NECRO, DMX & 50CENT WERE ORIGINALLY ONYX MEMBERS . . . CONSIDER THAT!

carpet’s always had a thing for socks!’ ‘Really?? . . .’ ‘Yes! One should try it; they’ll find it “absolutely fabulous darling”‘ Nick thought about the joke while she entered the kitchen and then, chuckling, began to crouch and unfasten his shoes.

556

“WELL TONIGHT THANK GOD ITS

THEEEEM, INSTEEEEAD OF YOOOOOU!”

In a strange sort of cameo role and with all the surrealism extracted from what seemed like some twisted filmoor, the thump of staple guns gradually became less and less frequent as Katrina retroflected, shepherding vignettes flashed from lobes neglected with broken locks. By pure coincidence, already standing, drawing another stack of replisheets near Seattle remained so and leaned forward over the table, these events, for Kat, merely irksome after two decades nearly, afar, unarranged, like puzzle pieces making their long return to form a partial picture. ‘Pick a day’ she said ‘. . . coz, it started off just like any other really’.

Seated, she catalogued shot after shot, sorting different elements, listing the event: ‘. . . we bought tickets, boarded as usual. Me, my boyfriend Marcello talking, Jasmine, and my cousin Elaine across the on the other isle; nothing seemed wrong . . .? Like I said . . . routine plans . . . all interacting, looking at the view, nearby businesses racing past; it’s like all is fine one minute then seconds later the train’s derailed, hurled into the air and flipped sideways across lines’. Seattle adapted stance for transmission and upon reception tried to imagine the terrible carnage. Like a pack of cards Katrina edited quickly, as best she could, then randomly flicked out from the top deck pieces of drama that Seattle had only heard about on the news and read in papers. So out of justified fear, nationwide notoriety mixed with understandable respect, Seattle’s thinking was on the preference that she for now, kept her trap, shut!

‘One moment Marcello’s cracking jokes to make me laugh, the next, boom, explosion. When I came to it was over, Elaine lifeless partly on top of me, sounds off thudding upon metal. I tried to call for help but the seat ahead had been shunted back pinning me. I was trapped, meters from my Marcello and Jasmine who’d been thrown from their seats, luggage, fatalities around, fine glass and dust, sparks, which someone shouted was fallen pylons outside, causing panic over live rails we were

557

“Well TOniGHT THAnK GOD iTS THeeeeM, inSTeeeeAD OF YOOOOOu!”

strewn across. Then heat; that sizzling electrical smell, flames melting plastic, it dripped spreading the fire and dark smoke.

As far as I could tell I wasn’t bleeding, and I didn’t feel much pain at first’. In slow-mo, and contained, she began to demonstrate. ‘I used my elbows for space, I could hardly breath, Elaine, unresponsive, dangling from the bar coming from our chairs—I wondered about the blaze, if it came our way how long I’d survive under the weight . . . but it didn’t come’, striked ideas of flames, behind impaled relatives started to vivify, with subsequent scenarios, all trailing in the wake of Kat’s darts, dipped in harsh evocations, ‘I heard weak calls for help, in both directions, realising a lot of people in a bad way. I did make out some guy going at a window with a fire extinguisher, but he had no space either, shouting,

“The doors jammed”!Still disorientated I turned to look behind; row after row of seats,

folded, tilted; it felt like the whole train had twisted into a spiral, or at least our carriage. One end seemed upside down but was actually the right way. Its roof collapsed, all the bars, chairs, crumpled . . . so then I looked up, my roof was a window! I saw that and desperation kicked in. I began to rock back and forth that’s how I noticed the cushions leeway. I knew the window was out of the question so, once I’d freed myself, screaming for Jasmine and Marcello, I followed other passengers pulling themselves under chairs, pivoting on one elbow to keep their bodies narrow. This big fella, he’d gotten himself stuck, ordering people over him; he was so valiant. When my turn came to crawl over too, he told me I was bleeding from the waist; I looked down; adrenaline rushed when I saw all the blood! I crawled, muscles aching, onward to a window, smashed, intent on getting help for that fella, I’m not sure he made it out. But I felt so helpless, for all the victims behind me’.

Mind’s eye panning all directions, her sense of inability to assist any injured at the time, despite personal injury, receded, which Seattle picked up on as the altogether engaging story continued to transpire. ‘. . . a next woman, covered in ash, leaned through the window, pulled me trackside.

She told me her name was Penelope and asked if I had a phone. It was still on me. I gave it her looking around; and Seattle? . . . nothing could prepare me for what I encountered when my eyes focused; the front train had ploughed into another coach, wheels tilted, high, oily

558

Celine Flux

fireballs leaping onto nearby carriages, it must have been like an oven, people were being burned alive inside! Personal belongings, suitcases and stuff, littered tracks; words can’t describe it, I just had to blink away! When I did, to take in everything else, pure mayhem extended across my whole field of vision while Penny, she ran straight into it . . . to help people groaning under debris. I suppose they were the first things I noticed.

You know, one thing that stood out most . . .? I saw this sparrow beside me, caught up in the explosion smouldering on the floor, all mangled and charred. It stunned me—I don’t know why, but while recovering, I always came back to that thought.

First on the scene through the scrub were mechanics, from arches nearby. They did what they could frankly: pulled out bodies, guided survivors to safety, even locals came to help, utterly jolted. Bushes ran either side up the hill, and down, but still out of nowhere you heard them, workers, pedestrians, bleeding themselves!, hands and clothes torn though yards of thorny scrub, some yelling from the pain, all coming to help the injured, forced by the situation to push on.

When most scrambled through, that’s when things got chaotic, people, dying trackside, corpses, mangled with rigor mortis, hung from twisted window frames and still, people dropped onto the track, crawling, screaming for help, able-bodied and workers running towards them on sight, the front, way down, smashed to pieces . . . it’s like your eyes were playing tricks on you!

Everyone had phones out, even those of us lying near the scrub, but then word went round not to call if you couldn’t specify the crash site, so we shouted workers still fighting through to stop calling. Emergency services came and parked, way down, near some arches, but no vehicles could actually reach; I just lay, helpless, watching all this happen, groups, smashing windows, using rucksacks or clothes for ropes.

In my coach—closest—this kid, soaked from a head injury, unable to climb up and out, he was rescued to cheers from the injured, people shouted “keep going mate”, others clapped and howled “great” . . . it took multiple attempts, we urged them on. I don’t know where he got the strength to hold on, but, he was helped out, then down beside us—most of the walking wounded stopped sobbing after that, the shocked seemed to focus . . . Police, their choppers, medics, firemen all approached; people everywhere began to tap their reserves’.

559

WRITERS READ BETWEEN THE LINES . . .

RAPPERS, READ BETWEEN THE RYHMES!

Nick placed his shoes right beside the nearest skirting board and began to feel the thick, comfy, cream coloured carpet underfoot. Noise of his tummy on fire from hunger, for quite some time now, opposite a crosstrainer gleaming away, he noticed the dining table already prepared mostly, just for two. And although she was in the next door serving they still managed to preserve conversation until Nick cut-then-replaced it.

‘Hey would you like some help in there . . . don’t enjoy being by myself ‘. Janet smiled as he revealed, though his request had an air of rebound humour; a rivalry ball both repeatedly served, batted, to get bored only to toy with again, occasionally acing over the entertainment fence, as Miles’ Kind of Blue played softly beneath the front room window, ‘Well, I’m near enough finished now . . . you can help take these out if you like?’ Nick rolled himself into the kitchen, and was handed a crispy leaf bowl with a thin granite plate decorated with small blocks of some more scary local cheeses.

Following behind, Janet held more food, bringing it to the table before they sat to eat. She’d forgotten something—one more dish. ‘Tut’ she squeezed, ‘excuse me one moment’. After delicately slapping her wrist with two fingers she returned with a tray then sat herself back down.

Nick hardly heard, he was starving—thankfully it was now mealtime.

Together now after three long weeks toasting to forgiveness, Janet spoke, rely, a gamut of views morphing sometimes, with due effort, into defiance almost resolute which Nick again found . . . inspiring.

Determined to provide support all evening, reflective assistance triggered his own responses, squared equally, doubling the cube, precious stone pressed by sensual pressure, sublove, assured of detection and reception which expanded itself as the time passed, ambience grew, and both continued to talk.

560

Celine Flux

‘I’d call it pretty darn desirable if you ask me’ ‘You think’? ‘Sure . . . I reckon’! Janet eyeballed the whole dining room then exported offers to show Nick around the place later, splitting a pink stir fried seamaggot with her teeth. She applied description to the local area, as well as the house, but taking care to warn him again, ‘. . . It’s modest inside really . . . I’ll show you the garden too’! Dining under sublime blues accompaniment the conversation turned, and, seemingly happy to go wherever it led,

(and it did go practically everywhere), Janet, in quite open and frank fashion, elaborated a little on feelings for Michael, sometimes more subtle, and sometimes, hilariously grosse and pointe blank.

‘Usually I feel fine? then I notice bitterness . . . at times I let it slip, so, the capacity’s still there of course, to break this bloody plate over his head or something, Espanola-style!’ Both found it funny and burst into gentle laughter which propelled Nick. ‘It’s happening all over the place; separation gremlins . . . I come across them all the time’ ‘Mmm . . . I know. You get like a . . . heightened awareness of it’ ‘Yea, I checked it out on-line: chatroom-support, scientific studies; the rates are staggering!

You should read some of the comments!! Men mostly blame women of course’ ‘but you checked the female perspective though? I mean really checked into it?’

‘No, not really checked but, I know they blame the guys’! Janet huffed in cheeky agreement, ‘They do . . .’ then she stated the obvious,

‘. . . and I do too; two, simple, words . . . “younger models”‘. Although it sounded funny Nick for a second felt unsure how to respond. ‘OK then’, he wiped his mouth, ‘. . . Can I be objective, speak a truth, men, or women for that matter shouldn’t deny . . .? Right . . . see . . . I’ve been contributing on-line, rightfully claiming to be faithful to Vee . . . curious lately to know if, women drew the line in the same place’ . . .? Steadily eating her food Janet seemed comfortable enough with the banter, ‘but I’m not gonna reply for all of womankind you know’ she warned. ‘Yea I know’! Nick filled his fork. ‘Except for academics it’s usually unspoken.

Takes courage, to say it so, coldly’ ‘let me guess, that’s why you typed it’?

‘E-x-actly! So, don’t bite my head off all right’! Smiling Janet was now fascinated.

‘It’s about something I heard on abuse rates in different societies, heavy stuff really, and it goes like this: Some guy endorsing polygamy as hard-wiring said young men walk to work thinking along the lines

561

WRiTeRS ReAD BeTWeen THe lineS . . . RAPPeRS, ReAD BeTWeen THe RYHMeS!

of . . .’ Would you hit that? Yea I’d hit that. How about that? Would you tap that? Yea I’d tap that, how about that? Nah not that, she walks flimsy, Mmm look at that one, would you hit it, yea I’d hit it . . .” and so on; that’s a trip in the life of modern man, all societies bar devotees, well, so the theory went! He says men are just organic Darwinian-cyborg-units with no say in the matter, like, “Eeww too much gut to impregnate” or “Eeww, too much back wobble to pass down to my kids”‘. Janet chuckled it off, ‘I don’t know what to say?? Guess women do know men think like that? Not sure we’d all agree in unison, but still, I think it is on the man . . . his control . . . I mean, what do they want, women to walk around like ninja’s’? Nick laughed, so did Janet, pleasantly expressive after her minor outrage ‘well, those builders wouldn’t be scanning for boobstats down the roadworks each lunchtime’? ‘Mmm, suppose not’.

As they settled to enjoy the rest of the meal dipping into serving bowls, filling glasses, it fell silent, both far away for a sec, considering faults of a society where, ninja garmz over passion-fuelling adornments, are the culture, whose prophet spoke only two sentences on the subject, and of which Janet and Nick at the time, were both off pondering about: (sorry, we won’t understand, takes way too much patience, but, oh well) (Huh?)

This topic was starsystems from the headspace Janet was previously in-buggin’ over looming situations enclosed with Michael—quietly accepting more traumas regarding that particular slice of fate. And although she was somewhat up for speaking on it, her mind again returned, from this oddball conversation; an unexpected distraction thoroughly welcomed.

‘Aaahh Nick, I certainly needed that. Never heard it put that way though? Oh and you’re quite sure all that wasn’t your words Nick’? She teased. ‘May as well be, I agree with it’ ‘So do I actually—strangely enough’! ‘I doubted women did . . . especially unmarried ones, who for the most part know, most us hairy backs would have freelove if they could’ ‘. . . makes the world go round after all’

‘What marriage? Or just love?’ ‘I reckon bloody Martians got married! . . . or animals even, don’t you? . . . Just that animals, don’t declare it, that’s all . . . I reckon even swallows and swans and stuff get married’!

In jest Nick added, ‘without government approval . . . huh . . . why we bother eh’? ‘mmm . . . I know what you mean’!

562

Celine Flux

‘Speaking of marriage, how’s it all been with The Estranged One . . .’?

‘Phonewise? . . . tense so far . . . haven’t spoken much, coz each time it spins into a row: I start yelling, he plays the “that’s why I left you” card, which gets me because I’ve never raised my voice at him before now . . . ever’!

Janet paused. ‘At first I just struggled with blocking it all out . . . her and him’ ‘Ah yep . . . been there’! ‘But erm, to answer your question, uh-uh we haven’t seen each other yet’ ‘Oh . . .’ Nick sympathized—and felt the urge to quickly tell her so, ‘that whole switching him off . . . cutting emotionally? . . . that’s the hardest part. But don’t worry I’ll see to that’

‘It’s been so many years though Nick’ ‘. . . course, I understand’! ‘He’s had what I thought was love unconditional, for so long; I can’t believe I fell for all of it? But I was young, lying to myself, playing the role you know. Guess love had conditions after all, or he wouldn’t be incurring my wrath now would he’? ‘Huh’, Nick supported the notion, ‘Even Jehovah’s love has conditions . . .?’ ‘Mmm . . . I suppose so actually’ ‘. . . but hard to admit though, without including your own sense of honesty, that’s all’.

Nick decided to slowly pull her away from the Michael subject, each time trying to inquire into something different. ‘So, when did you find out who She was?’ ‘Regan? . . . Yea he told me; she looked kind of upset for me on the train, a bit. I know Michael told her more than once to stay quiet, did you notice that . . . from where you were I mean? . . .’ ‘Yea, I did, gesturing it slyly, trying to come off all innocent’ ‘. . . bet I looked like a complete jacko’! ‘No of course not!, I could tell right away what was going on—more or less—Some weren’t sure but I knew. At first you looked like you wanted to slap her head off or something’! ‘Yea in the beginning sure, but, when you think about it, she’s not to blame . . . not now’ ‘definitely seemed scared though, like she felt a slap coming’ ‘If I find her I think she’ll speak to me. She seemed older than you Nick but younger than me’ ‘You think so? . . .’ ‘Yea . . . She has a family near here so, she must know what’s in my heart’. He kept silent for a sec wisely accepting poignancy, then lifted his glass, ‘Zone7 eh? Well . . .

563

WRiTeRS ReAD BeTWeen THe lineS . . . RAPPeRS, ReAD BeTWeen THe RYHMeS!

Be gone with’em’! He wanted to budge the subject along just a touch more—having more important things on his nouvelle Janet-protection checklist to tick off. ‘Yea! . . . To hell with them though . . . ultimately.

She can have him—my resolve hasn’t really gone on that; I still maintain it’. Of this Nick was glad, ‘that’s what I like to hear!! You don’t need him in your life anyway’?

564

AND YOU SHALL TEACH THEM

DILLIGENTLY TO YOUR CHILDREN!

‘The official rescue operation was seriously underway now’, spoke Kat to Seattle, ‘numbers growing, with public assistance, frantic but organized, refusing to leave, everyone else crowded along the embankments and below. We could hear what must have been family members, concerned, shouting from the road beneath; we could see into town we were so many feet up!

I remember vividly, this one lone figure, from one of the end coaches: he staggered out, raised his hand to medics and just keeled over. Even later this young girl, I saw her body pulled out, back bent, life leaving rapidly, medics unable to save her. It was horrid, evacuees stepping over this poor girl, alive, just minutes earlier. By then my emotions had just gone numb thinking it couldn’t get much worse . . . like watching a movie in slow-motion, unfold before your eyes, unsettling you more with every scene!

The bushes hampered rescuers, with massive cutters, winched up. But when they reached they asked for quiet, to listen for cries of passengers still trapped—then the injured started pointing. And off the back of that they called a helicopter to lift the severely injured, as more medics, with stretchers, even ER doctors, Whitecoats and all, selected the most traumatized to be lifted down another way, via banking, which wasn’t going well, stuck until fire engines edged nearer ladders extended.

It’s like I’d lost all sense of time till dusk approached, so it’d been hours! That’s when Penny came back with my phone; she stayed with me then, telling us how things were going on the other side of the banking.

I described Jasmine and Marcello as best I could . . . what they wore and stuff . . . both of us, looking over at the wrapped bodies mounted up, some dragged right past me earlier . . .! I just knew I’d never see them again.

565

AnD YOu SHAll TeACH THeM DilliGenTlY TO YOuR CHilDRen!

Penny realized I was still bleeding quite heavily. She went and came back with a doctor. And before he even reached, he just pointed with his pen to volunteers, “She needs to be off this embankment . . . now!” and within minutes I was loaded onto corrugated iron, and carried through a clearing to firemen on mechanical ladders. Penny said she was my sister and was escorted with me, hands, covered with blood. That’s when I saw the rest of the other train; almost indescribable it was . . . weird, coz some carriages were intact, but to one end, destruction!: burnt out ruins, helicopter searchlights on them, tents being set up on the lines, more wreckage behind, it seemed to swirl towards us. I kept looking, bloody handprints on shards—and even on cushion foam, where some poor soul had scrawled the word “help”, in blood, then thrown it out between broken bits of train’.

Perched on the table amongst replisheets, staring briefly at a pile, Katrina forever noted as involved—also Seattle receiving testimony—gave memoirs of what became almost instantly a world event, an extended moment of silence; Seattle, following Kat’s lead in arranging more sheets placed in a separate pile near Seattle to be stapled. Only after a few had been done by consent of the louder than before staplegun, its sound jolting memory by simple accident, did she pull up in detail, aspects, only of possible access to the most direct witnesses.

‘. . . what must have been like scores of ambulances, shuttled queues of wounded to various hospitals, and that was between all the camera crews, service vehicles passing out burgers, people gathering round radios, and now, in a better stretcher with Penny beside me, my turn had come. The ambulance sped us to St Swamiji’s. They did check Penny was OK; she complained of pain in the ribs so by the time we arrived she was in a wheelchair too. Then they wheeled us out on the ER wing; chaos—almost as bad as the crash site itself! All medi-centres, everywhere, must have been on alert and stuff:

Hospital officials swarmed the car park, noisy reporters berated doctors near the entrance, cameras lined pavement and grass areas, looking like complete aliens in-amongst bystanders and bereaved, waiting for news on loved ones.

The entire ordeal, until I woke, took almost twenty-four hours precisely. They said the pain in my groin was internal bleeding and that’s where this came from’! Kat pointed to the long scar on her tummy which

566

Celine Flux

Seattle, stood over the table maintaining her reverential manner, had seen a couple of times before, ‘So they did this one overnight. These cuts here are from glass. But there were other op’s . . . scars . . . consequences of all that occurred.

Seeing so much tragic deaths made me question everything! I’ll be affected for life but, that’s how it goes right, as some weren’t so lucky. I spent countless teardrops thinking about Elaine Marcello and Jasmine . . . Years . . . wandering what might have been. It robbed me of myself for a while. Eventually though, perspective returns, trying to remember, of hearing about others who suffered loss too.

Penny became like family. We remained close till she moved to the Sub Indos; her compensation came now she’s out there for good!—We skynex all the time though.

She came to see me in hospital the day after the collision. Not even my parents had found out yet, plus I needed confirmation on what happened to Marcello Jasmine and Elaine. That’s where Penny came in: she got me a bedside phone, callcard, TV, took the emergency number issued and then contacted my father . . . she did everything! And all the while I was barely conscious, and Newslive’s death toll kept rising.

The police came with pictures in the afternoon and left just before my mom. Dad went across town to identify the bodies, that’s how I received confirmation, until then I had no news, fears growing for Elaine’s parents also, wandering if they knew their daughter had been killed.

Some victim’s names came scrolling up on Newslive too, and other families talked of loved ones, holding vigils near the scene, cut with images recorded from the sky in other zones.

It’s been hard for me but the Under Superior, she really helped me see the whole misfortune-thing in a different light—I think I’ll always be in recovery from what I saw but, it’s to be expected I guess . . .’, Kat chased off that thought before recalling the final time she heard the death toll.

‘In total, the human cost, hit nearly a thousand!’ ‘Yea nine-hundred and eighty something; I remember that night coz I was called in, the place was so hectic’! After Seattle responded, remembering to remain as quiet as impatience would permit, Kat, silent for a moment, froze again, before verbalizing strips of memory; revelations Seattle felt privileged to be in the vicinity of, humbled, and not forgetting now to act as such.

567

AnD YOu SHAll TeACH THeM DilliGenTlY TO YOuR CHilDRen!

‘Penny told me she heard a fireman on TV say something about Marcello, quite by chance, this was days later. She reckoned on it being some kind of final message, but, there was no way to find out. From that though, she’d convinced me rescuers saw his last moments alive, which I hope comforted his family, if only a little’.

Her gaze once more returning to the table and stacks of paper, Seattle’s too, Katrina’s recollections now, purposely more removed from her own bodily scars, continued to untwirl themselves as she begun to again staple sheets together, Seattle, right up behind her lead.

‘As that big, long, miserable rehabilitation started, media spotlight slowly turned off us’. Kat sighed, miraculously, inspiring to Seattle, drawing pan-dimensional humour from the, ‘Growth-Remnants Inside Tragedy Paradox’, temple doctrine which they both knew of, together now, speeding up their resumed work with Katrina, detaching, raised eyebrows, thereby neutralizing one of her life’s major irony hurdles, ‘. . . and what a climbing range this rehabilitation things turned out to be eh?

I doubt I could’ve taken a bigger test’! Only slight she smiled, escaping with her life to enable present testimony, embraced as a temple member long enough now, so, convinced of, and now ready to share, with Seattle, Laureate, Omni, then the rest of girls, in due time, that truth.

568

FURTHER TRIALS, FUNDS,

ERRORS,RESEARCH, AND DEVELOPMENT

Pierced by longing, goofy stares, urges that slant ambience toward bias, Janet’s guided tour—which as earlier notified, wouldn’t take long—didn’t, and eventually lead them upstairs. Half drunken glasses in hand, by the time she suggested they begin both moving rather lazily, at reduced, late evening speed, neither were really interested in the indoor excursions. But nevertheless, returning first from the large half-utilised garden, then into each room, Nick ducked, forced by ever smaller spaces of Janet’s farmyard conversion to use her soft body for support, following behind, forth, then back down slender stairway and guided through each under-sized stained doorframe.

During all this, shrewd, always, Janet hoped her feelings would go unnoticed; wishful thinking on limbs because notice he did and once he grasped certainty of her relative confusion, worry even, he meditated on the lust detected flashing from her subtle movements: Skipping past Mishca’s he was lead to into the master bedroom where flashes gently intensified.

Nick had acquired from Omni, only to be reinforced by others at Gammatec workfloors, a few-year-long habit of chewing gum after meals. Offered earlier and now tasteless, Janet ditched hers in the small bin beside the dresser stepping toward Nick still at the door, reaching for the switch, suggesting an exotic desert of patent splendour once back down stairs. Even before the bulb darkened she wandered if she did turn the light off and caught his eye, would he then meet her act the rest of the way? Just like she hoped he didn’t fully turn to step out, corridor light alone guised silhouette, his outline, bouncing off her pupils.

As she looked up vulnerable, close enough for four homeless lips to respond automatic, he ducked. Nick placed his arms around her waist and she, around his neck, to merge motions, and then kiss. Nick enjoyed this grace-laden moment too; Sealed, he leaned onto the doorframe a

569

FuRTHeR TRiAlS, FunDS, eRRORS,ReSeARCH, AnD DeVelOPMenT

couple of inches. With this Janet turned, kissed further, squeezed, and pressed along with his movement. So there poised yet loose, replacement flashes inside them intensified further still, increasing the embrace as reason, and sensibility, chased each other as formed ideas down the stairs then out through the entrance door. Esteemed conditions of passion now propelled them both, any free hands steady alternating from button, to handle, to zip, to skin, to bed post, thick, dark, then high mattress, where fingers firmed, ribs expanded, unified, swirled, gently, by porchlight only, and rotated to find other positions, to and fro, panting, breasts, spinal curves, replicas, ever riotous, almost, enough, then not, then again, teased, tangles, pillows, sponges, of flesh, permitted beneath ripples within, moist pathways, to eventual, sub-serenity.

Loose, tousled around sheets and strapping limbs Janet smiled, sex hormones keeping unfamiliar excitement reduced to deep exhales of acknowledgment, soft groans and long kisses interrupted by post-play wonder, strokes of skin alongside shared giggles.

Light hit the window alerting Janet first, but which left Nick momentarily oblivious, followed by a distinct, regular sound. ‘Damn’ the realisation emerged ‘that’ll be Mishca’! Still naked she sat up then froze, and then Nick too, both looking around the room trying to devise a plan prompted by a sobering fear. ‘I’ll go close the door properly’?

‘Right’! Stunned, trumped, she flopped back into the pillows and pushed her cropped fringe back as Nick returned clothes in hand, about to start on his boxers before joining Janet still under the sheets. Mind cornered, made up on a choice now, as Mishca approached the door and let herself in she demonstrated the way, which Nick, unsure until then, appreciated, inviting him into her arms, thereby throwing off any possible sense of naughty teenager that dared to trade places with the brilliant mood floating only moments previous.

Janet relaxed more and Nick, though in another man’s bed he lay, followed, with lusty impulses of the hunter behind large prey. But she knew, more or less, what Mishca would do; finally, she quit fiddling with food, then crockery on the dining table, climbed the stairs, and true to customary procedure, turned on her radio before making inconsequential phone calls to colleagues via Interether.

‘She knows you’ve got someone up here . . . my shoes are by the door’! ‘She’ll be fine, I think’ ‘you think’? ‘Sure. But we’d better be quiet’.

570

Celine Flux

So from then on that’s exactly what Nick was, feeling himself slightly trapped but fascinated enough by the unfolding of a situation that ultimately, lay for that night under Janet’s control.

571

MATADORS UNLAWFUL ASSEMBLY OF

MUTUAL ARISINGS

The following Saturday morning had modest comparisons to what he’d grown used to back in Zone1. Here, sweet narayana birdsong played so much clearer due to feint levels of provincial activity, a lot like the Southshires of his youth sixty miles or so west. He wished his shoes and raincoat was somewhere else completely, assuming they’d already been spotted by Mischa, but still, the compulsion to reunite them with the rest of his clothes lingered firm. Alternating between Janet still asleep and his surroundings ahead of the bedpost procrastination within finally stopped; aware of intent and layout he grabbed his things went down the stairs where half-way down, in fresh light his estranged items were visible and assessed regarding potential daughter detection. He turned back on himself, but didn’t climb the stairs, for to his left a few meters, stood the un-cleared dining table which made him then think of breakfast.

A brief fiddle around Janet’s unfamiliar kitchen without some sort of authorization would be improper, so, clothes under one arm, opting for water over the likelyhood of juice, or maybe milk from the fridge, and considerate of actual proprietorship, he found himself a glass.

The broad window fixed above the taps revealed a damp, but tidy milieu, where disparity between emaciated bushes permitted Nick’s sight right out towards a feint horizon. Thoughts on both train times, and deadlines, during a second glass of water it occurred to him that quite a lot of the day could be salvaged and thus begun to throw out according cognithoughts for measure, including, a few related to possible disrespect earned by sliding to the train station without so much as a goodbye! Still in that deep zone he heard footsteps coming down the stairs so instantly murked-off any such notion.

Intending to swill the glass and return it from whence it came instead he placed it near the sink—already subject to occupation—and stepped a cautious stride across the room to where the stairs and tiny walkway lead

572

Celine Flux

to the kitchen entrance. Alas by this infinite point it’d been calculated Janet’s daughter Mishca would most likely grace his sight, and associated amazement attracted his hand to mouth, one foot back with a pivot for coat, shoes, and scant sense of purpose. Sprung now, he accepted pending fate. Accurate in that conjecture she came in, and was immediately startled, which upgraded to quaint righteousness as she assessed the situation. Yet, still, she exchanged a greeting through bemused features, with Nick—unable to smother the guilty smile—taking his hand down and waving it like some white flag of pacific revolt and Dutch with uneven munitions.

The situation called for a little custody—a la Shadowless Management Directives—unaware of Mishca’s initial gazump-slap attitude . . .’ Hi, we haven’t been properly introduced’ ‘let’s skip it then shall we’? Under the circumstance he had no choice, ‘OK’ he said, still feeling some need to explain his presence despite internal efforts to the contrary. But an unreceptive attitude from Mishca loitered, taken as a cue to shuffle sidelong towards the doorway again.

‘I was just, getting my stuff down here, and figured on a glass of water’, he still couldn’t actually excuse himself though ‘which err, I’ve now finished so . . .’ Little did he know, Janet, at one time had disrupted such college shenanigans of a similar nature, so this moment required a petite show of mercy ‘Oh don’t leave on my account . . .’ here now, was an attempt to release him from out the hotspot ‘. . . I was gonna get one myself ’!

Still sluggish, with sleepy posture she opened the fridge door and took a jug with water of the chilled variety. She then cleared her brow making available reserves of concentration; sufficient amounts to aim then pour the thick glass jug and put it down, before turning around glass in hand.

He assumed from their brief contact down at his car park she didn’t like him too much, currently suppressing that recognizable evil eye the same way she did a couple of weeks back, and similar to the unmistakable one just moments ago! She took the glass from her mouth while he, not knowing what to do with himself, pulled for the nearest dining chair to him, still with shoes and rolled-up coat under his elbow. This fidlesome pursuit induced continued curiosity in Mishca watching proceedings through eye make-up (that should’ve been removed 6hrs ago)! Extended blinks through humour-tinged frowns from the kitchen counter, the

573

MATADORS unlAWFul ASSeMBlY OF MuTuAl ARiSinGS

lifeline she finally gave was a nanosmirk after an irresistible question . . . ‘You and Mom getting on well then’??

It was a cruel joke of course, that let Nick off the accusatory hook without too much wriggling. He smirked back and turned on the chair as she knocked back the glass of convenience-water, on Janet’s behalf swallowing nearly all of her instinctive hostility. ‘Sure you don’t want one?’ ‘. . . Nah . . . thanks’. Having not much else to do he began to put on his shoes. It drew into view the crosstrainer, again, spotless, probably unused, with a freetrade bag propped-up beside the peddle. All this reminded him to get back into town and also, curiously, of Vee once more—the cardio-head—and her ceaseless, infectious OCD regarding BMI.

‘Hey you wouldn’t know when the next train back to Zone1 is by any chance’? look of pardon amplified, her reply shifted Nick dashing across dualities spectrum of fortune/misfortune, ‘I’ll be heading to Blood Diamond within the hour, so, if you wanna wait, because I can give you a lift if you’d like’? Surprised by this fortune, he quickly accepted ‘that’d be just great, thanks, so much’.

Found stuck on someone else’s whim still, and bored too, from the chair he figured the twiddling of thumbs would denote concession; a non-confrontational attitude maybe. But in mismatched pyjamas, bulky slippers and last night’s loose half curls—Iberiasian brown under flecks of modbronze—she just leaned against the counter, coughed and unfolded her arms.

‘I’ll just go upstairs and get ready’ . . . for a twenty something Mishca’s early morning cough was terrible! ‘Your mother’s gone back to sleep so I’ll just wait here for you, if that’s all right . . .’? ‘Erm . . . OK’ and with that she thumbed out a poorly administered band from her crown and yawned her way back to the fridge before leaving the room.

As she passed-by smelling of cigarettes and holding spray, Nick bound onto an idea; he busy himself and clear the dishes disordered under his nose and on work surfaces burning eyes at the back of his head. Restless and waiting he deliberated. ‘Why not? . . . Just a few . . .?’ came his version of compulsive egon-ness. Plus he was hungry, but adhering to minority-false-etiquette—(or some other middle-income-thing)—the stomachs mandate to pick at food destined for compositors posted outside the window was overwhelmingly vetoed.

574

Celine Flux

The needless plate pilling that ensued made far too much noise anyway, and so, he sat back down, until a renegade fork caught his eye, then spoon, which lead him to cooking utensils, sunken like Rusland weapons in a battlefield over the entire kitchenette, including those on the table just off the tiled area, twinkling at him from in the dining room proper. OK . . . mmm to prepz, show gratitude and be a nuisance or not to prepz by giving assistance? Now there was a question!—Leisurely clapping time-shots at his watch he prized each utensil, lone fork and spoon, placing them in an emptied tray until he heard Mishca’s eventual return. She fixed her bag on her shoulder and opened the door, and as Nick approached with an appreciative grin, she stepped out to deactivate the alarm. Only one sleeve pushed through, before she sat Mishca oversaw the front door being closed gently, then, satisfied, she strapped in while Nick pushed through the other arm and followed just the few meters over to the car.

575

PUNCTUAL CLEANFREAKS AND

BONDGIRLSWITH MUDDY MANOEUVERS

The drive itself, from Cornershire where Janet still lay asleep, into mugged-out Blood Diamond—ETA mid-morning—wasn’t the gruelling journey he previously expected. Both parties made necessary efforts seeking intel on how much the other knew of the anticipated divorce, and ill-contained fallout from the initial blast which Nick himself actually witnessed.

Unsure of urbanity, he nevertheless determined to kernalize a friendship as soon as the journey begun, so did all in his power to cajole the talkative style—obsessed Mishca he suspected her to be. And the presupposition did manifest in fact, each taking it in turn to express admiration for green spaces of The Big Smoke, and equal distain for congestion, as when a reasonable hour approached they breeched Zonelimits, with weekend traffic on the steady increase, and each zone, passed them by.

‘Hey thanks again for the lift! . . .’ ‘Ulterior motive really . . . Mother;

I think she’ll love the fact that I dropped you back into town’. Just as she spoke a freshly-spun song on the radio caught her attention. She nodded along and turned it up while Nick listened also for signs—to note genre, (and do some musical math). ‘You like the clubs then?’

‘Select ones that plough select jams? . . . Yea sure! . . . Strictly dance floor’. Attempting not to show too much surprise by Mishca’s progressive opening up he occupied himself again with the tassel hung over the glove box; all-round situation considered he couldn’t help but feel rather struck by the merciful forthrightness displayed. In fact her disclosures seemed to allow for further questions, if only delicate ones.

The car sped its way city bound, and clear morning sunlight bounced off opposite cars as they cruised a major vein into a busy area. ‘You know,

576

Celine Flux

I never really noticed how many new Bodegas there are springing up about the place’? ‘Must be Neoturks’ she pointed at some gum, turning back down the music, ‘the way they’d study at college man . . . put us to shame’

‘Which college was that then?’ Palette Training College . . . you didn’t see the certificate up on the cupboard door . . .’? ‘No, I didn’t’ ‘My Dad’s bright idea; despite protests he photox’d it for the kitchen . . .’

‘So you see yourself as a bit of an artist then’ ‘Uh-uh, funky models and repetition so, not so much, no . . . did History as my primary, by heavy suggestion I hasten to add’. In a bid to concentrate Nick found himself fluffing around near the dashboard again. ‘But what about you huh, bet you had a paintbrush right now don’t ya’? ‘Why do you say that’? By almost subconscious suggestion his finger flicked away, at intervals, again and again at the tassel near his knee, which didn’t so much irritate, but remained an observation Mishca every now and then felt the need to purge. ‘Whoops . . . sorry’, he confessed with a smile, after biting his lip.

Districts just adjacent to Blood Diamond came into range next, along with typical omnipresent greyness to act as a familiar backdrop.

This only highlighted it was time for him to get into gear, for despite all the zone traffic his building complex wasn’t too far now.

‘So how did you come to live in that place?’ ‘Oh that, it’s been in the family for donkey’s years! . . . Some ancestors won land: Shepherds fight obscure nobles from Southshires next door, gets granted whole village, then names it after the victory’! ‘You’re not gonna believe this you know, but . . .’

Nick quoted the end of a local poem “. . . I’m a Knolling Southie”‘ she braced up in jest ‘I should’ve known’, and looked down her nose with a smile

‘. . . Treachery!’ Then he smiled too, ‘and I think . . . there’s a memorial to men who died in our graveyard; this weird cyclopean stone thing; there’s pretty golf greens all about the place now though’. After mocking his home shire just a smidgen more as if to rally support, Mishca turned back to the road and quipped . . .’ I’m telling Mother!’ just as the time displayed down on the stereo caught Nick’s eye.

Thoughts on plans for the evening, he did some cross-referencing.‘What time do you finish’ ‘Oh about 4 today. And rain’s excepted

so it’ll be a crazy drive back’ The time still didn’t seem correct, based

577

PunCTuAl CleAnFReAKS AnD BOnDGiRlSWiTH MuDDY MAnOeuVeRS

on pedestrian activity, so, on the sly he stared down his nose to check it against his own watch and, couldn’t quite believe that comparatively, the clock was accurate enough. This made him to tut under his breath, memorizing a few more morning concoctions set to move the moment he entered his car park and passed the concierge desk.

‘I need be home, and then Immortal Approachville before . . . at least 11:30’ ‘you’ll have time I should think’ ‘mmm I hope so . . . really do . . . bloody unforeseen plans eh’?

Eager, still shuffling a touch, he squinted his eyes and focused as8-Ways approached, making sure to give thanks to Mishca early,

which was deferred again to her mother in almost comedic vein taken to mean by Nick, that he had her blessing only due to positive effects he currently had on Janet. Double left swung off Diamond St, they pulled up at the rear entrance.

Stood impressive at 6ft in shoes Nick got out and crouched down to speak. ‘Listen, Mischa, I, can’t thank you enough for doing this’ ‘Ah don’t worry about it, coz, you know, like Kant says; it ain’t a selfless act is it’ ‘Huh?? . . . Oh . . .’ belatedly, somewhere in the ballpark he clocked.

‘Err so . . . you’re going to call my mother just as soon as you get home’? Hazel, with dark-orangey corona flares she leaned across the handbrake, turned down the radio and showed the unconvincing you’d-bloody-well-better eyes. ‘Yea I will . . . of course’.

Street level humidity followed below, in unison, wherever cloud happened to build; displeased like a time-starved foreboder by these signals he ducked his head in for effect, intent on further reassurance, posed forearm pressed on the black roof. But Mishca had beaten him to the punch after which point, he stood, slow. ‘Treat Mother wrong? . . . and . . . hmm well let’s just say . . . now I know which building you live . . . remember’, Nick smiled and held the base of his coat in order to turn from the small cellcar and head upstairs, not before receiving one final threat then respectfully slamming the door ‘. . . So . . . I’ll liquidate you!’

578

MORE LIKE A FIBRE RIPPING ADDICTION

(YOGAMAT, FEEL THE BURN)

Janet chased letters through dreams which felt like no others but with a familiar cast, so that when emerging to her current state thus being not quite with it, she sensed that the abbreviation had to have been the case.

Accumulated body heat, trapped and slow moving since the wee hours made sure underneath the sheets stayed warm and persuasive, so much so, that not even he—whom she just shared the one-time marital bed with—came to any attention. Only now, it seemed, would an afterthought latch itself onto her submission to the routine on rousings such as this; quite like the last: snooze-on for another round or so, (all in the name of beauty of course). This afterthought was jagged with feint alarm till she opened her eyes noticing Nick wasn’t there, or in the room as she propped up to check, in fact there was no signature but the one of her own garments, discarded in a fashion that was to her eyes exclusive, straight giveaway, denoting temporary carelessness she hadn’t associated with in three decades anypath.

Her outrage at the possibility Nick had skootled sought some kind of warrant, so, she dragged a sheet, kicked her bra under the bed and went downstairs, offence now trumped by a emerging promise to websearch train times once they’d both made it home.

She didn’t want the night’s passion to go ahead and start a day in this manner, but Janet had never been good at arguing against neglect, though she was just as cultured as those claimers of cultivated culture (huh?) Nick thus forgiven, and confident the house was empty she headed cold and naked for the bathroom to begin her weekend perk-up routine. While preparing, back and fourth, sleep deprived, snug revelations from Nick to her own circumstance tugged every now and then, so did the letters and his sense of humour, conditioned by another subtle spread of directives than—to her guess—those imposed on her age bracket of

579

MORE LIKE A FIBRE RIPPING ADDICTION (YOGAMAT, FEEL THE BURN)

earth visitors, hence the marked difference. Put to him he may renounce such a responsibility but Nick now was transformed into the spokesman for every “beautiful” thirty-something depicted in the forms of media of influential Zone1, well maybe not women, but he was balanced enough to be believed, considering he had a clean target to aim/verbalize his hatred, but didn’t, even though she did towards Michael. He and his protégé Omni, as explained for different reasons both wanted out of the Tri Kilo goldfish bowl and after the Vee episodes none would’ve detered subjugation of that desire?

580

FINAL O.A.A.M JIGSAW:

JUST LET THEM FLOAT . . .

One by one the steamy glyphs rose, commanding stillness, elongating perception of the cycle as she lay, and vibrant wishes twirled like fragrance off film her naked body now pierced, relflective, cosmetics, clouds, warm spirals to trace, sub- blissful omens beneath, adding to drowsiness, until, from fields of activity disputed, surfaced forgotten innerstanding, provided to dreamy optics, each, formed by an interchangeable substance, with cleasing properties, ongoing, like flux, aloof over Tibet, after first, came from a vaster reigion than land, four others, which some witness, receive, then, modernity recoils from, undefered, so in innocence, shattered, Michael’s sutability, but, Nick? . . . on him, these symbols, hence forth, Janet stared at, followed, and now, gauged, against the moral, of the dream.