“There is great disorder under heaven ... the situation is excellent.” - Mao Zedong
There is a right gale outside.
A veritable hurricane for this neck of The Somnambulopolis. The shimmering trees lining the street are bending & leaves spiral down into showers of fallen comets at the end of the world that block up gutters. I stare out through the small misshapen wooden framed windows of this ragged apartment
block into the twilight where the natural pockets of lights shine up the hills of the Dark Side Of Town & off into the small valleys of the OuterVille in the distance.
A light here & a light there.
It is then that I realise how isolated we are up here in dusky & battered Id Town. No orange street light haze polluting. Just the blood-moon, glow trees, clouds & rain hammering like a nail-gun into eyes. The landscape of Id Town is quite unique, all undulations & feminine curves. It is the perfect location for what we need to do.
By “we”, I mean “they”.
I don't 'alf get carried away sometimes.
I begin to feel a chill running through me as the wind conspires to do us harm & crashes against the walls, rattling windows & doors.
& I'll huff & I'll puff & I'll blow your house down.
I have been here in this apartment for exactly two days & this kitchen has remained a bloody mess. These so-called “Oneiroicists” really don't know how to look after themselves. The sink is crammed full of plates & cups growing their own green & fuzzy culture, all by themselves. The water is murky with teabags creating cities of microbes. It reminds me of Old Lurk.
& with damp, who knows what tentacled cousin-of-Cthulu will come from this wee biology experiment?
It is about time someone tackled it.
I guess that someone will have to be me.
Vincent G. Blake.
The Man From Hades.
Scourge of Heaven & Hell.
Doing the washing up.
So, I put on the rubber gloves (Don't attempt anything without the gloves!) & move a beanburger-caked plate or two, investigating the minute horrors beneath.
How do these people expect society to fall, if they do not even have the discipline to DO THE FUCKING WASHING UP.
These "Revolutionaries" just grab whatever utensil they need when they need it. Never attacking the grand picture. The big deal. These spoilt Ex-High Lifers. Getting back at Daddy & Mummy for bringing them into the top minority of an unforgiving CitySpace. They are all for saving The Mind from the evils of Capitalism & Neuro-Plasts & disposable society & saving it by force, if they have to. Yet, still their habits betray the very things they would have destroyed.
Sticking it to The Man (Or in their case, Daddy) to purge their guilt of birth.
Ask them to muck in & all you gets a forced sigh of air blown out of their beautifully shaped well bred pouts. Even their lack doing the housework shows me how utterly entwined they still are to their old way of life. I guess Jeeves did not come with them.
By Abraxas' Cock Head, this stinks! Poo!
Christ, look at that ectoplasm!
Ok, I'll admit I find it difficult to be objective with a rubber-gloved handful of vegetable snot. These lot are, I would hazard a guess, Boho-Nik drop-outs to a man, &, I'd wager, bored by the omnipresent everything that they have been born with. Virtually harmless to anybody but themselves.
All except one.
& then there is the leader.
The man in front of me, the one who's laughing at his own jokes & making eye contact with everyone. Look at the way they all show him deference. Those bowed heads & nervous laughs disgust him, they truly do. The eye contact that is never maintained for too long. The way the more confident of them try to mirror his posture but turn their torsos away when he shows irritability with them. The way the females drink him in. The way he laughs at his own jokes. Like Josef S. Giving himself a round of applause. A true psychopath. My kinda guy.
He comes over & smiles at me. He has been watching me tackle the megalith of crockery & slime. & me only having been here for two days with a frilly apron wrapped around me & my yellow marigolds. He looks at me right in deep, seeing the candlelit kitchen flicker in his eyes & I maintain that contact. He breaks the connection first & laughs & shouts & snarls at the soft & spoilt children that have gathered around him. He cajoles & mocks them, kicking & punching them with granite gestures & sharp words. Even Jess, his woman. Although they would probably tell you that nobody is anybody's property, or some such ideological poppycock.
But I see right through the fucker. I know what he is doing with his magnetic stare & radical mutterings. He is being Daddy & lulling them right in. In down deep inside his Will. Until they lose themselves & become lesser copies of himself.
Flattering me that I am the only one who knows how to truly survive & that they will need to discipline themselves, like me, if they are going to fight the powers that be.
If they are going to be an army.
Seems a bit rough.
Just over some messy flower print pots.
But then, of course, he is right.
Deryk is my real enemy. He is the dangerous one. This leader. I see a lot of me in him. With his crew cut & lean physique. Everything is done out of necessity. Even speech. I would not be surprised if there is a military background there. He is one without proper diction but enough discipline to shame a monk. One who is not trying to lose the plum stuck into his mouth, because it was never there in the first place.
The one with a real creative passion for violence.
A raw passion born in the gutter of Old Lurk slums.
Refined in the crucible of experience.
I rather like him, ... this enemy.
TO BE CONTINUED ...