The Dirty - Part Two

"Would you pull a trigger to create Eden?" - Deryk Kokzynski

I have been out here a month now & the metallic weather continues to drone & howl. I cannot remember the last time I saw the bloody sun dripping in all its glory. Black sky mood. Not even a shaft of lightness filtered through stern clouds like those damned glow-trees in fog.
It is my job to collect supplies down in Id Town.The streets are rarely teeming. No wonder the locals of Id Town are gaunt-minded & suspicious. This weather must breed an antisocial temperament interspersed with violent bouts of alcoholism. All the around here crimes must be committed by rampant & bored octogenarians.
I trudge up the stairs, as the lift gave up its life around the turn of the last century & read some graffiti concerning the unusual sex life of one of the past residents. I turn into the corridor that The Dirty has occupied in force. The single working bulb crackles on & off to its own tune throwing the shapes of the shadows of cracked paint & skin-hued plaster. The walls dance & behind closed doors I hear the murmuring of plots & the regimented stripping of pistols.

*

I have learnt a lot about organisation of the block & The Dirty. The whats & wherefores are becoming less murky through the secretive dampness. They are still guarded & suspicious of me. Of my instant closeness to Deryk. Of that glint of death in my eye.

Knowing myself, I certainly do not begrudge them that.

They act just as suspicious with each other.

Especially the femmes.

Something to exploit later methinks.

I know, ... I'm thinking like a Gallik politician already.

Shoot me.

As with all "communes" there ain't much privacy here. Part of the point, 'spose. Going to have use the old fashioned methods. Got a noize-kam embedded in my Saint Michael (killing the poor old Dragon) talisman connected to HADES's Netwerk that Brother Barcode set up for me. That & my eTarot.

If this all sounds like I'm really having a bad time ... well, it couldn't be further from the truth.

The danger is bracing.

*

Deryk is a taut & fierce whirlwind of energy. He is a benign dictator who listens to his people before deciding on his own course of action. Yet, woe betide the flash of his black eyes for anybody who doubts or questions the decision once it has been taken.

I seem to have become his Captain. Logically really, he senses a rival or smells a rat. Keep your friends close & your enemies closer. How the others feel is anybody's guess. They do seem quite happy to relinquish their wills to let him decide. I did not think they made leaders like him any more. If he was not here with these people, he would be off in the woods somewhere by himself in a hut & completely at peace. But he has a mission to carry out & the more I listen to it the more frightened I become.

I was right about him being ex-military. We have had gentle words as the tempest ravaged mercilessly outside. He opened up to me. Which, of course, is a test. His own way of gleaning information, which I gladly fed to him. A mixture of false & true that is backed up by files should somebody wish to tell. As far as he is concerned, I, too, was in the military. Which is true.

The Fleet of the Sea of Morpheus.

OLN Thanatos.

He makes jokes about sailors & asks how I lost my eye.

I tell him the one about the lion's den, & remember pouring fire over the bow & on to the heads of men.

Deryk told me that he feels that now I am here the burden of leadership has been halved. We can move to the next stage. To bring WAR to those who deserve to know how their lives are funded.

This soldier.

He was a sergeant in the Solars.

Did tours in Persidhad & Jinnistan, Hell Hand et al.

Lucky devil.

That was sarcasm.

Just there.

Deryk did his job then he left & took to his backpack & decided to wash that big old perpetual WAR right out of him. Yet, it was too deep inside. What he had seen in the name of Lurk. Dead babies' heads on spikes. Pregnant women gutted, their unborn, unformed children hung & left to the flies. Once proud soldiers dragged naked along the streets of their birth. No mental enema could flush those images away. No matter how far up or down he got. Whether he was in the Yetilamas or Mistletoe Lane. Abyss-side or multi-storey chariot park. Conflict was with him in every heartbeat & cloud of breath in the chill night. It was no longer a war between two or more wholly incompatible ignorant political or religious ideologies.

This war is different.

It is against very existence itself.

A war he can never hope to win by himself.

& I find myself unconsciously nodding in agreement.

A deadly seed has been planted.

An ethical tightrope.

Well, I ain't got that much on at the moment myself.

*

Izzy turns over in her sleep & gently pulls the blanket with her. As she does a draught whistles gently over my chest. I move up closer to her warm body & she naturally welcomes me. Izzy is from an old Industrialist family from the IZ, near Stake-Thru-The-Heart, who dropped out & came to Id Town for some solitude & freedom & got sucked up in all this idealism. Long black hair & curvaceous like those fatal women in the old flicks. The moonlight seeps into our bedroom & turns her white outline blue. That special night time pale blue. I stare at that soft light streaking into the room, naked & unashamed as it softly defines our clothes strewn over a wooden chair. I wonder how long it will be before it all kicks off & who will live & will die. I hope she does not take a bullet to the skull. I like her.

I can still smell her sex in the warmth of our bed. A musk that reminds us somewhere profound that we are the reveries of animals & not much more. There is all the evidence you need. No philosophical or theological or even evolutionary arguments are needed when faced with that scent. Maybe that is why those with a vested interest in keeping us believing that we are anything more than just primates hate that smell.

& the organs that create it.

It just demolishes their ideas before they have even started.

It is a brick of truth crushing their abstract house of cards.

Just before she went to sleep, she was lying on me, playing with my chest hair. Curling it around her fingers all playful.

"It will all be so perfect soon", I hear her whisper.

"Once the noise is removed, only silence shall remain"

I turn head so that I can see her face in the moonlight.

Her heart crash bangs & I can sense the dilation of her eyes.

“Look at you”, she licked the words with her mellow toned accent.

“My ape”

*

Oneiroic-Fascism, Deryk calls it.

OnFasc, for short.

Does that scare you?

That “f” word there.

Fascism.

The scariest word in the whole of the “civilised” world. The images that single Latin derived word conjures up. Crooked crosses. Ranting leaders honking their vegetable soup farts. Tribes shovelled into ovens & turned into candles. Unthinking & brutal actions carried out by civil servants. A living nightmare.

By adding the prefix “Oneiroic-” you could equate every suppressio nocturno that man has suffered & could not control. Every night-time tsunami, mental earthquake, avalanche of past events, drought of hope. The truly awesome power & violence of the nature of the imagination has been summoned in a single prefix.

A Oneiroic-Fascist must be a real motherfucker.

A magus gone mad.

It is something that is seen in terms of belief & not profit. Yet, I look at these people mulling around in front of me now & I see people who really do care about more than just their retirement & an easy life. These are people who seem willing to die for their beliefs.

We call them extremists, while we stuff our faces full of experimental chocolate & change to the five hundredth channel of shite on our TV sets & smugly recycle fooling ourselves that we are doing some good to The Mind. We secretly know that our whole way of life & its values are based on murder & tyranny but we bury that deep down thinking that if we forget, then it will cease to exist.

Deryk said something to me yesterday.

He said, “The libertas that rule & mewl are afraid us because they know that somehow we are their creations. They made & need us. We're just fulfilling our roles. Nothing more.”

*

My eTarot gave me The Chariot, this morning.

Things are moving swiftly.

I heard Deryk speaking on his Netfone last night.

Tone conspiratorial. Gunpowder, treason & plot.

The Dirty are not alone.

This goes deep.

Deeper than we could ever imagine.

As our troops become more & more efficient, I learn more about Deryk's WAR.

After his call, he went all Jim the Boptist ...

"Let them not say that our WAR is a WAR of terror. Or of Kaos."

He ranted ...

"It is order that rules us. & we shall bring "order" to that corrupt whore Old Lurk & The Mind."

He reared up like a cosmic cobra ...

"We shall replace the so-called "natural" spontaneity of the Oneiroisphere & those in power with the purity of Silence!"

He reached his crescendo, arms outsretched. An evil Christ on the Mount ...

"Through the re-ordering of the Oneiroisphere, a true order shall be imposed upon the multi-verse itself! A thorn to remove a thorn!"

He finished with his forefinger over his lips as he stared right at me. The Sign Of Silence. The symbol of secrets & spies.

The sign of HADES.

*

Two months now since we infiltrated, "codename: The Dirty".

Through the obscure webs of Social Darwinist groups & up into more prominent extremist groups such as The Lurkers & The OL Front. From the backdrop of Firm owned backstreet pubs filled with desperate people seeing their jobs & corner of the City slowly taken away from them, to apartment block compounds where the natural tribal instinct is reinforced with every thought & action. Most are territorial, with various degrees of genetic or social purity mixed in. Looking outside to kick whatever enemy they can find. The siege mentality.

& you know what?

Suspiciousness of others is hard-wired inside all of us.

If truth be told.

We are all bigots who need to control ourselves.

The Dirty is different.

Something so much more.

It is pure destruction.

This network is far bigger & more complex than even the secret police back in the heart of The Somnambulopolis could have ever suspected. A clue, here & a implied word there.
In fact, the term "network" is misleading. The Dirty is an anti-organisation, a loose coalition of terrorist cells & more overground & visible supporters. I suspect rivals to dear old Mayor Aurelius, who really do not know the thought-form they are dealing with. Its tentacles do not only extend into government, political ambition & big business. We are talking a usurping of the way things are. Into the LUX & the TENEBRIS. Starting here & finishing Dionysus-only-knows-where.

OnFasc has taken its organisational roots from its contemporaries. The Ishmaelist Cowboys & their Yee Haw, or Holy War Rodeo. Independent cells working inside a common ideological framework with no real hierarchy.

A leaderless modern terror network.

An idea made flesh.

Incarnate in the leader.

The Dirty is just the unsettling start.

Deryk is T-Shirt material.

A Hip Priest of Destruction for every disillusioned weak sperm with a grudge.

& with war gone all post-modern, who knows how many potential copycats & wannabes are out there?

Who knows why they have been off the radar for so long?

Someone wants them out there.

Keeping the normal people all scared.

Giving them an enemy.

*

The Dirty knows that the Netwerk is not a safe haven anymore. That the powers that be are constantly monitoring their overground Netwerks. Shutting down this site. Menacing that site. The threat of infiltration with every msg or txt. A legion of hackers from all sides fighting an Information War. Important communication is done through untraceable mobile phones bought en masse in supermarkets & changed every three to six weeks, once a certain coded text is received.

I now realise how dangerous of a position I am actually in.

In the last six months, I have seen changes that makes me aware of just how much force of will is behind OnFasc.

Deryk is the Colonel Kurtz of this operation.

Not a bad analogy.

That means that I am Willard.

Although who will kill who in this remake?

Fate has yet to decide.

*

The instigation of a military regime that the Zippydoodahitistas would be proud of went smoothly. Lost people give up their wills so easily. We all dark wear boiler suits now. Short hair.

Even the women.

Even Jess, our Mad Lord & Master's shag-job.

Jess, well, to not mince words, she used to be like a right cunt. Used to getting her own way, she was. Top dog at St Trinian's. Bolshy & pushy to male or female alike. Studied psychology. Obviously had some self-induced trauma push her right over the edge. Now, just another cog. Yesterday, I saw her withered by Deryk as he spat & kicked at her & she lapped it up like a good dog. Licking the spittle gratefully off her face.

During the night, we all patrol through the hilly up & down streets of Id Town with smashed up pieces of kerb in our packs. We tramp for miles through the dead urban alleys to the reservoir where we swim in the freezing water while wild flocks of man-eating sparrows look on. Every morning for three hours we teach the obedient ones how to strangle a man with electrical cord, or defend themselves with a chin jab or tiger claw strike, or how to make a bomb from a fone & fertiliser.

We even have a makeshift firing range in the backyard.

You can scream & shout out there & let off a couple of rounds with a Tsararov or even a sawn off without anybody disturbing you. Id Town is the perfect

Tsararovs are good solid handguns. SovNik-made, reliable & used in any solid brain-dictatorship you care to mention. The dissolution of the SovNik Union has been a real boom for gun runners & terrorist organisations. As well as the LUX & TENBRIS. Sov guns are everywhere & cheap.

As is NukeTech & know-how.

Coming soon to a totalitarian tin-pot near you!

At night the fire in the cooker burns & illuminates the kitchen where, after all tasks for the day have been done, I tend to sit around the table smoking my cigars & drinking green tea with Deryk & maybe one or two of the others. Maybe one of maggots will play his AnaLog & we will all have a sing-song. Then, we go to bed, if it not our turn to stand sentry & Izzy & I will make love & talk until the early hours if we have any energy left. I am the only one besides Deryk to have a "mate", as he romantically puts it.

"Your life has earned you that much", he told me.

*

These are actually good times.

The calm before the tempest, I know.

My hair is still short but now I wear a grand beard like some wodewose, or wild man from a Jack London novel.

“If it wasn't for you ...”, Deryk said to me one night when we were alone.

“I would have disbanded that rag-tag group within two weeks & left. It wouldn't have formed itself organically, like the living being it is now. I would have just been another cult-leader worth shooting. I would have disappeared. Gone underground & waited for the right time. If it ever came.”

That third night when I did the washing up.

That was the changing point.

Deryk says that was the moment it all became a serious proposition for him.

The green light.

He said that they were all just biding their time.

Waiting for me.

*

To Be Continued ...