#lark's code quest

[pencildragons]

they invented python code language to torment me, studying an environmental science, specifically

[kaseyskat]

also while i’m here i have this very specific vision of post canon sparrow that i Know anthony is not going to give me but a guy can dream anyways i was gonna write it but i got overtaken by. other brainworms so i thought id share with the class:

in my head, the self isolation of the timeout dimension cells would do all of the kiddads pretty well in terms of like, how much self reflection can be done there? and i think it would affect sparrow the most simply because of the events leading Up To the imprisonment- aka, reuniting with henry, normal expressing that he’s still more or less unwilling to talk to sparrow without bias, and getting the code purple flashbacks without any communication afterwards all serving to triple whammy sparrow in the face he has a lot of self reflection he could do (i say this so tentatively, i KNOW anthony is not going to care).

and of my own personal opinion, i really do believe sparrow could come out of that experience WANTING to be better. he’s already shown a lot of growth through the season (no matter how much yall refuse to acknowledge it) and while he doesn’t see code purple as a wrongdoing i think he’d be very willing to admit that it Hurt people and if given the chance he’d like to make amends.

my vision for post canon sparrow? he’s on a quest of redemption. he knows very intimately that the world being so fucked up is his fault and therefore his responsibility to fix, and i’ve been very passionately envisioning him reconnecting with his druidic self, finding his wildshape again and also his magic entirely and using it to help fix the world. and he does so alone- at least, without lark and without the teens, because he thinks this is something he needs to do alone. there are some really fun spells i think could help him in this quest depending on his circle, but that’s irrelevant.

that’s MY goal for sparrow, what i would end his story with: rebuilding faerun, reconnecting with himself to show the growth he’s already had, reconnecting with henry and slowly mending his relationship with normal along the way. i think it could be really good for him!

[yogsothott]

Relistening to early s1 makes me feel even more bad for Sparrow and the tragedy of his character. The twins are the first kids the daddies save and the pyramid thing happens, and it made me think of how much the sons witness their dads commit atrocities n mass destruction in the quest to rescue them. Even if most of those are accidents, the message is "we'll do anything it takes to save our children first, and then pay for the consequences if we have to".

Aside from the tons of trauma being put in this situation at all must leave them with, hardening all of the sondads to a degree, they all have also inadvertently received this message from their own fathers. So Henry not forgiving him for doing the same thing to the forgotten realms to protect his own children (and by doing it on a bigger scale their entire world as well) almost feels hypocritical. Of course I understand Henry's point, and the difference between mass murder and genocide is one he could have very well refused to cross even for his sons himself. But he was also never put on this impossible position. Code purple was an insanely lose-lose situation anyway, but the thought that one of the things that might have pushed Sparrow towards his choice may be the choices he saw his father make (and unlike Lark rejecting Henry, Sparrow tried to learn from him) only to cause his father to forever reject him is haunting me. Especially paired with Henry forgiving Lark, and sure Lark was a child, but I also can't help but think of Henry's self-loathing and how he condemned the son who tried to be like him and accepted the one who rejected him.

[queer-starwars-bracket]

Queer Star Wars Characters (Round 1): General Bracket Match 50

Chass na Chadic | Identity: bisexual | Media: Alphabet Squadron Trilogy

Chass na Chadic was raised in the cult the Inheritors of the Crystal. When she was young, she fled the cult, becoming a “rim rat”, struggling to navigate the Empire due to not having sufficient documentation and being an alien. Inspired by Jyn Erso, who saved her life, she joined the Cavern Angels (surviving members of Saw’s Partisans). As the sole survivor, she joined the New Republic/Alliance Hound Squadron. In a chase through the Ordiol Cluster after the Battle of Endor by Shadow Wing, she was once again the sole survivor, due to Wyl Lark saving her, something she despised. During that chase, she also had a flirtation with the male Ishi Tib Sata Neek. 

She was recruited into Alphabet Squadron, due to her history with Shadow Wing. Their B-Wing pilot, she was brash and aggressive. She liked to fly to music, of which she had an extensive collection of- a lot of it banned. Chass never saw herself surviving the war, thinking of herself as destined to be a martyr. With some genre awareness, she became unmoored post-Endor, as anyone who died then was a fool rather than a hero. During the Siege of Triothe, she became involved with the Children of the Empty Sun cult and found their beliefs seductive. Even after escaping from the cult, she became post-ironically religious- her music replaced by sermons and prayers. 

Prickly to everyone, once Yrica Quell’s actions in Operation Cinder and her seeming betrayal was revealed, her previous sexual tension with the woman became a rage filled obsession. She went AWOL to chase after Quell and bring her back to the New Republic. This mission ended up with the two women and Kairos (another squadron member) stranded on Kairos’ homeplanet, where they had a chance to bond. She flew in the battle of Jakku, where she was seriously injured and made disabled- becoming a cane-user. Her fears of a terrible life as a veteran weren’t entirely released, but she still struggled financially and with her mental health (including suicidal ideation). She went to Quell to demand a place to stay, and began to work with her as an in-system hauler. There she began a relationship with Quell, which combined with the stability of her new life, really helped her psyche heal. 

Sky Graf | Identity: non-binary | Media: The High Republic Quest for Planet X

Sky Graf was a young member of the wealthy Graf family. A year before the Night of Sorrow, their father went missing looking for Planet X. To prove themselves to their family and possibly find their father, they stole their older brother’s ship the Brightbird and deemed up with Dass Leffbruk (who had previously made it to Planet X) and the Jedi padawan Rooper Nitani to use a Force artifact to try to find Planet X during the great hyperspace race. The Force artifact brought them backwards through the planets Dass had recently visited, where they face challenges while also trying to outrun Sky’s brother. During their journey, they also had to take the Path of the Open Hand member Fel Ix as a hostage. Fel Ix began to break through his cult programming, and when the news of a possible battle between the Path and the Republic reached the crew of the Brightbird, he convinced Sky to give up the search for Planet X to travel to Dalna. Fel Ix succeeded by appealing to Sky’s connection with their father by pointing out how he was a father himself. Working with Fel Ix, Sky helped defeat the Graf code that was corrupting the communication buoys in the Dalna sector, preventing more violence during the Night of Sorrow. Their brother, Helis, eventually caught up with them. But the siblings were able to talk about their feelings and reconcile. The two of them would fly the Brightbird together and continue to prospect. But Sky would no longer chase their father’s ghost. Sky’s lifestyle was a combination of the hard and technical life of a pilot and hyperspace prospector combined with the luxury of their family’s level of wealth. They are very intelligent when it comes to science. They are confident, with a prickly exterior. They didn’t connect with Fel Ix the way Dass or Rooper did until the end, not wanting to try to understand the perspective of someone who tried to kill them. When things got serious, they showed a surprising capacity of violence and a willingness to do anything to achieve their goals. They only felt like they had unconditional love from their father, his disappearance driving them even further in conflict with their family. At the end of the book, they are more at peace, but still eager to make their own name separate from the Graf dynasty. Unusually for transgender characters in Star Wars, there is explicit discussion in their internal monolog about how they felt gender dysphoria when they started to go through puberty and how their father got them a binder.

[mc-obsessed]

Hello Housamo Fans! 👋

Current Support: 4* Ame-no-Uzume

👆 My Friend Code 👆

I'm @mc-obsessed. I really like Housamo's MC and am very gay for them. I've been playing since December, but been reading the story though the Archive since October.

You may also know me from @twstfan-san or @senfan-san. I'm sorry that I disappeared from those fandoms. I've simply lost interest in those games, but I would still be willing to translate or talk about them still (with a little less enthusiasm). I don't want any hard feelings and still love you all very much. Thank you for being there!

Moving on, I'm very passionate about Housamo and happy to talk about the story, themes, gameplay, or anything else. While I'm not at the expertise like Lark or Dorokora, I'm willing to exchange opinions about anything.

If you need any help in your quests or grinding, my Supports and Friend Code are above(see pictures)! If you need me to switch out Support, just send an Ask and I will update it. I have around 15 slots open, so feel free to send a request!

[abybweisse]

Hello, O!Ciel is said to be very intelligent but he never seems to ask the right question. One example is not asking the UT how he could afford the Aurora society membership….

Sorry for the delay!

Not asking the right questions

This is a serious issue that repeats throughout the series, leading to many of the later problems and delaying their quest.

Like you say, our earl could have asked Undertaker some leading questions. Not that Undertaker would have told the truth. Or, more likely, his answers would be true but still misleading.

Our earl asks Tanaka if he recognizes the attackers on December 14, 1885… but here are some things he’s failed to ask him:

What might have been the reason for the attack? Who would have had the best reasons for doing so (or ordering it)? Tanaka might have mentioned a particular assignment as watchdog, a new or particularly strong enemy that had been made, or some special project (like Tower Bridge) that the Phantomhives somehow got involved with (or tried to avoid involvement with).

What watchdog duties or assignment was Vincent working on at the time? What were some major assignments or projects over the past few years leading up to the attack? Tanaka might have mentioned the “Windsor incident” that Vincent and Diedrich dealt with two or three years before. There also could have been assignments or other watchdog duties (not mentioned before in the manga) that could have led to this attack, like as a form of retaliation. For example, Haku was already operating the British branch of Qīng Bāng out of Limehouse by then. I don’t think it was Haku… which makes me wonder exactly how Lau and our earl started writing to each other…. 🤔 Anyway, I digress; I don’t actually think Qīng Bāng ordered the attack… unless Yana-san wants to not just break but crush the real Ronald Knox’s commandment that “ no Chinaman must figure in the story”.

He didn’t recognize the attackers, but could he at least describe them?

How did Tanaka survive the attack long enough to get to the hospital? Who took him… Madam Red?

Madam Red said one signet ring survived the fire, and that’s all she found… but we now know that even some papers survived, like the collection of family recipes and the ledger of previous servants. Tanaka would have been able to show our earl where those things had been kept safe. Might be an actual safe. What else was saved? Apparently, there also might have been various ledgers and other important documents.

It’s possible that Tanaka does share a lot of information with our earl and Sebastian when he finally reports back for duty, but our best chance of learning that is from a major flashback from Tanaka. Plus, if he does tell our earl and Sebastian about various events leading up to the attack, why has there been no mention of anyone investigating these things? Not even Sebastian giving us a “well, Tanaka’s leads didn’t pan out, so what’s next, Young Master?” The other possibility is that Tanaka didn’t say much of anything, and what they did manage to find was by Sebastian searching the manor for places where things might have been kept safe from the fire.

What about Madam Red? Did our earl ever ask her what she knew of Vincent’s activities? Did Rachel ever confide her fears or worries to her sister?

Francis/Frances definitely had some knowledge of her brother’s activities, even if he kept most of that away from her, particularly the “dirtiest” activities.

Diedrich knew/knows a lot. So should Chlaus. Did our earl ever ask them about the attack or what might have led to it?

Mr. Pitt might also be full of information. More importantly, our earl should ask what’s being stored at Lark Photography studio! Since it belonged to Vincent, and Mr. Pitt is familiar with some secret codes (that might go back to when Vincent was watchdog), I’m sure that studio is a treasure trove of evidence. Damning evidence. Might not all be photographed, of course. I imagine it’s a good place to store not just glass plates and copies of photos but also dossiers and other various forms of evidence collected during numerous assignments and other activities.

Did our earl ever ask Undertaker about the attack? Yes, Undertaker showed up too late to save Vincent or to even collect his body (all ashes by then), but was there anything he’d learned from his own investigation of the crime scene?

And there’s Queen Victoria. Since she controlled the Phantomhive earldom for roughly three months, from as soon as the attack occurred until she restored the earldom to the Phantomhive family, she might have known something about the attack itself. Honestly, she’s still my prime suspect, her and John Brown. It would have been interesting to see what kinds of answers she gave to any questions our earl might have posed to her. Would there have been hints she was lying or misdirecting him? We will only learn about this, if she gives flashbacks… or admits to ordering the attack.

Also…. What happened to the other Aristocrats of Evil who are shown in the panel, around the pool table? The guy with the large facial scar and the well-dressed woman with the fan? Are they dead, or did they scamper off into hiding…?

[canmom]

Toku[-like] Tuesday 35: Dress Code: Latex

hey hey hey, hope everyone’s enjoyed today’s anime desk. @mogsk​ made this delightfully cute edit about it...

We have plenty of great films to hit on Tuesdays to come, from the live action films of Mamoru Oshii such as Avalon, through more J-horror, and the rest of the filmography of Park Chan-Wook, to even a little something from here in the 28 Days series (a pair of zombie outbreak films which are, like all worthwhile British art, unremittingly bleak pictures of the state). And no doubt stuff I haven’t even heard of, or thought to show.

But tonight I want something that won’t require too much research since I have been writing about anime all day, so let’s return to our suit acting ruits with last year’s Canadian scifi parody-comedy, Psycho Goreman!

This is one that both @mogsk​ and @lyravelocity​ have recced to me at various points. As the trailer tells, two anything-but-innocent kids gain the power to control an evil galactic overlord, a lark which pulls them, naturally, into a grand and very bloody conflict - an environment they fall into very naturally. Shot on a shoestring budget, it’s been praised for making it count in every way, particularly in its sense of creature design.

As a parody it’s affectionately addressing both the disappeared American B-movie and that country’s Saturday morning TV, which means in a way it’s speaking to imported toku shows such as Power Rangers? The ‘mundane people pulled into a tropey scifi world’ premise also calls to mind Galaxy Quest, although from the looks of things hitting a slightly different vector of comedy. I regret that I can’t remember most of the things Alex said about its character dynamics except a general impression that they sounded very entertaining.

After that, we’ll return to actual honest-to-Godzilla tokusatsu, and catch up on Kamen Rider Revice! Where we left off, old fashy Fenix had successfully disbanded the mariachi-themed Deadmans before they could carry out sacrifices to summon their god - but most of the head Deadmans have escaped alive to start (I hear) some substantial arcs, and there’s no way Fenix are up to any good with all this. So let’s head back to the realm of colourful plastic and see where they take it next...

Toku Tuesday 35 is to start in the next ten minutes (before 8pm UK time) on twitch.tv/canmom !

[nevertherose]

One Hundred Seconds to Midnight: Chapters 1-8

"All Roman wanted to do was take Logan on a Doctor Who LARP within the Imagination.

But with Thomas's Sides at their figurative breaking point after the disastrous wedding, the Imagination may just have a few ideas of her own..."

Hello, Tumblr fanders, it has been a while since I've poked around in here...mostly because, I've been writing another story!

Do you like Sanders Sides? Do you like Doctor Who? Do you like the idea of the Sides playing Doctor Who characters? If so, this story was written especially for you.

I found that the process of cross-posting Mahogany and Teakwood across three platforms, one chapter at a time, involved a lot of me spending too many hours squinting at html code. Not especially fun. This time around, I've only been posting on AO3 and Wattpad.

But I wanted it to exist here as well.

So! Today I'm going to post the first half (in two posts, because apparently Tumblr has a post size limit, who knew?), all the chapters that are up so far. Then, when the whole story is up on the other platforms, I'll post the other half.

Of course, you could head to either AO3 or Wattpad, if you want to read as the chapters go up.

But if you're like me, and like to read stories in nice, big, juicy chunks...here you go:

One Hundred Seconds to Midnight

Chapter 1- The Eleventh Hour

“Who are you?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m still cooking.”

Midnight.

The witching hour.

Or was that 3AM? Roman wondered. No, that’s the devil’s hour…damn it, Virgil! You had to get them all mixed up!

It was nearly midnight on the Imagination’s border.

Moonlight, pearlescent and brighter than it could ever shine in the real world, streamed feather-light through the tall windows on Roman’s side of the Dream Palace. It made patterns of light and shadow over the black marble floors, made nighttime caricatures of the white ivory statues that lined the corridor.

Roman’s heeled boots echoed in the silence; Logan’s dress shoes, in comparison, were whisper-quiet.

Logan himself had been uncharacteristically quiet since they entered this place, Roman noted, glancing back. Normally by now the logical Side would have asked a million questions, made a million plans, or be several bullet points into a lecture about palace construction or the history of measurement units or some other nerdy, obscure subject.

And Roman would either pretend to be annoyed, or would interject witty counterpoints to make Logan stop and bluster and…

But not tonight.

Maybe he’s nervous about being here, Roman told himself, smoothing a hand over his red sash. He’s only pointed out a million times that Logic and the Imagination are anathema to one another. Maybe I should have planned something else…

Or maybe he’s just annoyed at you for dragging him out of bed in the literal middle of the night, a more insidious inner voice whispered. When you know he likes to keep a consistent sleep schedule.

Roman pressed his lips together, lifted his chin…he might be a mere facet of a single personality, but he was also a Prince, and Princes do not listen to inner demons. However, he also looked back for the dozenth time to make sure Logan was actually still following.

That was the only reason Roman kept looking back.

It had nothing to do with the way the translucent moonlight caught the other Side’s dark, immaculately kept hair, or glinted off his glasses.

In the real world, of course, and whenever they manifested near their Source, the Sides all had precisely the same face and body as Thomas. But deep inside the mind, where physical appearance was an illusion anyway, the Sides exercised much more control.

Thomas remained their base template, but each Side also tended to portray himself with features that Thomas associated with their core function. Like Patton’s fluffy curls and childlike freckles, or Virgil’s anxious, ever-changing eyeshadow, or Remus’s abominable comic-book villain mustache.

Like Deceit’s…no, Janus’s very real scales.

Damn that snake. Why did I have think of him now?

Hopefully the lying bananaconda had better things to do than pop up and spoil things tonight. Because tonight, Roman was finally fulfilling a longtime promise to Logan, and taking him on a grand adventure.

The thought made his heart flutter in anticipation, and he looked back again.

Logan within the mindscape was leaner than Thomas, an inch or two taller, and his neatly trimmed hair and intelligent eyes were almost black in the low light. His face was narrow and intense, the nose more aquiline, and he had a habit of standing straighter than any of the rest of them.

(A habit which constantly showed off his trim waist and chest muscles…not that Roman paid any attention to that…)

Roman, by contrast, was a bit shorter, but his shoulders were broad and he was more muscular, due to all the questing and sword fighting he did here in the Imagination. He wore his hair in longish disarray that paired devastatingly with his clean, square jawline; hair that could be turned loose and wild on quests, or pulled neatly back as befitted royalty. His hands were strong; with long, artistic fingers, as skilled at wielding pens and paintbrushes as they were at wielding swords.

He liked to think he was handsome.

He was also painfully aware of how little it mattered when a certain someone…ehem…never seemed to notice.

“Roman, I confess to still being a bit lost as to the purpose of this journey,” Logan said at last, breaking the high-ceilinged silence. “You said you were taking us on a…’lark���? If so, why are we wandering around the Dream Palace?”

“LARP,” Roman corrected, flashing him a smile. “L-A-R-P. It stands for live action role play, Specs.”

Logan’s nose wrinkled at the words “role play”, and Roman’s stomach lurched. He hates it, he hates the very idea of it, you haven’t even started yet and you’ve already failed…

“Oh, don’t make the scrunchy face!” he added, a bit louder than necessary, and waved a hand. “At least wait until you’ve seen it.”

Roman had only been planning this for weeks.

“You know, when you promised to take me on one of your ‘adventures’,” Logan said, making finger quotes. “I was not expecting to be roused from bed in the middle of the night.”

“That’s because this isn’t your average adventure.” Roman gestured around them. “I constructed a special dreamscape to get all the details right, and we can only use the Dream Palace when Thomas is asleep.” He turned and dared a wink. “Only the best for you, my detail-oriented friend.”

Logan adjusted his glasses.

“Let it be known that I am indulging your antics right now because you have, on occasion, had some good ideas. You will, in turn, have to indulge my skepticism.”

“I have no idea what you just said, but I’m gonna pretend it was a compliment,” Roman said with a wink, which Logan rolled his eyes at.

“Ah ha, here we are!”

Roman stopped at a set of iconic blue doors, nearly vibrating in excitement as he waited for Logan to recognize them.

The nerd did not disappoint.

“Roman…” Logan murmured, stepping forward to touch the white PULL TO OPEN sign. “They look just like the doors to the TARDIS. The attention to detail is exquisite. But why?”

“Because I’m taking you on a Doctor Who LARP!” Roman exclaimed, flapping his hands. “All we have to do is step through, and the Imagination will make us Doctor and companion, and whisk us away through all of time and space!”

Logan’s face was a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “Again…why?”

“Because it will be fun?” Roman bit his lip, looking at his toes. “I…I know you aren’t into swords and sorcery and dragon-witches and whatnot. I wanted this to be something you might actually enjoy.”

Logan’s brow furrowed, as it often did when he tried to process something that didn’t fit neatly into his graphed, notated, logical worldview.

Usually, it was an emotion.

“But won’t us enacting such an intense scenario at this time of night negatively affect Thomas’s sleep?” Logan asked.

“That’s the genius of adventuring in the Dream Palace,” Roman explained. “You can do hyperreal, immersive stuff, and if Thomas does happen to remember anything, he’ll just think he had a weird dream. The worst that could happen is he might post about it on Twitter.”

“Hmm. I can see you’ve thought this through. I am…flattered that you went to all the trouble,” Logan said in a quiet voice.

Roman had to bite back an ecstatic giggle.

Not…not because of the way his nerves skittered below his skin when his gaze caught Logan’s black eyes and soft expression. No, Roman was merely…excited! That someone like Logan appreciated his hard work!

It wasn’t like he was trying to impress anyone, like some middle school boy with, you know, a crush or whatever. For the last, well…two years.

…and then some.

Ugh. There was little point in denying his feelings; he’d only accidentally summon Janus and his oily smirk, and if that happened, Roman would most certainly die of embarrassment and that was not a lie, thank you very much.

The truth was, ever since Thomas had placed that jar of Crofters into Logan’s hands and inspired him to sing…not just rap, or begrudgingly harmonize, but actually sing…Roman had fallen, and fallen hard.

How could he not?

Logan’s words and ideas had always challenged him, pushed him to be smarter, sharper, better, just to keep up. Logan was the grounding anchor to his sails, the clarity to his excess. It used to infuriate Roman, the way he and Logan always came at problems from opposite sides and fought, sometimes bitterly, over the best way to meet in the middle.

But now?

Now Roman relished the way they traded words in a good fight, like blades in the hands of expert swordsmen. Logan, despite his dislike for anything fanciful, was a natural wordsmith…and Roman was a great lover of poetry. Even better, it seemed like Logan was also starting to enjoy their verbal sparring matches…

And then these last few months had happened.

The Decision, and Deceit, and the way that snake had let Remus out of the shadows to wreck havoc, and then the disastrous wedding itself…and Roman knew that Logan, through all of it, had been feeling pushed aside.

Goodness knew the logical Side hadn’t deserved to be shoved to the back of a courtroom, or relegated to a pixel-y shadow of himself before being removed from the discussion entirely. Worse, in both of those scenarios, Roman had either done nothing…or actively made things worse.

Roman knew he was guilty of letting his mouth run wild in his zeal to solve Thomas’s dilemmas…or in desperately hiding his true feelings. He knew his nicknames often came with barbs, his insults sometimes hit too close to home, that he often ignored or dismissed Logan’s cool, much-needed perspective.

He knew he needed to be better.

I’ll make it up to him tonight, Roman told himself as he laid a hand on the rough wooden blue doors and glanced back at Logan. The logical Side nodded, giving Roman a tiny burst of confidence.

He’ll get to play his favorite character and be his best nerdy self. This is going to be great!

Roman took a breath, and shoved open the TARDIS doors.

Chapter 2- Human Nature

“It’s all becoming clear now. The Doctor is doing the things you’d like to be doing.”

The blaring of a dozen sirens burst in Logan’s ears.

He was yanked across the threshold, Roman’s hand practically a vice around his wrist. Logan inhaled the sharp scent of metal and warm electronics, and a million figurative lights went off in his brain.

Being the physical incarnation of Logic, this wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar sensation.

The TARDIS shuddered…wait, TARDIS? We’re actually on the TARDIS?…under impact. Lights flashed; reds and greens over an ambiance of steely blue-gray, and Logan knew exactly what to do.

He shook free of Roman’s grip and strode to the center console…console, how do I know this is a console?…flipping several switches and turning the green dial to precisely 3.56 degrees to offset the radiation sheer from the M-class star they’d just spun past.

Because naturally they happened to be careening through an asteroid field.

The time rotor rose and dipped, Gallifreyan symbols whirling overhead; Logan adjusted shields and dodged rocks, striding confidently from station to station. He guided his TARDIS around the last large asteroid, one that easily could have smashed his beloved ship to bits, and then they were clear.

The TARDIS chimed reassuringly under his hands, relieved to be in empty space again.

Roman screamed.

The sound echoed off the metallic walls, causing Logan to whip around and nearly lose his balance.

“What happened?” he said sharply, leaving the console. The creative Side stood near the railing, staring down at himself in obvious dismay. “What’s wrong?”

“Look at me, Logan!” Roman said shrilly and gesturing at his body. “Just look!”

Logan examined his fellow Side. There were no obvious injuries he could see, no blood, no bruising, nothing that would merit a scream. There was just Roman, unfairly handsome as always.

(He still wasn’t sure how Roman managed that feat when they all literally, at least some of the time, had the same face.)

“I…don’t see a problem?” Logan asked slowly.

“I meant, look at what I’m wearing, Calculator Watch,” Roman snarled, and turned to yell nonsensically at the ceiling. “Am I a joke to you? When I said I wanted to be a companion, this is not what I meant!”

Logan focused on Roman’s clothing, which had shifted rather drastically since passing through those doors. His normal princely attire was replaced by a denim cutoff skirt, overalls, pink leggings, and a tight pink blouse that clung to his muscular chest and arms...

“I look ridiculous, don’t I?” Roman murmured, scuffing a combat boot against the metal grated floor. The motion drew Logan’s gaze again to the way the cutoffs hugged his hips and wow, that skirt was really short, wasn’t it?

And those tights, the way they accentuated Roman’s legs...

Logan frowned, his face feeling unusually warm. Why did he keep noticing these things? Of course Roman was more fit than the rest of them.

Perhaps it was simply that Logan didn’t usually see the evidence of it so…plainly.

Stop, Logan told himself sharply. You might be gay and allosexual, but that is no excuse to be disrespectful.

He cleared his throat.

“If I may, Roman?” he said, approaching, and made a closer examination of Roman’s outfit.

“I gather from your earlier ranting that you instructed the Imagination to cast you as one of the Doctor’s companions for the duration of this scenario?”

“Well, yeah,” Roman admitted, “but I was thinking someone like Jamie McCrimmon, or Rory Williams, or maybe even Jack Harkness!”

“You know there is some debate over whether Jack Harkness would be considered a proper ‘companion’, as he was never full time on the TARDIS,” Logan argued absently, still eying Roman’s ensemble.

It was attractive but also familiar; he just couldn’t quite place it…

“Neither was Clara Oswald at first, but nobody had a problem handing her that label from the start!” Roman folded his arms and Logan had to look away because wow, short sleeves and arms…

“Just because she was a girl and the writers obviously intended for her to be a love interest—”

“A girl, of course!” Logan snapped his fingers. “Roman, you are a companion. Specifically, you are Rose Tyler.”

“What?” Roman frowned, smoothing the overalls across his middle. “I…Hmm. You might actually be right.”

“Of course I am right.”

The creative Side scoffed at that, but continued to frown.

“I think it’s a good choice,” Logan added. “Rose is arguably one of the most beloved companions in new Who; bold, kind, and intelligent in her own way. She was pivotal to the Ninth, Tenth, and arguably the War Doctor’s character arcs.”

He laid a hand on Roman’s shoulder. (To convey reassurance, of course. Not because he suddenly wanted to touch…)

“Hers are not the worst shoes you could be given to fill,” Logan said, “idiomatically speaking.”

“Only you would drop a word like ‘idiomatically’ in everyday conversation,” Roman grumbled, but some of the spark returned to his caramel eyes.

“But look at you!” Roman said in a brighter voice, gesturing. “All proper and Doctor-ish. At least the Imagination let you keep your tie, or, whatever that thing is around your neck.”

Logan glanced down at himself for the first time.

His sensible polo and jeans had become a clean-cut black suit, with a warm grey waistcoat, a crisp white undershirt, and a silver pocket watch. A navy cravat was knotted around his throat.

His knee-length suit jacket was also black, with a striking cerulean lining.

He retrieved a slender, metallic something from the jacket’s inner pocket: of course, the Doctor’s signature sonic screwdriver. Specifically, the Tenth Doctor’s screwdriver.

Logan chuckled, remembering all the times he’d ranted to Roman about how impractical and flashy Eleven’s screwdriver became, and don’t even get him started on Twelve’s, it was practically a lightsaber…

“Interesting,” he murmured, stretching his arms to turn in a slow circle, letting the jacket flare. “Fashionably, I appear to be a cross between the Eighth and Twelfth Doctors, which I appreciate, as they are the two most sensible dressers of the bunch. And by the way, Roman, this is a called a cravat, not a tie…”

He’d lifted hands to his neck but the words died on his tongue.

Roman had summoned a mirror and was, quite literally, checking himself out. He swayed his hips, tilted one toward and then away from the mirror, pouted, did a tongue smile, and…and Logan realized he had been watching for more than a socially acceptable length of time.

He swallowed hard and cleared his throat again. But he was saved from having to speak by a loud crackling at the center console.

Both Sides rushed over, Logan seizing the TV screen and pulling it down. Gray static skittered over the polished surface. He flipped two switches and turned a dial, trying to zero in on the signal.

“I meant to ask earlier…how do you know what to do?” Roman asked, tilting his head. “You were piloting before I think you even realized we were on a TARDIS in the first place.”

Logan froze in the middle of winding one of the cranks.

“I…I really do not know.” In fact, the more he thought about it, the less sense any of the controls made. “Now that you’ve drawn my attention to it, you are correct: rationally, I should not know the function of any of these…gizmos.” He gestured at the crank he’d been winding.

“Yet somehow my hands just…know.”

Roman leaned casually onto the console.

“When I built this LARP, I gave the Imagination quite a bit of leeway in how it wanted to construct our characters,” he said. “I’m thinking it took things a step further than costume changes, like making me the companion it thinks I most resemble instead of the companion I wanted to be.”

Roman bit his lip as though troubled, then clearly shook himself out of it.

“And it must have imparted some of the Doctor’s knowledge upon me.” Logan added, not sure how he felt about the Imagination having such a direct influence over his mind. He supposed if it didn’t get too invasive, and was confined to this one night, he could deal with it.

It had proven useful so far, after all.

Roman shot Logan a fierce grin.

“Indeed! So engage that big Doctor brain and let’s see who’s trying to call us. Allons-y, adventure awaits!”

“You know ‘allons-y’ is my line, right?” Logan said dryly.

He had to use his screwdriver on the screen before the picture came clear. The stream of static acquired the cadence of a voice…and then a disturbingly familiar face stared back at his own, looking equally shocked.

Roman, for the second time since entering the TARDIS, let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Chapter 3- The Witch’s Familiar

“If you’re going to take my stick, do me the courtesy of actually killing me. Teamwork is all about respect.”

Janus had just settled into his favorite chair with a mug of chamomile tea and a political science book when he was yanked…rather rudely, he might add…onto the deck of a spaceship.

He sighed, and dismissed his drink.

When one lived in the same mindspace as the literal embodiment of chaos, one unfortunately learned to expect such interruptions.

“REMUS!” he roared, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Did I not specifically ask to be LEFT ALONE tonight?”

Silence.

Deeply annoyed now, Janus took a moment to look around himself. This was not a normal spaceship; no windows, for one, and it was laid out in levels around a translucent column at the very center. His mismatched eyes followed the center rotor up and down, his mind almost placing it…

Something clumsily rose up from the deck with a clatter, causing Janus to summon his crook with a yell.

Only…the object that dropped into his hand wasn’t smooth wood, but a slender metal instrument just barely longer than his hand. A…sonic screwdriver? What the actual heck?

Well. It was what he had.

“Get back!” He pointed the instrument at the…figure…who still slowly climbed to its feet. It was an android or robot of some sort; humanoid, and the same kind of weirdly familiar as the ship.

“Janus?” the robot said, tilting its head.

Janus froze, all the scales standing up on his body. That was…that was Patton’s voice. Flat, mechanical, but unmistakable.

After all, Patton was the only Side who consistently called Janus by name.

“Patton?” Janus whispered.

“Oh, that was so weird-feeling! Thank goodness I’m not all by myself,” Robot-Patton said, putting a hand over his…well, where his heart should have been…in obvious relief. “But why are we both suddenly on the TARDIS?”

Janus drew in a sharp breath.

Of course, he should have recognized the stupid time rotor immediately. He’d never admit it to any of them, but he was as much of a Doctor Who nerd as Logan or Roman, sometimes going so far as to spy on them when they argued over episodes together.

To learn their arguing styles, of course.

Not because he had any desire to join those discussions.

And now, looking at Patton with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Janus deduced exactly what he was: a Mondasian Cyberman. They were older and cruder in design than the reboot versions…no wonder he hadn’t put a finger on it right away.

That wasn’t really the issue.

“REMUS!” Janus shouted again, more angrily this time. Bad enough his pleasant evening of solitude had been interrupted by…whatever this was. But putting the sweetest, most emotional Side into a canonically unemotional shell, a robot?

That was cruel. That was insulting.

It was too far, even for Remus.

“Janus, is everything okay?” Patton asked, coming closer. Janus shivered at the sound of that warm voice coming from a blank metallic face with empty eyes.

“Do you…feel all right?” Janus said in a hesitant voice.

“I’m a little chilly, but otherwise I’m in ship shape!” the other quipped, giggling. “Get it? Cause we’re on a ship?”

Is it…is it possible that he doesn’t know?

“Hilarious,” Janus deadpanned, but inside his thoughts spun.

He sensed they were in a dream construct within the Imagination, which meant this had to be Remus’s doing. Remus, who reveled in gore, despair, disturbing imagery, angst, and who was in charge of Thomas’s nightmares.

Remus could…and would, given the chance…recreate the experience of being a Cyberman down to the Last. Grim. Detail.

Maybe he hadn’t meant to ensnare Patton specifically to fill this role…Remus didn’t generally pull other Sides in for nightmares, come to think of it…but meanwhile, Janus didn’t want to find out what this might do to Patton’s head.

Worse, it was becoming clear that Patton was somehow oblivious to the state of his own body; he’d used his metallic hands to clutch at his metallic chest and found nothing wrong with either. He couldn’t hear the electronic rasp in his own voice, or the heavy clanging of his steps on the grated floor.

Should Janus say something?

Would Patton believe him if he did?

Ever since Thomas’s near mental breakdown after the disastrous wedding, Patton and Janus had orbited around each other in a state of tenuous truce. They talked now, sometimes, and those talks didn’t always end in arguments. Patton began to leave space for him by Thomas’s blinds when he was called up, and he…and by extension Thomas…occasionally actually sought his input.

But Janus, well.

Janus was still a liar.

The others still called him Deceit, either by accident (Logan) or out of spite (Virgil). Then there was Roman, who invented a colorful, wounding ego-jab for him every day, and Remus, whose fond nicknames tended to double as sex jokes.

Having no other real allies in the mindscape, Janus really, really didn’t want to screw up his tenuous alliance with Patton. Why sabotage his figurative “seat at the table” over one of Remus’s stupid nightmares?

Patton would assume Janus was slipping back into his old ways, lying just because he could, and Janus would never be able to prove otherwise. And later Patton would make that sour, pinched face he always made when he was disappointed, the one that made Janus want to crawl into a hole…

So.

Best to keep his observations close to the chest, for now.

“Do you have any idea what we’re doing here?” Janus asked, striding to the center console. True to dream logic, the controls made no sense and simultaneously made perfect sense.

Patton shrugged; a strange, clanky motion of his shoulders.

Janus sighed. “Although Remus has dragged me into dreams before, even he generally understands the concept of consent.” He casually flapped a hand. “And he always leaves you ‘light sides’ alone.”

“Honestly, this doesn’t feel like a nightmare to me,” Patton said, nearly making Janus choke. The Cyberman clanked over to stand by the console.

“It’s too clean,” Patton added. “Roman let me glimpse Remus’s side of the Imagination once, not long after he showed himself to Thomas, and it was…”

Patton trailed off.

“Fragmented? Chaotic? Disturbing?” Janus supplied.

“Sure, we’ll go with that,” Patton said quietly. “This,” he waved a hand around, “feels more like Roman’s work.”

“I suppose you would know.” Janus ran a thoughtful thumb over his face, tracing the ridge that ran from the corner of his mouth to his ear.

“And I would almost have to agree,” he added slowly. “If this was a nightmare, surely something ghastly would have happened by now. But my being pulled into one of Roman’s creations makes even less sense. He literally cannot stand me.”

“Maybe this is one of those dreams Thomas has sometimes after binge watching a show?” Patton suggested. “When there’s enough material in short term memory that the twins don’t get much input? Did Thomas binge a season of Doctor Who yesterday or something?”

And to think the others still view you as stupid, or slow-witted.

Janus bit back a smile.

“It’s a good theory, Patton, but no,” he said. “Thomas hasn’t really binged on much of anything lately.”

Patton ducked his head.

“You don’t…you don’t have to rub it in, you know,” he said lowly, the metallic rasp grating on Janus’s ears. “You and Logan have both made it pretty clear that I’ve been too strict with Thomas’s time.”

Janus fought to keep his expression neutral, but his stomach twisted.

Damn it.

Leave it to Patton to find guilt where none was meant. Even if Janus claimed he hadn’t meant it like that, Patton would probably not believe him.

Patton tilted his metal head as he examined Janus’s face.

“Did you know you have a mustache now? And a little goatee?”

“I have a what?” Janus felt at his face and groaned, his gloved fingers tugging at hair that most certainly did not belong on his face; with the scales, it probably looked hideous.

His entire outfit had altered in subtle ways, he realized. His usual plum tunic and trousers were now a brown suit and waistcoat ensemble, crossed with yellow pinstripes, with a black collared undershirt. A brown, knee-length suit jacket replaced his caplet, with subtle gold trimming. His yellow gloves were unchanged, thank goodness, and his hat…?

His hands flew up to his head and found something perched over his hair, sitting at an angle. Janus yanked down a screen at the console and stared. His beloved bowler had shrunk into a tiny, flat, rakish thing with a wide brim, festooned with a cluster of yellow rosebuds and black beads.

“What on earth, Remus?” he grumbled, turning his head from side to side. Well, if he had to be honest, pinstripes and a hatinator weren’t a terrible look.

“Well, if we’re on a TARDIS, I guess you’re supposed to be the Doctor,” Patton pointed out. “Which would make me your companion.”

Janus stroked his goatee and examined their surroundings in more detail. But am I a Doctor? he wondered. And if so, which one?

And whose TARDIS is this?

Because while it was clear they were on a TARDIS…what other class of spaceship had a time rotor?…he wasn’t almost certain this was not the TARDIS.

Every corner of the Doctor’s ship, no matter which face it belonged to, tended to overflow with bright, shiny, eclectic whimsy. By contrast, this one was plain, stark, with exposed metal beams and sharp angles.

Too dark, too full of shadows.

An awful suspicion rose up in his mind.

He crossed to one of the bookshelves, ignoring Patton’s soft inquiry, and his jaw clenched. There was the Necronomicon, shelved between the Liber Inducens in Evangelium Aeternum and The Black Scrolls of Rassilon, Book of Vile and its Black Appendix, The Ambuehl Lores and the Insidium of Astrolabus.

Janus finally looked at the sonic device he’d been holding all this time; seeing now that it wasn’t a screwdriver at all, and thanked every god he knew that he hadn’t tried to use it on Patton earlier.

It was a sonic laser.

Once again, even in a stupid, nonsensical dream, Janus had been cast as the villain.

His fist had collided with the bookshelf before he even realized he was moving, books falling to the floor. He punched it again, and again, until a cool rigid hand closed around his wrist and yanked him back.

“Janus, Janus, stop!” Patton yelled in his ear.

Janus wrenched his arm away and stalked back to the console, running gloved fingers over his scales, pushing them up and smoothing them down. The familiar sensation grounded him.

“You were right, Patton,” he threw over his shoulder. “This is definitely one of Roman’s dreams, and he definitely fucking hates me.”

Patton’s heavy footsteps clattered behind him.

“Language. And how do you know that,” he asked. “…Doctor?”

Janus whirled, lips curled in a snarl.

“I am not the Doctor, Patton, and we are not on the TARDIS.” He spread his arms to encompass them both, gesturing to the dimly lit spaceship. “Look around. Look at me!”

He turned, slowly, and eyed his mustached visage in the dark view screen.

“Clearly, I am the Master.”

Chapter 4- Nightmare in Silver

“You think he knows what he’s doing?”

“I’m not sure I’d go that far.”

Patton rested his arms against the console and sighed.

Once again, someone I care about is upset, and I don’t know what to do. I guess I should be used to it by now.

It didn’t help that it was so cold in this TARDIS. He folded his arms around his middle, which felt strange and heavy, to combat the chill that seemed to have settled deep in his bones.

Janus stalked past again, grumbling to himself.

“Of course the Prince would pull me into one of his little ‘adventures’ without my consent. He probably needed an antagonist. And naturally the slippery snake would have been the first person to come to mind!”

Patton opened his mouth…though he had no idea what he was going to say…but Janus drowned him out.

“Come on, Roman!” he shouted, throwing his yellow-clad hands up. “You’ve had your fun. Yes, I’m evil, I’m the villain, I’m the bad guy, blah blah. Let’s have our epic confrontation or whatever nonsense you have planned, as I would very much like to get back to my reading sometime tonight.”

Silence.

Patton didn’t know what Janus was expecting.

“Look, maybe we should just play along for now?” Patton said aloud, wincing when Janus turned his murderous expression on him. The deceptive Side had such deep, cutting golden eyes, the human one so much darker than the other…cynical eyes that were, ironically, almost impossible to lie to.

They’d see straight through it.

“It takes a liar to know a liar.”

The glare quickly softened, though, which in Patton’s opinion said a lot about how far Janus had come.

“And how do you propossse we ‘play along’?” Janus said, hissing his s’s in frustration.

“Well, we’ve kinda decided this is Roman’s dream, right? And since we’re in his part of the Imagination, we know he won’t let anything bad happen to us…”

Patton trailed off at Janus’s pained expression, reminded of just how badly Janus and Roman’s last encounter had gone.

“What are you, a middle school librarian?”

“Thank god you don’t have a mustache.”

And I just stood there and did nothing…no, I can’t dwell on that right now. Patton shook himself out of the memory.

It was surprisingly easy; even his emotions felt a little heavy and muted. He supposed he wasn’t used to being in a dreamscape; unlike Roman, who played in them all the time.

I know Roman, Patton reasoned. He might hold a grudge for a while, but he wouldn’t actually be out to hurt Janus.

Right?

“So, if we’re on a time ship, on some kind of adventure leading up to a confrontation like you said, the first thing we’d have to do is figure out where we need to go,” Patton finished, shrugging.

Janus pursed his lips…which looked downright weird with a mustache and goatee, almost making Patton giggle…and began pushing buttons on the console.

“You are definitely incorrect, Patton,” he said, pulling up another screen and flipping a few switches. “If I have been cast as the villain in this ridiculous charade, that means Roman is likely prancing around as the Doctor right now, on the proper TARDIS. Which, as the Doctor’s nemesis, I should be able to contact…ha!”

The screen burst into static.

“Doctor, oh Doctor, do you read me?” Janus crooned, and if Patton hadn’t known just how angry he was in that moment…well, he would have never known.

Janus had tucked it away entirely, in half a second's time.

That’s the scary thing about him, Patton realized uneasily. He’s smart, nearly as smart as Logan. Smart enough to run circles around me, that’s for sure. And he’s easily as good an actor as Roman.

Those attributes, combined with his naturally manipulative nature, made it difficult to trust him.

Patton was trying.

He’d been trying since the wedding, and well, since everything else that had happened. (Patton still cringed when Thomas encountered even a picture of a frog.) He’d done a lot of thinking and growing that day (in more ways than one!), and he’d come to a disturbing, but inevitable conclusion.

Janus wasn’t evil.

He never had been.

Just like Virgil had never been evil. Mean, sure; and sarcastic, and spiteful…but at his core, Virgil had wanted what was best for Thomas.

They all did.

And then there was the uncomfortable corollary to that: Patton, despite his best efforts, despite his core Purpose…Patton wasn’t entirely and automatically good.

Two weeks ago, Janus had proven beyond a doubt that Thomas needed him…ruthlessly, cuttingly, but no one could say he hadn’t made his point. It had been Patton who’d inadvertently pushed Thomas to the brink of a breakdown, and Janus who had to pull them all back.

Despite Patton’s unease, and the little voice in his head telling him that Deceit couldn’t be trusted, could never truly be trusted because it was in his nature to deceive…Patton remembered how they’d pushed Virgil so hard he decided to duck out, and how much of a tragedy that could have been if they hadn’t all intervened to bring him back.

With a pang of guilt, he pictured Thomas lying on the floor, crushed under the metaphorical weight of everything Patton needed him to do to keep from being a bad person…

He would not make those mistakes again.

If Virgil could learn to work with them instead of against them, so could Janus. If Patton could learn to recognize when his own Purpose did more harm than good, so could Janus.

Patton had to believe that.

He’d made too many mistakes lately to believe otherwise.

The screen in Janus’s hands cleared to reveal…

“What? Logan??” Janus exclaimed, as a scream echoed somewhere in the background.

“D—Janus?” Logan countered, then looked over his shoulder. “Roman, for the love of Archimedes, will you stop shrieking? I cannot hear.”

The screaming cut off and Roman’s fuming face squished into the frame with Logan.

“Deceit! I should have known you would show up to ruin this!” he managed to shout before Logan shoved him away.

“Ruin…I’m sorry, what?” Janus glanced at Patton, looking honestly confused. “Is he roleplaying right now? We assumed this scenario was Roman’s creation.”

Onscreen, Logan placed his whole hand against Roman’s mouth to prevent him from interrupting.

“It is. But to my understanding, it was only supposed to involve myself and Roman, and…wait. You said ’we’.” Logan peered around. “Who else is with you?”

Patton started to wave, but his view was blocked by Janus bending close to the screen to whisper something. Suspicion flared in Patton’s stomach; old, familiar, but after the talk he’d just given himself, he purposefully pushed it down.

I won’t assume he’s being shifty unless he actually gives me a reason to.

Lifting his chin, he crept forward until he was next to Janus’s shoulder.

“Hey, Logan,” he said brightly, waving.

“Ah…hello, Patton,” Logan squeaked after a moment, his eyes still wide.

“Wait, Patton’s there? With the snake?” Roman’s voice yelled from the background, and then there was Roman’s face again.

“Patton?” Roman said, narrowing his eyes. “But why are you—?”

Both faces disappeared for a moment as Logan yanked Roman out of frame. Patton thought he heard a rapid, hushed conversation. He glanced at Janus, who only shrugged, looking at puzzled as Patton felt.

Roman’s face reappeared, solemn and deeply annoyed.

“Patton,” he said, and hesitated. “D—Janus. You two…well, you’re not supposed to be here.”

“Very reassuring,” Janus quipped.

“This was only supposed to be a two-person adventure: Doctor plus companion. I have no idea why the Imagination brought you both in as well; I certainly didn’t tell it to.”

“Aw, that’s okay, kiddo,” Patton started gently. “It’s not your fault—”

“Oh, sweetie.” Janus folded his arms. “I’m sorry, but that’s bull. Putting me in the Master’s shoes? Are we seriously going to pretend the Side who unashamedly hates me had nothing to do with that?”

“I didn’t!” Roman argued, his voice going high. “You really think I wanted you here, in any capacity?”

“Deceit…er, Janus, you are being unnecessarily antagonistic, and as such, unhelpful,” Logan cut in with his low, reassuring voice. “But Roman, it might behoove us to consider the role of subconscious influence. You may not have intended to pull the others in, and yet here they are.”

Roman looked at Logan, aghast, and Patton almost flinched at the raw hurt in his caramel eyes. The creative Side backed out of frame.

“So you’re on his side, too,” his voice said quietly. “Is that how it is?”

“I am not on anyone’s side,” Logan argued, raising his hands. “We are all currently in this situation together, and as such—”

Whatever he’d been about to say was cut off by another garbled transmission, taking over the screen and blocking out Logan’s face with crackly, purple static. A gray, snarling face flashed out of the haze, making Patton shriek in surprise and even Janus took a step back.

Then it was gone, dissolving back to static…and the sound of someone laughing filled the connection.

“Hellooooo, nurse,” a familiar sing-song voice crooned. “Did you miss me?”

Chapter 5- The Long Game

“You can’t just read the guide book, you’ve got to throw yourself in. Eat the food, use the wrong verbs, get charged double and end up kissing complete strangers. Or is that just me?”

Logan sighed.

He knew that voice; they all did. Even Thomas, unfortunately.

“Remus,” Roman hissed.

The mustached Side filled the screen, grinning madly. “Boo!”

“Get out of my scenario,” Roman said, his eyes flashing. “If you know what’s good for you.”

“Your scenario?” Remus echoed, faux-outrage in his expression. “Yours? The Dream Palace is my domain, too, brother, whether you like it or not.” He leaned closer, letting his nostrils and a single radioactive green eye fill the screen. “Did you really think you could keep me out?”

Roman made a sound of disgust deep in his throat.

“Am I to assume, then, that you are responsible for bringing in the other Sides?” Logan asked, careful to keep his voice even. Remus thrived on getting a rise out of people.

“Of course he is!” Roman snapped, throwing up his hands. “He loves to ruin things, especially my things.”

“Now why would having the others here ruin anything, brother?” Remus asked in a sickly sweet voice, propping his head on his hand. “Unless you intended for this nighttime romp between you and Logan to be private?”

Roman sputtered and glanced at Logan, red-faced, as Remus giggled.

“It was meant to be so, yes,” Logan supplied, unsure why Remus would find that funny…or why Roman would find it embarrassing.

“As amusing as this all is—” Janus’s crooning voice cut through the speaker.

“Great. You’re still here, snake?” Roman snarked, his arms folded around himself.

“We’re all listening, kiddo,” Patton’s metallic voice said.

Roman’s lips always curl into a pout when he is angry, Logan thought, eyeing him without turning his head, and he gets a little wrinkle between his eyebrows. Why…why am I noticing such things all of a sudden?

Maybe it was the stress, or the unfamiliar environment.

Or maybe it was the Rose Tyler outfit.

That skirt ought to be illegal.

Logan deliberately focused on the screen, his cheeks warm.

“So this is kinda new,” Patton went on, “all of us actually talking—”

“If Remus is responsible,” Janus cut in again, “then perhaps he would be so kind as to explain the objective of this late night group therapy session?”

Despite the biting sarcasm, Logan did appreciate Janus’s insistence that they get to the point, even if it did mean talking over Patton…

Speaking of, why would Remus have paired Patton with Janus?

Surely he should have grouped Patton with Logan and Roman, and put Virgil with Janus? Or…maybe not, given how Virgil hisses if Janus so much as enters the same room.

Ugh. Interpersonal drama. Logan was thoroughly sick of trying to keep track of who carried a grudge against whom, especially when it seemed to change from day to day.

And on top of that, why would Remus make Patton a Cyberman? None of these decisions make any sense…

“Right?” Roman agreed softly next to him, and Logan realized he’d said that last bit out loud.

“If anything, I should have been the unfeeling killer robot,” Logan murmured.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Specs.” Roman shot him a strange look, both warm and troubled. “And frankly I don’t give a stinky rat’s ass about my stinky rat brother’s sick thought process. What I want to know is why Deceit doesn’t want us to mention it around Patton?”

Logan, who was still mentally stuck on rodents and donkeys…Roman’s metaphors were always something else…shook his head slightly.

“There’s no logical way Patton is unaware of his condition,” Logan pointed out. “So I can only guess he wishes to protect Patton’s feelings on the matter, by not allowing us to talk about it in front of him.” He shrugged when Roman’s frown deepened. “Those two have been getting along much better these last few weeks.”

“I think you’re giving the snake too much credit,” Roman muttered. “Even after he impersonated you, Logan? C’mon. It has to be something else.”

Logan bit back a sigh.

He doesn’t understand, he thought guiltily. Because he doesn’t know what really happened…

#

“This is unacceptable, Deceit,” Logan snapped, flinging the crook away from his body. “I was in the middle of a discussion—”

“He won’t listen to you,” Deceit had said, and there was no sarcasm or snark in his voice.

“Patton asked for my opinion!”

“And he dismissed you from the conversation the moment that opinion went against his preconceived notions!” Deceit snapped back.

Silence.

Logan could hear the others still talking, out in the real world…without him…as the misty dregs of subconscious curled around their feet.

“You tricked him.” Logan folded his arms. “He was scared and off balance and you gave him an out.”

“I didn’t make him take it!”

Deceit sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Logan. You know he is wrong on this. You know what this is doing to Thomas. His unquestioning, black-and-white, juvenile morality; it’s not working anymore. Thomas needs to grow up, and Patton is not letting him.”

Logan bit his lip.

“Logan.” Deceit moved closer, dismissing his crook into mist and setting both gloved hands on Logan’s shoulders. Logan stiffened.

“Logic. Please. I am…no good at this.” Deceit dropped his head, his hat obscuring his eyes. “I operate through deceit because that is the only way I can make them acknowledge me.”

“They don’t acknowledge you because you operate through deceit,” Logan pointed out.

“A perfect catch 22.” Deceit let out a bitter laugh. “But a snake cannot change its scales and I don’t…I have tried everything I know. I cannot fix this from the shadows. I am out of ideas.”

A strange thought entered Logan’s mind.

“You care. You care what happens to Thomas.”

Deceit looked up, his mismatched eyes glittering with stinging intensity. “I am the literal representation of selfishness. Why the hell else would I go to all this trouble if I didn’t care?”

“Well…” Logan trailed off, troubled.

He’d let the others get to him, he realized in that moment. He’d let Roman get to him, with his talk of evil and Dark Sides and how they were always trying to tempt Thomas off the right path.

But…they were all part of Thomas, even the so-called “dark sides”.

Of course they wanted what was best for him…well, what Remus wanted at any given moment was debatable…even if they didn’t always go about it in the healthiest of ways.

Deceit had laughed then, high pitched and bitter.

“Really? Really? Even you think so low of me?”

“You are manipulating me right now.” Logan frowned. “You are using my concern for Thomas to make me trust you.”

“Yes! I am!” Deceit got in his face, fangs flashing. “I am a manipulative bastard because that is the lens through which my Source perceives me. But that doesn’t matter because you, Logic; you see through me, always have. And you know perfectly well that logically, any objection you have to my personality or my methods does not change the fact that I. Am. Right.”

He punctuated each word with a poke to Logan’s chest.

“Deceit—” Logan started.

“Janus.”

“What?”

Deceit sighed. “My name. My…real name. It’s Janus.”

Logan blinked. He knew the mythology, of course: Janus, keeper of doorways and thresholds, looking simultaneously to the past and future. Two faces. Seeing things from every angle.

Self-preservation.

“It suits you,” Logan said quietly.

Tension bled out of Janus’s shoulders, a stiffness Logan hadn’t even realized was there until it was gone.

“Thank you.”

“Why am I here…Janus?” Logan asked, glancing away. “What do you need from me?”

Janus looked at him intently.

“Let me speak to them as you.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, and Janus sighed, waving a hand.

“I know, I know, more deceit, more lies, but—”

“No, it’s…” Logan pressed his lips together. “You already pointed it out. They don’t listen to me, either.”

The bitter twist that accompanied those words was becoming an all too familiar sensation in Logan’s chest.

Janus snorted.

“Oh, they do. Eventually. They heeded your advice on how to deal with Remus.”

Logan shrugged uncomfortably.

“Look,” Janus added, “honest people know how to tell the truth, but liars…” he smirked, not especially nicely. “We know how to wield the truth to accomplish an end. I can pull Thomas and the others out of this rut, but they have to be receptive to my tugging on the reins.”

Logan pursed his lips.

“You won’t fool them. If you recall, you tried to impersonate me once already and barely lasted two minutes.”

“I didn’t have your blessing.”

Janus fixed Logan with his intense mismatched eyes again, and held out a hand.

Logan stared at it, torn.

This was Deceit, the master liar: Thomas’s entire capacity for deception condensed into a single, snake-faced Side. How could Logan possibly trust him to not make things worse, after all the falsehoods, the impersonations, how he’d manipulated them all in one way or another to get his way?

But…as much as Logan, personally, didn’t understand why that callback had been so important to Thomas…he could not dismiss the fallout Thomas had suffered as a result of missing it. The decision to attend the wedding had turned out to be a bad one.

Patton had been wrong to insist upon it over Janus’s objections, and over Roman’s.

Those were just the facts.

Janus sighed.

“I’ll unmask myself when an opportunity arises, if that would help,” he offered, and to Logan’s shock, slowly tugged off a glove. “I won’t…I won’t let it go on as long as it did with Patton.”

He offered his now bare hand to Logan again.

Out in the real world, Logan could hear Patton’s increasingly desperate and ridiculous responses to Thomas’s and Roman’s questions, and winced. Janus did the same.

“Please,” was all he said.

Logan sighed…it really couldn’t get any worse, could it?…and shook Janus’s hand.

#

In his TARDIS, Logan let out the sigh he was holding back.

He might have personal, concrete evidence that Janus wasn’t evil, but he also knew Janus had wounded Roman, badly, that day. The creative Side was simply not currently capable of viewing any situation involving Janus with any sort of objectivity.

Passionate, sensitive people like Roman tended to have an unfortunate habit of hanging onto grudges.

As Logic, Logan needed to remember that.

“Oh, all right,” Remus said, his voice crackling over the connection. “Since you’re all here—”

“Actually, Remus, we’re not all here,” Patton’s voice pointed out. “You all know perfectly well who we’re missing; we’ve done this before.”

Logan’s eyes widened. “‘Where is Anxiety?’” he quoted.

“You mean Tickle Me Emo isn’t with one of you?” Remus asked, looking delighted. “Oh dear, oh dear. Is he lost?”

“I mean, TARDISes are huge,” Roman pointed out. “He could be somewhere on one of our ships.” His voice dropped again. “I’ll bet Deceit stashed him away, because we all know how he hates Virgil.”

“Excuse you,” Janus’s voice interrupted, annoyed. “It is Virgil who hates me, not the other way around.”

“Let’s both scan our ships,” Logan suggested, hoping to head off an argument. Honestly, if Roman and Janus didn’t stop picking fights with one another, he was going to lose his marbles.

The scans pulled up nothing.

“Oh well,” Remus said with a shrug. “Guess the emo gets to miss out.”

Janus grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “lucky”.

“All right, here’s what’s going to happen.” Remus leaned close to the screen. “I’ve crash landed on a lovely snowbound planet that’s crawling with psychotic tin cans who like to roll around yelling ‘exterminate’.”

“Daleks? A snowbound planet, so not Skarro, but where else…” Logan narrowed his eyes.

“He’s on the Dalek asylum,” Roman said lowly. “That was one of the episodes I had in mind when I plotted this adventure.”

“Very good, brother.” Remus clapped his hands. “And up there in orbit is a ship full of people who’d really like to blow up the whole planet. Oh, woe is me, whatever shall I—”

“Save it,” Roman snapped. “You’d probably enjoy getting blown up.”

“Hmm, true.” Remus’s green eyes sharpened. “Think of the mess! Little bits of intestines floating through space, long pink ropey—”

“Or?” Logan interjected, before Remus gave Patton nightmares.

“Or you have to come rescue me!” Remus’s teeth flashed as he grinned. “Because otherwise it’s nighty-night for me and all the other aliens in the asylum.”

There was a beat of silence.

“As terrible as that sounds,” Janus drawled, sounding anything but worried, “given that none of this is real, and at least one of us would very much rather not be here at all…why exactly should your plight concern us?”

Logan secretly agreed, but felt his stomach clench when he glanced at Roman’s troubled face. None of this was real…right? Would something concretely bad happen to Remus if the planet he inhabited was blown up?

Surely not.

This was only a dream. Perhaps, then, Roman was merely upset that his twin had usurped his adventure for the night?

“Also.” Remus buffed his fingernails. “You should know that the Imagination will only release us if we complete the objective. In other words,” and he sneered, purple-shadowed eyes glittering, “we’re all stuck in this scenario until we’re all reunited.”

Remus giggled as Logan exchanged a shocked look with Roman.

“I don’t believe you. This was my dream,” Roman said darkly. “And I’ve just about had enough of all this!”

He stepped back and snapped his fingers with a flourish. Frowning, he did it again, and again, his face growing paler with each try.

“Roman, what—” Logan started.

“I can’t end it,” Roman whispered, still snapping. “He’s right. He’s…he’s sealed off the dream’s boundaries somehow. Remus!”

This he roared at the screen.

“Keeping Thomas trapped in a dream state is going too far, Remus!” he yelled. “I don’t care what kind of demented game you want to play with us, but we don’t bring Thomas into it.”

“Oh, you think I created an unbreakable dreamscape?” Remus snapped. “You let the Imagination have too much reign, my dear brother, and now neither of us have the power to end the dream ourselves. I estimate we have about ten hours before Thomas wakes up.”

For a moment, all Logan could hear was the soft whoosh of the time rotor, and Roman’s shallow, angry breathing at his shoulder.

“So I suggest you all pilot your ships to these coordinates,” Remus added, and a series of numbers and strange symbols flashed up on one of the smaller console screens. “And get started.”

The main screen blipped, and Remus’s face was replaced by an expressionless Cyberman and a snake-faced Side who looked extremely pale under his scales.

“Well,” Logan stated. “This is a problem.”

Chapter 6- Asylum of the Daleks

“You’re going to fire me at a planet? That’s your plan? I get fired at a planet and expected to fix it?”

“In fairness, that is slightly your M.O.”

“Don’t be fair to the Daleks when they’re firing me at a planet.”

The familiar wheeze of the TARDIS materializing filled Roman’s ears as he waited by the doors. Logan joined him a moment later.

“Ready?” he asked, smoothing a hand over his cravat.

He looks good as the Doctor, Roman thought, eying the slimming black and navy, the graceful arc that hand made as it adjusted a pair of glasses…

He shook himself out of his distraction. “Let’s do this, nerd.”

Logan opened the doors and the two stepped out…not onto the asylum, but onto a spaceship. Shiny copper terraces lined the vast walls in curving rows, leading the eye up to a domed ceiling with a clear view of black, star-studded space. Like a huge amphitheater, or stadium. Even Roman had to admit, the Imagination had really outdone itself on the realism.

Of course, given that the ship was filled with hundreds upon hundreds of Daleks calling for violence…realism wasn’t exactly comforting at the moment.

“Surprise, surprise, I don’t see my stupid brother,” Roman commented over the dull roar of the crowd.

“No. But I recognize where we are.” Logan waved a hand. “You were right about Remus’s location; this ship is from the episode ‘Asylum of the Daleks’, in Season 7. If we are following the basic plotline, Remus is likely somewhere down on the planet below, and we will be sent to him in due course. However…I am curious as to why all the other aliens are here.”

Roman looked around again, seeing that Logan was right. Daleks formed the majority of the crowd, but he also spotted Zygons, Sontarans, Silurians, other Cybermen, Ice Warriors…and quite a few aliens from older seasons he couldn’t remember the names of.

(Logan probably could.)

A second TARDIS materialized near their familiar blue box: plain, gray; a squat column of a ship. Janus emerged first, a silver instrument gripped in one gloved hand, followed by an old-school Cyberman…Patton. Roman frowned. Seeing that metal…being…and having to remember it was actually his friend was going to be difficult now that there wasn’t a screen separating them.

“Nice work, Roman,” Janus said, sidling up next to him and faux-clapping his hands. “A ship full of aliens who want us dead; always an excellent starting point for an adventure.”

“This is how the episode starts, Mr. Oh-I’m-Such-an-Expert-in-Doctor-Who,” Roman retorted. “Accuracy is important.”

“But this isn’t accurate,” Logan pointed out. “There should only be Daleks here.”

Roman folded his arms, stung.

Damn Logan and his damned need to be right all the time.

“I…well, I didn’t model this adventure after just one particular episode,” Roman admitted. “I wanted it to be a challenge, and it wouldn’t be if Logan and I already knew the ending. So no, I can’t exactly explain why all the other aliens are here, okay?”

Logan sighed.

“I was not criticizing you, Roman,” he said in a gentler voice. “As this has apparently become as much Remus’s and the Imagination’s handiwork as it is yours, it would be unreasonable to expect you to know what comes next.”

“THE DOCTOR AND THE MASTER WILL APPROACH THE SUPREME DALEK,” a grating robotic voice boomed across the ship, making them all whip around. A large white Dalek with an antenna on its shell loomed on a raised stage near the center of the amphitheater.

“They were expecting me, too?” Janus raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

The lights on the Dalek’s head flashed as it spoke again.

“THE DOCTOR AND THE MASTER WILL APPROACH WITH THEIR COMPANIONS.”

The four Sides exchanged a glance, and weaved through the assembled Daleks to the raised stage. The White Supreme Dalek was not the only occupant; it was flanked by an Ice Warrior, an Emojibot (which made Patton giggle), and…

“Look, a Janus,” Roman chortled, nudging the snake-faced Side in the ribs and pointing out the two-faced alien.

“You are all nerds and my logo is a two-headed snake,” Janus complained, rolling his eyes. “I literally do not know how all of you missed that obvious clue to my name.”

“DOCTOR,” the White Dalek said as they climbed the dais. “MASTER. WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF THE DALEK ASYLUM?”

“I’m just impressed my rat-faced brother wasn’t lying about his location,” Roman grumbled, and sputtered when Logan placed a hand over his mouth.

“According to legend,” Logan said, “you have a dumping ground, a planet where you lock up all the Daleks that go wrong.”

“The battle-scarred, the insane. The ones even you can’t control,” Janus clarified. His voice dropped to a hiss. “No wonder they ssstuck Remus there.”

Roman covered his mouth to keep from snorting.

The snake would not make him laugh.

“CORRECT.” The Dalek pushed a button and a hole opened in the middle of the floor. A snow-covered planet lay below them, pristine from this high up.

“Ooh, that’s,” Patton started, and let out a metallic gulp. “That’s quite a drop. Do we, ah, have to go down the same way? Cause I remember that part, and—”

“How many Daleks are down there?” Logan asked.

“A COUNT HAS NOT BEEN MADE,” the white Dalek said.

“Millions, certainly,” a new voice chimed in. The tall, robed, dark-skinned Janus stepped forward, their front face addressing them. “But they will not be your only concern. The population of the planet consists of more than just Daleks.”

Roman exchanged a suspicious glance with Logan. This wasn’t in the episode. This is new.

“What do you mean?” Janus, their Janus, asked.

The alien Janus turned to a nearby monitor, pulling up some information. The backward-facing face continued to address them.

“Some time ago, the Daleks began noticing a curious phenomenon,” they said. “Random people, from all different races and species, started turning up on various planets in this quadrant of space, including the asylum. No ships, no technology, and no knowledge of how they’d gotten there. At first the imprisoned Daleks on the asylum simply killed them off as they appeared—”

Patton visibly winced, even with his metal body, and Logan’s eyes grew flinty.

“—but the new arrivals eventually became too many to exterminate,” the alien Janus went on, unconcerned. “By now we suspect the planet has a population of over a billion, far too many for its automated systems to handle.”

They turned their forward face to the four again.

“THE ASYLUM IS COMPROMISED,” the Dalek Supreme proclaimed. “IT MUST BE CLEANSED.”

“Hang on, you’re still going to blow the whole planet up?” Roman protested. “A billion people?”

“To be fair, that is what they did in the original episode,” Logan pointed out quietly.

“But that was just Daleks!”

Janus rolled his eyes. “Ah, so genocide is fine when it’s only the evil aliens getting blown up?”

“You know, somehow I’m not surprised to hear you defending the bad guys!” Roman snapped.

“That is enough!” Patton snapped in his robotic voice, stepping between them and raising both his hands. Laser pistols popped out of both of them, making both Roman and Janus step back in alarm.

After a tense moment, Patton lowered his arms again; the guns clicked and vanished into their casings.

“Uh, sorry kiddos, I don’t know what came over me,” he said in a sheepish, more Patton-y voice. “Can we please not fight? It…it kinda makes me feel weird and jittery when you do.”

Roman stared at Patton’s blank Cyberman face and armored Cyberman body and swallowed, hard.

Their Patton would never deliberately aim a gun at anyone, let alone his family. But Cybermen were created to eliminate…or rather, delete…anyone who got in their way.

Did Patton even realize what he’d almost done?

What would happen, if and when he was forced to confront the reality of his body in this realm? What if he didn’t figure it out until he accidentally did something terrible? It wouldn’t be real, of course, but to Patton…that wouldn’t matter.

If his Cyberman programming forced or tricked him into hurting someone, the guilt of it would devastate him.

All I wanted to do was take Logan on an adventure, Roman thought bitterly. A fun little dream adventure where he could play one of his heroes. Was that too much to ask, Imagination?

He folded his arms and glared around the Dalek ship, anywhere but at his fellow Sides.

Whatever the hell this has turned into, I want no part of it anymore.

“In order for us to destroy the planet, we will need you to disable the planet’s forcefield—” The alien Janus started, but Logan held up a finger.

“Excuse you,” he said sharply. “We have not agreed to do anything, least of all help you murder a billion people whose only crime is to have accidentally turned up in your prison. Have you even attempted to solve that mystery?"

"And why do you care what happens down there?" Roman added, sneering. "If the insane Daleks are armed—”

“DALEKS ARE ALWAYS ARMED,” the white Dalek proclaimed.

“—then why can’t they defend themselves?” Logan finished, shooting Roman a questioning glance.

Roman huffed, and looked away.

“At first they did,” the Janus explained. “But as I said, the automated systems cannot keep up with the influx. Wars are being fought over food and other resources as we speak. A starliner crashed on the surface mere days ago, and—”

“Ah,” Logan said slowly. “You’re afraid, with all the shifting alliances and new activity, that the mad Daleks will escape in the confusion.”

“We do not know who or what is behind the influx,” the Janus said. “But eventually, they will start coming with ships, or they will build them on the surface, or reach out to those who could attempt a rescue.”

“‘If sssomeone can get in, everything can get out’,” their Janus quoted darkly.

The other Janus nodded. “Even the Daleks agree, their mad brethren cannot be allowed to escape. We, of this assembly—”

They waved to the assembled crowd of aliens, who observed in eerie silence.

“—have decided that one planet must be sacrificed for the greater good of the universe.”

Roman slowly and deliberately drew his sword (which the Imagination had kindly left as part of his outfit). It rasped as it emerged, the sound hair-raising in the sudden lull.

Instantly every Dalek gunstick and alien weapon on the ship was primed and pointed at the four Sides.

“And if we refuse?” Roman said evenly.

“THE DOCTOR AND THE MASTER WILL COOPERATE,” the Supreme Dalek warned, its lights flashing balefully.

“COOPERATE! COOPERATE!” the cry was echoed by the other Daleks, filling the ship with a cacophony of robot voices.

The alien Janus shrugged, spreading their hands.

“You don’t really have a choice. If you want to live, that is.”

“Is that so.”

Roman tensed and sprang at the white Dalek, not giving himself time to think. He dodged a blast from its gunstick and leaped, bringing his sword down hard. This being the Imagination, the katana cut through the Dalek’s metal armor like butter, and it clattered to the deck in two pieces.

There was a shocked silence…but no retaliation.

“Well?” Roman shouted, spreading his arms and turning in a slow circle. “This is me, not cooperating. What are you waiting for? Are you really going to shoot us?”

If they all died on this spaceship…the worst that would happen is they’d be kicked from the Imagination, and that was what they wanted, anyway.

“Roman,” Logan warned quietly, pointing.

Roman looked.

The white Dalek’s shell was…laughing?

“Oh, Roman,” Remus’s crackly voice emerged from the fallen Dalek’s casing. “Roman, Roman, Roman. My poor brave brother who thinks he can solve all his problems with steel and bravado. Did you really think it would be that easy?”

Each word bit like sandpaper against Roman’s ears.

He growled, and stalked to the Dalek’s top half, snatching it up and quickly locating a tiny speaker.

“C’mon, Remus. End this stupid charade,” he said quietly, holding the casing to his face so he could speak quietly. “You’ve had your fun at my expense. Go back to your pile of severed limbs and gloat if you must, but end this. For Patton’s sake, if nothing else.”

“I’ve already told you, it’s out of my hands,” Remus responded; typically, annoyingly casual. “If you want to end the game, you have to come down here and find me.”

Roman exhaled, resting his head against the cold, bumpy metal for a moment. His eyes burned, but he was Prince; he wouldn’t cry, not here.

“Why must you make everything difficult?”

“Roman, in all seriousness,” Remus’s voice dropped. “I didn’t know you were taking Logan on a date tonight—”

“It’s not a date,” Roman hissed, glancing at the other Sides…one in particular.

“The Imagination brought me into this without asking, just like it pulled the others in,” Remus went on. “I am aware of what has to happen, but I did not cause this.”

“You’re lying,” Roman said tonelessly.

Remus’s whiny voice grew hard.

“I don’t lie, and you despise that about me. You hide so much shit from yourself that it baffles you when I refuse to do the same.”

“Look,” Remus added when Roman didn’t respond. “The Imagination is clearly trying to get our attention. Sure, it usually goes through one of us first, but it doesn’t have to. When it comes down to it, Thomas’s mind answers only to Thomas. ”

“How are you so sure?” Roman frowned.

Was Remus seriously suggesting the Imagination they both oversaw had gone rogue somehow?

“Because I don’t curate my side as meticulously as you do, brother.” Remus chuckled. “I listen. I let the Imagination do as she pleases, free from all those pesky ethics and morals and other boring boxes you always force her into, so that our sweet Thomas doesn’t fear the contents of his own head.”

“You expect me to believe that you know what’s going on because,” Roman let every ounce of disdain seep into his voice, “the Imagination talks to you, and not me…because you don’t make her behave?”

“You should try letting her loose sometimes,” Remus drawled, “or you’ll end up with a cane up your butt like Nerdy Wolverine over there.”

“Don’t call him that,” Roman spat.

“What you so-called ‘light sides’ always get wrong,” Remus went on, “is that the juicy stuff, the gruesome and grim, the ‘bad’ thoughts that filter up from the subconscious; they can’t all be locked away and ignored.” His voice dropped ominously. “Repression can be very bad indeed, you know.”

Roman’s reasonable nature knew that his brother, despite his infuriating attitude, was actually making some good points. Thomas had been dealing with a lot lately; the tension in the mindspace felt like a ticking clock, counting down to the next disaster.

But at that moment, Roman had no desire to humor his twin.

All he wanted to do was lock himself into his own room in the Dream Palace and spend the rest of the night writing sad poetry about love, or listing his mistakes to himself until he fell asleep.

“I just wanted to show Logan a good time,” he said aloud.

“And oh dear, apparently you couldn’t even manage that correctly,” Remus said, implacably. “So maybe you should use this opportunity to get your head out of your poopy ass, and reevaluate yourself.”

Roman slammed the Dalek shell against the floor.

It cracked upon impact, the wiring inside sparking and finally flickering down to darkness. He ran his hands through his hair, reminded, once again, why he hated talking to his brother.

Like looking in a funhouse mirror…

“Roman…” Patton sidled up behind him, laying a cold hand on his back. Roman shoved the metal arm away and stalked back to the others.

“Let’s just get this done,” he said in a low voice.

“You will need these,” the alien Janus said, pushing a button on a nearby console. A translucent vertical tube rose from a gap in the floor, holding three bulky black bracelets.

“Ah yes, I remember this,” Logan said, striding forward and taking a bracelet.

“They will prevent—” the Janus started.

“The nano cloud from converting us into Dalek puppets, yes?” Logan interrupted, snapping the bracelet onto his wrist and handing another to Roman.

The nerd is getting into this, Roman thought as he put it on. I guess that’s something.

“The cloud is only active in certain areas of the asylum,” the Janus warned them again. “And those change as different factions seize control of different areas and weaponize them.”

Patton hesitantly raised a hand.

“Um, Mx. Alien, I can’t help but notice that there are only three bracelets, and four of us?”

Logan frowned. “But Patton, why would you—?”

“I’m sure it’s because I’m part snake, Patton,” Janus interrupted smoothly, swooping in to grab the last bracelet and snapping it onto Patton’s arm.

Roman exchanged an alarmed look with Logan; that was the last bit of confirmation he needed. Patton really was unaware that he was a Cyberman.

But why on earth would Janus go to such lengths to keep him in the dark about it? Even leaving aside the fact that Patton was a walking weapon; being a machine, he didn’t need protection from the nano cloud at all.

Whereas Janus…probably did.

But when Roman opened his mouth, Janus shot him a look full of daggers and promises of pain, and shook his head. Roman rolled his eyes and mentally washed his hands of the situation.

Typical Deceit. Protecting his lies.

At least Patton would be twice-protected. If the snake wanted to risk his life for a lie, let him.

“The gravity beam will convey you close to the crashed starliner,” the alien Janus said, and then there were Dalek blasters being shoved into their backs, propelling them toward the hole in the floor.

“Oi,” Roman protested, “get your freaky little eggbeater appendages away from me, you AAAAHHHH!”

There was a push, and they were falling.

Chapter 7- Oxygen

“Look at this. Classic design. Pressure seals. Hinges. None of that ‘shuk shuk’ nonsense.”

“Space doors are supposed to go shuk shuk.”

“Are you gonna be like this all day?”

Janus was done.

He sat up with a groan, brushing snow from his jacket and vest, making sure his hat and gloves were still in place. Everything ached. Bad enough he never wanted to be part this stupid dream game in the first place; now he was probably going to literally turn into a Dalek.

All because the Imagination is being a dick and Patton doesn’t know he’s a killer robot.

Wind gusted around him, making Janus glad that the Master, like the Doctor, usually preferred long sleeves and a coat. He stood, turning in a slow circle as he took in the lay of the land. Nothing but snow and rocks; true to the episode, still.

The gravity beam had split into four as it hurled them at the planet, but Janus was reasonably sure at least one of the others had landed nearby.

He hoped it was Patton.

Not because he was concerned or anything. It was just that either of the others would be absolutely insufferable company, that’s all.

“Janus!” a metallic voice called, and Janus breathed a sigh of relief.

Patton’s Cyberman body clattered awkwardly down a nearby snowbank, sliding the last few feet to land in a heap.

“It is all kinds of chilly down here.” Patton stood, and waved rather nonsensically. “Hullo there, Janus, so ice to see you.”

Janus rolled his eyes. (He would deny to his dying day that the corner of his mouth twitched at the ridiculous pun.)

“If this scenario is consistent with its source material,” he said, gesturing to the closest ridge, “there should be an escape pod from that crashed ship nearby. Come on.”

He set off across the snow, Patton following in his wake.

“Say, what do snowmen call their offspring?”

Janus exhaled carefully. Hoo, boy, maybe Logan wouldn’t have been so bad…

“I haven’t the faintest.”

“Chill-dren!” Patton chortled at Janus’s grimace. “What did one snowman say to another?”

“St. Genesius spare me,” Janus grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What, pray tell, did one snowman say to another?”

“‘Do you smell carrots?’”

Janus quickly covered his mouth.

“You smiled,” Patton crooned.

“I most certainly did not.”

“Okay, okay, one more.” Patton scurried ahead and turned around, so that he was walking backwards. “Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?” Janus said flatly.

“Snow.” Patton hooked his thumbs into the metal rim at waist, like one might on a pair of pants. Janus swallowed and looked away.

“Snow who?”

“Snow laughing matter, Janus, I don’t know why you’re smiling.”

Janus snorted before he could hide it, and cleared his throat.

“I am not smiling, how dare you.”

“That’s twice now!” Patton cackled, the sound coming out all distorted. “Admit it.”

“I refuse,” Janus said, drawing himself up. “You won’t make a liar out of….”

Liar.

He felt the joke fall flat and cringed. Even though Patton’s metal face couldn’t react, those metal shoulders visibly stiffened.

Too soon.

Liar.

Too much history between them.

Besides, you are a liar, his mind whispered. Lies of omission are still lies, Deceit, and you’re doing that right now.

Janus gritted his teeth. They topped a ridge; the expected escaped pod lay half-buried near another ridge, across a flat stretch of snow. The two Sides glanced at each other and continued their journey in silence.

Patton seemed disinclined to continue his little pun war.

Janus badly wanted to say he hadn’t minded the punning, but truthfully, keeping silent was easier. Patton’s baffling ignorance over the state of his own “flesh” was starting to wear on Janus’s conscience. He knew the longer he kept it secret, the worse the fallout would be when Patton finally learned the truth.

The urge to come clean was an unfamiliar one for him, and extremely uncomfortable.

Ironic, the master liar, conflicted about maintaining a lie.

The old him would have laughed, but…the old him hadn’t heard the sincerity in Patton’s voice, when he’d spoken Janus’s true name aloud for the first time. The old him had assumed Thomas would reject him forever…because of Patton.

And then, with Janus still smarting from the sting of Roman’s mockery, Patton had said his name.

Patton had trusted him to take care of Thomas in his stead, when the moral Side knew he had failed at it. The memory still made all Janus’s scales tingle and his heart beat a little sideways.

The new him…this him…couldn’t find it in his small, shriveled, but very much present heart to risk pushing Patton away.

They reached the pod.

Muffled shouts and something that sounded like blaster fire filtered up from inside, making them exchange another glance.

Janus set a hand on the ice-crusted latch.

“Remember, we’ll have to fight our way through a bunch of dead Dalek puppets,” he reminded Patton.

“That’s a lot of noise for just a few puppets,” Patton said softly. “That canonically shouldn’t even be awake yet.”

“I know, and that is strange,” Janus agreed. “Maybe someone got here before us. But we won’t know exactly what to expect until we get down there.”

Patton sighed, a cloud of frost puffing out of his small, rectangular mouth.

Janus pushed the latch, popped his head in, and was met with a scene of utter chaos.

About six or seven human-Dalek puppets, with stalks sticking out of their heads and blasters sticking out of their hands, were locked in a fire fight with a horde of robotic humanoids that looked like they came from the Fourth Doctor’s era, if Janus remembered correctly. Round, bulky shoulders and faces that looked like metal sunbursts.

Both puppets and robots were using the seats as cover, blaster fire zinging back and forth and exploding against the walls in little showers of sparks. Janus and Patton would be directly in the blast zone when they jumped down, a little closer to the robot side.

“Well, someone definitely got here before us,” Janus muttered.

He withdrew his head and studied Patton. Honestly, with his metal body he’d be in far less danger, and those guns in his arms would actually be useful in this situation…but telling Patton he was a walking weapon, now, would definitely not go over well.

“The hatch down into the asylum should be in the cockpit of this thing,” he informed Patton. “There’s a lot of blaster fire, though, so—”

“—don’t get cold feet and hesitate?” Patton finished.

Something in Janus’s heart twisted…something he didn’t dare examine too closely.

“Say, Patton,” he said softly, looking away.

“Yes?”

“What did the hat say to the scarf?”

Patton turned his black Cyberman eyes on Janus.

“What?”

“‘You hang around, and I’ll go a-head’.” Janus let a smirk curl his lips.

Patton was silent for a moment, but then he began to giggle, covering his mouth.

Janus pulled out his sonic laser.

He dropped into the pod with a swing of his legs, catching one of the robots in its metal chest. It fell with a screech, careening into another of its kind, but by then Janus had gained his feet and ducked behind a seat. Patton clattered down behind, with less grace and far more noise…and a random Tivolian tumbled in directly after him.

Patton caught the rodent-faced alien with a startled shout, immediately dropping them again when they screamed and struggled. Janus blinked; where the hell did they come from?

The Tivolian tumbled across the pod’s floor, only making it a few feet before getting cut down with blaster bolts. Janus saw Patton cry out, and caught the Side before he could leap out and draw more hostile fire.

“It’s too late!” he shouted over the noise.

“I should have hung on!” Patton, if he’d had a proper face, would probably be in tears. He hated death. “I don’t know why they were so scared of me!”

Janus could answer that…

“I’m more curious about where they came from,” he said instead, frowning. “They surely weren’t up on the surface with us. It’s like they just teleported in, but Tivolians don’t teleport. They don’t have the technology—”

A blaster bolt exploded across the top of the seat they were hiding behind, showering them in sparks and forcing them both to duck.

“Janus!” Patton snapped. “We need to get out of here!”

“Right.” Janus brandished his sonic. “We’ll just have to run for it.”

He leaped out, activating his weapon, and discovered that a sonic laser had a very satisfying range and kickback. Forget the Doctor’s screwdriver, he thought, blasting a Dalek puppet aside and ducking another gun blast. I wonder if the Imagination will let me keep this…

A cold, dead hand seized the collar of his jacket, yanking him back.

Then there was a yell, a clatter, and Janus turned in time to see Patton blast a puppet with a fire extinguisher. The moral Side chuckled at Janus’s shocked expression.

“I’ve seen this episode too, you know,” he pointed out.

Janus huffed.

The two dodged and fought their way to the cockpit; Janus used his laser to seal the door behind them. For a moment they simply stood there, catching their breath.

(Well, Janus caught his. Did Patton even breathe, in that form?)

“Unauthorized personnel may not enter the cockpit.” Remus’s high-pitched voice came over the speaker system. “Unless it’s an actual pit full of cocks, in which case, where’s my invitation?”

Janus was going to need something a lot stronger than tea, once they finally got out of this mess.

“Remus, for god’s sake,” he grumbled.

“God has nothing to do with my cock, but if that’s how you want to roll…” One of the cockpit screens flickered to life, and there was Remus in all his ruffly, sparkly, mustached glory. Clara’s warm, messy cove spread out behind him, reds and yellows clashing horribly with the green of his sash.

Janus moved so that his chest and shoulders blocked the screen, to prevent Remus from catching sight of Patton. If Remus saw Patton as a Cyberman, Janus would never be able to convince him to keep his mouth shut.

“All right then, where do we find you?” Janus said. “And where did the others land? Not to mention our dear missing ball of anxiety.” He leaned forward, putting on his trademark smirk. “Come on, Re. You must know. One Other to another, you can tell me.”

“Aww, Jan Jan,” Remus crooned, also leaning forward. “You care.”

“I most certainly do not!” Janus sputtered, and cleared his throat. “Patton was worried about Virgil, that’s all.”

“I was?” Patton asked from the other side of the space. “I mean, of course I am, but—”

“But surely you can at least tell us why this scenario isn’t playing out quite like the episode it comes from,” Janus interjected smoothly. He didn’t want Remus to notice the metallic quality of Patton’s voice.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’ve already told you everything that I know.” Remus shrugged. “Roman really did give the Imagination too much freedom.”

Janus frowned.

“Then how do you know the scenario will end when we find you?”

“I actually don’t! Isn’t it great?” Remus crowed, clapping his hands. “I love stories where anything could happen. We could all get vaporized, or have our flesh eaten by—”

“Remus, focus.” Janus pitched the bridge of his nose. “So, given what we know of this particular episode, you’re assuming that our main tasks are to come get you, and to drop the forcefield on the planet so the Daleks can blow it up.”

“That’s the idea, Double Dee!”

Behind him, Janus heard Patton make a weird, choked noise, and grimaced.

“By the way, Roman and Logan are already inside the asylum.” Remus grinned, the whites of his eyes flashing. “So if you want to catch up, you’d better scute those scaly asscheeks along. Check the floor for a breach; that will be your way out. A breach, ha! Like a butth—”

Janus pointed his laser and fired on the screen, cutting the transmission and sending sparks flying all over the cockpit. An awkward silence fell in which he turned to face Patton, who of course wore no visible expression.

This, and all the reasons for it, annoyed him further.

“I swear if you ask one question about scutes or scales,” he warned, holding up a finger.

“I wasn’t…going to.” Patton held up his hands. “Logan kind of taught us how to tune out the more, er, naughty things Remus says. But I am wondering,” he added hesitantly. “Are you…feeling okay?”

“Fabulous. Peachy,” Janus said flatly, kneeling to feel around on the floor. “Fantastic, allons-y, geronimo, what have you.”

“It’s just, you seem a little angry,” Patton went on. “And you remember, that’s, that’s the first step in being converted. Maybe you should wear the bracelet for a while? We can trade on and off…”

Patton’s fingers went to his wrist, but Janus stopped him with a gloved hand on top.

Tell him, an inner voice whispered. Tell him now, before this gets any more awkward.

“That’s sweet of you, but no, I’m merely frustrated,” Janus admitted. “I would very much like to get out of here, so I can return to the pleasant evening I was having before all thisss.”

He gestured irritatedly around them.

Patton joined him on the floor and together they found a person-sized hole, with a rope ladder hanging down.

“Hey, Janus,” Patton murmured, as they were about to start the long climb down. “Can I ask you something?”

“Why do I have a feeling you’re going to ask no matter what I say?” Janus said wryly.

“Do you remember when that puppet attacked you in the main part of the ship, and I fought it off with the fire extinguisher?” Patton ducked his head.

Janus raised an eyebrow.

“They hesitated, when they saw me.” Patton’s unnaturally black eyes met Janus’s. “That’s why I had time to grab the extinguisher.”

Janus swallowed, his heart starting to pound.

“Well, I’m sure they aren’t used to anyone fighting back—”

“No, they hesitated like…like I scared them or something,” Patton pressed. “It was weird, Janus. Please. If there’s something you need to tell me…you know you can.”

Janus’s mouth compressed into a flat line and he looked away, bitterness welling up inside him.

“Can I, Patton?” he asked softly, holding up a gloved hand. A yellow indictment of everything he was. “Can I really?”

Patton sighed, long and deep.

“Touché.”

Chapter 8- Extremis

“Something’s coming. And I’m blind. How can I see them when I’m lost in the dark?”

Logan awoke to someone shaking him.

He opened his eyes to an expanse of blurry blobs and color splotches, and Roman’s sharp, frantic face very close to his. His eyes have amber flecks, his brain noted inanely. But why is he clear when nothing else is…?

Roman threw his head back and exhaled in obvious relief when Logan groaned, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.

“Singing chimeras, Specs, I was starting to worry.”

Logan sat up and touched his bare face. Ah, there’s the problem.

“Where are my glasses?”

Roman was quiet.

Logan leaned closer to the other Side, squinting. Bad eyesight was such an annoyance. If only Thomas’s developing brain hadn’t decided early on that “smart and logical” also meant “stereotypically nerdy”, and pigeonholed his own sense of Logic into actually requiring corrective eyewear.

“Roman?” Logan tried again.

“Um. About that.”

Roman bit his lip, and handed over a smashed set of frames. Logan’s stomach sank as he examined them; the lenses were shattered beyond repair.

“I found them next to you like that, when I woke up,” Roman explained. “I’ve been trying to summon another pair, but for some reason the Imagination won’t let me!”

Logan pushed down a growing sense of dread, that he’d have to navigate the rest of this adventure half-blind.

“My glasses getting broken is obviously not your fault. We did fall down a rather deep hole,” he pointed out. “But what do you mean, the Imagination isn’t letting you?”

“I mean it’s not letting me!” Roman threw up his hands. “I could summon things on the TARDIS just fine, but now…” He sighed. “I am Creativity, right?”

Logan tilted his head and frowned.

“Is that…Roman, that is a nonsensical question. Of course you are.”

“So summoning a tiny object in my own dream scenario should be easy.” Roman hung his head.

“How long have you been trying?”

“Twenty minutes, maybe?” Roman shrugged, still not looking at him. “All that time, and yet still I fail.”

Logan resisted the urge to point out that twenty minutes should be long enough to realize a thing might be outside of one’s control, and to start brainstorming other options.

Stubborn fool.

“Maybe it’s just as well we picked the wedding over the callback,” Roman added darkly, an uncharacteristic glower twisting his face. “When Thomas’s Creativity apparently can’t even control his own dreams.”

Oh…this isn’t about glasses at all, is it? Logan swallowed around an achy sensation in his chest; the one he always got when something was wrong and Roman made that face and he just…needed to fix it.

Native English speakers have a passive vocabulary of around forty thousand words, he thought, frustrated. So why, in situations like this, am I constantly struggling to find the right thing to say?

The resigned set to Roman’s jaw prompted Logan to try.

“Your inability to summon things may not be your doing,” Logan said, laying a hand on Roman’s knee. “Perhaps the Imagination is attempting to impose a sense of realism on this adventure.”

“Realism,” Roman echoed flatly. “In Doctor Who.”

Logan huffed. “You must admit, summoning objects out of thin air does defy even time-traveling alien logic.”

Roman’s face twitched in the tiniest of smiles. “So why did it work before, Teach?”

“Maybe it only worked on the TARDIS because the ship already defies every known rule of physics.” Logan shrugged. “I admit I cannot possibly intuit the inner workings of the Imagination; I can only theorize from what I have observed thus far.”

Roman chuckled softly to himself, and bumped Logan’s shoulder.

“Aww, Nerd, I’m touched. You’re trying to logic me into feeling better.”

“Is it…working?” Logan asked.

“Kind of?” An unreadable expression flitted over Roman’s face. “At least one of us is still grounded in reality.”

“Where else could one possibly be grounded?”

Roman laughed outright at this.

“Oh, Logan. Never change, okay?”

He stood up, and pulled Logan to his feet as well.

“Where are we?” Logan asked, squinting.

He could tell they were in some large, open space; all blacks and browns and dull grays. Blurry domes of copper were scattered amongst what could be bits of fallen scaffolding or machinery.

Logan was also hyperaware of Roman’s warm arm pressed against his, and his own hand clasped tightly within the Prince’s larger grip. With everything else blurry, physical sensations were all the more distracting.

“Don’t panic, okay?” Roman started.

Logan scoffed.

“You are fortunate that I am not Virgil,” he commented wryly. “Because starting a sentence like that would almost certainly have caused him to panic.”

“Well, it’s just, do you remember that scene in the Dalek asylum episode where Rory wakes up in the hanger full of dead Daleks who turn out to be not actually dead?” Roman said in a rush. “Because…yeah.”

Oh. Logan swallowed.

“So, I am guessing that those copper domes are actually Daleks?” he said softly.

Roman snorted.

“Copper domes? Jeesh, your eyesight sucks.”

“I am aware,” Logan said flatly. “Which means you will have to guide us out. If I remember correctly, as long as we are quiet and don’t kick any pipes on the ground, we won’t wake them up.”

Roman let go of Logan’s hand… and replaced it with an arm wrapped around his waist. Logan only held back a squeak because it would have been extremely undignified.

“Hey, relax, I got you, Specs.” Roman’s breath ghosted over Logan’s ear. The Prince’s shorter stature allowed him to fit snugly against Logan’s side; if Roman turned his head, he could comfortably tuck his face into the crook of Logan’s neck.

Not…not that Logan imagined him doing any such thing.

Roman drew his sword with a metallic rasp, prompting Logan to pull out his screwdriver, and they set off across the floor.

It was a strange, vulnerable sensation, Logan thought, being this close to another, being forced to rely on him for direction…or maybe it was just that Roman’s Rose Tyler outfit left so much more skin on display than his usual royal attire…

To be fair, Roman’s bare arms and short skirt and leggings were the only non-blurry things in Logan’s line of sight at the moment.

“You know, I am not sure how much good a sword will do against a Dalek now,” Logan said dryly (to distract himself). “Since it would seem that the Imagination is now attempting to be realistic.”

“It’ll be a lot more useful than a screwdriver,” Roman retorted. “Honestly, the War Doctor had a point. The later seasons really do start to treat the sonic like a weapon, and it looks ridiculous. There’s an oily-looking puddle to your left.”

They dodged around it.

“The sonic screwdriver is an ingenious, multipurpose tool,” Logan argued. “Fitting for a character who is, at heart, a pacifist. In the right hands, it most certainly could serve as a weapon. For example one could scramble a Cyberman’s circuits, short out fuses, or calculate the precise amount of blunt force needed to take down an enemy.” Logan waved the hand with the screwdriver around them. “All things that a sword could not accomplish.”

“Sure,” Roman drawled, leading them around one of the still, silent Daleks, “but you don’t point a sonic at an oncoming Dalek and expect to survive. Even the Doctor had more sense than to try that. At least a sword could cut off its blaster arm.”

“We don’t know how strong Dalek amor is down here,” Logan pointed out. “You could end up breaking your sword and then where would we be?”

“Better off than we’d be while you assembled a cabinet at them!”

Logan’s foot collided with a metallic something that made an awful CLANG and went skittering across the floor. Roman pulled them up short, his face going pale.

All around them, round blue lights began to flicker on, one by one.

“I kicked the pipe, didn’t I?” Logan said, his heart starting to pound.

“You kicked the pipe,” Roman confirmed in a sick voice.

“EGGS…!” a crackly Dalek voice next to them stuttered, making them jump. “EG-EG-EG-EGGS…!” Its twin lights flashed erratically as it spoke.

“Roman,” Logan started.

“‘Eggs, you may laugh and that’s great…’” Roman sang in a wavering voice. “‘Your smiles are what make my day’…”

The Dalek rolled toward them creakily. “EEEEEGGS!”

Logan’s breathing sped up. Another Dalek rolled in from the other side, causing him to stumble. All around them, mechanical creaks and groans and a chorus of digitized voices rose up…

“EG…EG-EGGS…TERM…”

“Roman, I believe we need to run.” Logan could see the Dalek almost clearly now, its eyestalk glowing, its gunstick rising up.

“…IN…ATE…”

Blurry, flashing lights closed in.

“‘My self-worth’s fragile like an egg,’” Roman sang. The hand gripping Logan’s middle tightened painfully. “‘When it breaks it’s tough to put together again…’”

“EX…TERM…IN…ATE!”

“Roman!” Logan shouted. “Get us out of here!”

“EXTERMINATE!”

A blaster bolt warbled past and exploded over their heads.

Roman shuddered and seemed to snap out of it, seizing Logan’s arm and pulling him so hard he nearly fell. Logan staggered, hanging onto Roman’s hand for dear life as they ran, and ran, and blaster bolts burst at their feet and shattered around them.

“This way, boys and boys,” Remus’s voice sing-singed across the room. Roman yanked them hard in that direction.

“REMUS!” Roman shouted as they ran, and Logan was impressed he had the breath for it. “Remus, you better open that door like you’re supposed to or we are DEAD!”

“Oh, keep your pants on, brother,” Remus snarked, sounding a little closer. “Although maybe Logan would prefer that you didn’t—”

Whatever else he said wasn’t audible over a hanger full of jabbering Daleks and firing blasters.

They reached a wall and Roman shoved Logan down.

“Straight ahead, crawl. Go, go, go!” he said, turning and brandishing his sword.

Bless that Prince and his stupid, stupid bravery.

Logan went, nearly tripping over his coat as he crawled under the barely lifted hatch door. Once he was past the threshold Roman flung himself under and through, knocking into Logan and sending them both sliding across the floor.

There was a hiss and a heavy thud that Logan hoped was the door shutting behind them, and finally, blessed silence. They both leaned against the wall for a moment, catching their breath.

Roman thunked his head back.

“Jesus Christ Superstar,” he muttered.

“Your welcome.”

Remus’s voice crackled through the hallway. Roman growled and sat up straighter, looking around as if his brother would magically appear.

“I did just save your lives,” Remus added. From the direction of the sound, Logan guessed he was talking through a speaker somewhere on the far wall.

“Yeah, and I’m still gonna whip your butt when this is all over,” Roman groused.

“Oooh, do I get to choose the instrument?”

Roman sputtered, but Logan grabbed his arm before he could yell back.

“You know he just likes to get under your skin,” he murmured, and raised his voice. “Thank you for opening the door, Remus. We are grateful for your help.”

There was a silence on the other end, with a quality that Logan would have described as shocked.

“Well. You two lovebirds better move along,” Remus drawled finally, shrill as ever. “Before the Silurian army shows up.”

“Excuse me, the WHAT?” Logan exclaimed.

No answer.

“Remus!” Roman clambered to his feet and helped Logan up.

Nothing.

Except now that Logan was listening for it, he definitely heard approaching footsteps and murmuring, heavily-accented voices. And they were getting closer.

“That dick,” Roman grumbled through gritted teeth.

“To be fair, I think he is trying to help,” Logan pointed out. “In his own way.”

“Don’t be fair to my brother when he’s just led us out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

“We are neither in a pan nor on fire, Roman; I have never understood that saying—”

The lights dimmed and flashed an eerie purple; Roman silenced him with a hand over his mouth. There was a voice…not Remus’s, not alien, not like anything Logan had ever heard. It chanted something, over and over again, before fading out.

The lights flared back to normal.

Logan waited, counting Roman’s shallow breaths against his neck.

Nothing.

“What was that?” he asked softly.

“Beats the hell out of me,” Roman responded. “But I guess that’s our cue to go. Stay close, Mr. Magoo.”

Logan grumbled, but allowed Roman to recapture his hand and lead them in the opposite direction of the approaching footsteps…which had resumed the moment the purple light vanished.

Next time Roman asked him to come on an adventure, he was bringing a spare set of glasses.

[leowyattv]

Steep Grade Fadeaway

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[pencildragons]

trying to build a form and my beautiful stupid 5 month old dog is lying beside me on the couch . which would be fine except he keeps dropping his bear on the floor and then looking down at it sadly until i pick it up for him . he wouldnt last a day in an office job

[ganymedesclock]

If you don't mind, I want to know what you think of the theory that Pidge's dad has been brainwashed by the Galra or turned over to their side and is now working for them. The theory kinda sprang up because the topic of Sam Holt hardly ever comes up, not even by Pidge, and people think it's leading up to some kind of huge, dramatic reveal with Sam.

Personally... I don’t really buy that? I’m gonna chunk this up since I have different contentions for a couple of scenarios aired here:

1. Mind control

This show is at least partially driven by what will look cool and serious. Not that Sam Holt probably isn’t a cool tough guy with more fight in him than he seems much like Matt was a heckuva lot more than the defenseless anxious wreck he seemed to be in s1e3, but it does not visually create a dramatic, threatening scene to see a guy who looks like a middle-aged college professor duke it out with our heroes. All the emotional value in the world is not going to make that work.

There’s also the fact that... I’m skeptical the galra can flat-out dominate a mind and create a compliant slave with any level of permanence. If that were the case, we would have seen it in action by now- the empire takes huge numbers of prisoners. Even their ability to invade a mind seems imperfect as demonstrated in s2e10- Slav, before his capture, was working with the Blade, and yet despite being interrogated for some time, the empire had no idea who the Blade even was and was just digging for Slav’s inventions.

Haggar, personally, seems capable of something but it seems both very imperfect, and that takes a long time. I doubt she was able to really overtake Narti as much as somehow steal her senses in a more malicious form of what she did with Kova- Narti doesn’t react to any of the information she’s given that would be new to Haggar but not to her, nor does she do anything to attack or stall the team when it’d be to Haggar’s benefit to do so. So I’m gonna say- until we see someone be full-tilt hijacked by the empire, I don’t think they can do that.

2. Willing conspirator

This is even more unlikely since s4e2 in showing us the general character of the Holts as a family told us a lot about Sam, albeit indirectly.

Roughly, the Holts are highly intelligent, but somewhat selectively loyal. Their ultimate, strongest loyalty is to their family, and people they view as like family beneath that. They’re like crows. If you’re good to them, if you take care of one of them, the others will take care of you in return. Other than that, they’ll be nice, they’ll be affable- but their trust doesn’t go very far, and, well, “What the Garrison doesn’t know won’t hurt them.”

These people have very little reservations keeping secrets if they think it’s a good reason. There’s levels of trust and levels of disclosure and rising through those ranks is earned.

Sam has every reason to hold a very lengthy grudge on the empire. Nothing they possibly do now can persuade him to really want to collaborate with their cause. Them being able to entice him to even sort of work with them would require large, significant compromises which I don’t think Zarkon, Haggar, or anyone in their faction would possibly be willing to make, and Sam is definitely too smart to be enticed the way Lubos was. Lubos’s arrangement was ludicrously imbalanced from the start- he began as, and remained, a prisoner, and as soon as the commander on Olkarion didn’t need him any more, he was more than happy to throw Lubos’s life and their agreement away- since he had all the power, Lubos had no means to resist that.

Someone like Sam, who regularly outfoxed his government space program employers and coworkers pretty much on a lark, would never get caught that way. If he pretended to, it’d be because he’s furthering his own agenda and probably gonna pull a knife on his “business partner” as soon as they turn their back.

Now, could someone with the empire have actually persuaded Sam’s assistance? Yes, but given the events of s4e6, I doubt that person actually did. Yes, I’m talking about Lotor- he’s much more cooperative and interested in utilizing the skills of non-galra, and actually knows how to negotiate with people. But giving him any connection to Pidge’s dad that he could present to the team like an olive branch would defuse a great deal of lovely potential plot-generating conflict and misgivings before they had a chance to do their thing and set off chains of events. There’s pretty much no way in hell the team would continue to regard Lotor with a lot of suspicion if he was a mastermind behind giving Pidge her father back. After all- the rest of the empire has never cooperated or compromised on anything.

But my overall beef is here... both of these scenarios are pretty much considering Sam Holt as a victim.

Again, you have to consider that this guy is arguably where Pidge and Matt got a hearty chunk of their tricks from. He’s a Holt- which is part of an emerging pattern of highly intelligent, and especially good at plying that intelligence in unorthodox directions. These are people who operate in codes, creeds, and constantly observing their surroundings. And both his looks, the age of his children, and his position imply that he has some thirty years of experience and higher education on both Matt and Pidge.

Is it possible something awful’s happened to Sam Holt during this time? Yeah, but I think s4e2 has discouraged that possibility in my eyes. Having a fake-out of that level of emotional charge on Pidge thinking she was too late to save Matt is going to inevitably weaken any hypothetical future plot of Pidge actually being too late to save her father. Also, given the context, I don’t think they really need to send a message about how it’s really not going to always work out since Pidge’s quest has been framed as a desperate shot in the dark for a long time. Her determination is faced by long avenues of no information.

If Sam hasn’t been mentioned, I think they’re holding him in reserve for future plot- but also, not wanting to hand Pidge the resolution to her big motivation in space.

Also, frankly, I’d say that Sam is very likely that if he comes out of it worse for wear, he’d come out like Shiro- that is to say, not ideal, but not broken. It’s unlikely he’d have been actively tampered with since his captors seemingly considered him profoundly unimpressive, and for someone whose entire family reads like D&D Rogues, that’s a powerful place to be. Shiro says Sam is the smartest person he ever met- and considering Shiro worked for, again, a government space program, that’s a pretty glowing review of Sam’s brain.

Lastly, there’s the fact that Sam being out in space somewhere is useful. Remember, Matt was used to introduce the rebel alliance and help them integrate into the coalition. Having Sam be an active player out and poking around means that he has the potential to bring people to the plot, in which case the writers are at full liberty to choose when, where, and how to reel him back in and have that Holt family reunion.

Yeah, there hasn’t been much about Sam, but I think there’s a reason they had Matt deliberately bring Sam up during Pidge showing him around the castle in s4e3. Nobody’s forgetting about him.

[lets-arelis]

erotonomicon volume 1-english version

ARELIS

         EROTONOMIKON

 THE MEMORIES OF A DECADENT LIFE

                             LETTER 1

 Damien Adaleux to Cesare Nerval

10-7-1997, Paris

 Dear Cesare,

When the hour and the minute hand pointed vertically to the South of Big Ben, Lucy-Aurora rose with her float from the open book-which we riffled during our battle to see who is going to raise the palm- like an offended donkey who was vibrating harshly on her backside by her imaginary master. Animals know no negotiations. They identify practices that are leading or amongst partners.

Every attempt of mine to cultivate the only name that should dwell in her heart proved fruitless due to momentum in the highway of the senses. But the more intensely you experience pleasure, the more she becomes automatic. I remained Benedictine with my diagonal, purple wand waiting to receive the title of the founder of her small city though unsuccessfully since the Ippokrini I bore was dry. The temple of Saint Sofia, a victorious general.

I was looking at Heaven’s floor like an Adam without foliage and sin. Like the school life in one colour. This made my pen turn on the spindle of the quest for originality.

Dethronement is experienced soundly after it is comprehended and follows the mind’s dives and dialogues. However, I was not looking for reactions to my callings but only a hallucinogen so as to bring them down behind the castles of Oblivion which I besieged with my sling.

I did so without delay. I talked to my little friend Jeremy who is loyal like a dog.

The leader Saturn was absent from my Olympian house during those two days of rest.

Rea was absent too since they had long drifted apart.

My Amaltheia was sepulchral. Desperate to rise again, yearning for her Milk, like a sapling with delicate roots ready to break by intruders which rides the caresses of the Bright Sun and the Pure Poseidon as the only lifesaver in order to refute the reasonable and set up the exception to the rule.  

The dark grass like a ghost on the face of Jeremy, his locks with the colour of the wheat and an archaic ribbon reminding of the ornamental ones of the Master of Music, his eyes sparkling with the shade and honour of the Corinthian Gulf and his ears worthy of a Pan…

A numinous Uriel who combined the fracture and the union of the human core’s atoms, for the understanding of the Circle and the Idea.

It desired to play the lyre to the Lark of my pants, so as every inch of me could listen carefully to that cord, like a special Being that demanded respect and paganism.

I told him to sit on the chair so as his true nature could be seen from my forehead.

I turned on the radio and out came melodies. I was looking for complicity. To me it was inconceivable for a lyre to exist without a symphonic orchestra.

I immediately embezzled his cloaks for I was a cat from starvation milk for forty days and every night.

But my soul’s heat turned the famine into thirst and me into a dog that wanted to be nurtured from every inch, to show the traveler the affection that came after the coming of many Saturns on the Island.

The rings of his feet were the beginning… So refined and polishing like a table full of dirt, dehydrated and ready for a new celebration.

My face transformed into a white flag when my tongue conversed with the thick toe of his right foot to invent the proper measures. If with sparkles I had desired it then it would have waved and acquired irrational and unrealistic folds.

It did not take long for my tongue to move the measure to the left. It always had a great sensitivity for the left-footed.

The Right corner expresses the greatness of the measures and the soul of Bismarck’s army. The Left always proves the exception to the rule:

a) that we can be led to the same result if we follow myriads of different ways which many of us handle and b) that anyone can reach the circle’s beginning starting from the end with the same interaction that he could have if he kissed the unit to give an orgasm at the end of the g spot.

Fibula, calf, knee, thigh bone of the fate…

Bus stations with a co-operative beginning… Terracotta legs of a debauchery colossus…

He was feeling the torch for the elevator and the flame. I had a covert dream: the recreation of one of the seven wonders of the Ancient World so as my father, who as I have mentioned was on holidays, would be defeated.

But Jeremy had dreams too: the experience of a miracle that he had acted.

If you cannot be transformed into a Commodus in this life you take his part and with temporary success you detain the applause from the invisible audience that surrounds you with the curtains of the room and silent testimony.

I invited him to make my bed, ornate with numerous roses, our shroud.

He accepted it with no cause. We depicted the standing symbol of the Cancer. Our silhouettes in perfect proportion, since each of us had stood on the adapted ruler of the situations.

In this Dionysian celebration, Bacchus and Satire were altered in the complex of Kronide and Ganymede. An illustration not from Paros but from hide and of sweat; not like a cenotaph at all.

My mouth became a kidney to process every flavour which differentiates her appearance into bitter chocolate or Andalusian water, cloth and toxins when the body weakens.

On his spear I was seeking, like Pentheus, to become a Columbus of what I could not do or to make mine whatever it was that I scorned. A small story of an initiate, who was not tested in his retrogression, was hidden in every side of it. My tongue became a volleyball racquet which pushed the bullets towards an unknown rival with the blinds of a supply teacher.

Unfortunately, their place on the north quarter’s infinite spots was weak. According to Physics, there is a specific spot depending on the human abilities towards which a sphere can be thrown. But does reproduction have life? Does anyone know the deeper meaning of these balloons? The wheels of their surface were enough.

Needless to say that in every initiative of mine taken in my own spaceship he had responded, following the beginning of imitation which is the most essential in life.

Even cars reproduce the human figure. Another notice showing that man through technology can make it human but at the same time his god. Who has not been awestruck when seeing their eyes-lights and their sharp teeth? The repetition of the Four-feet Era with that of the Four-wheel Version.

Perhaps I wanted my tongue to be Tangential with the Unknown’s Past and to take part in the Story of the Universe which at the moment is weak.

My life’s shell approached my ear so as I can hear it and communicate with its elimination code. When you cannot win your faceless enemy, try to find a picture of him or having your imagination as your shotgun find a model to surrender to him. It is essential to design our rivals, even the ones that do not exist, so as not to be led to self-destruction. In an alternative case we make our moonless self the enemy and we thrash him at the Catalaunian Fields to ensure the empire of the Shining One.

The time has come for me to taste the game in all its dimensions and through the relic of my mind to condemn it to impalement. After all, the Bastille is the body of the mind and Marathon’s tomb for the soul. The dictations push the mind to complex conformities that sometimes have ways of revenge.

I was observing as a Neutral supervisor in the Third dimension what was happening above the operating table while the kerykeion of Hermes made me numb and my body was becoming the Velouhiotis of my thoughts. That could not have been me. Maybe a Pausanias-wanderer. The core of yourself has become spiritual in such Druid rituals. You become something else. Perhaps a shapeless mass of iron or a trapped astronaut in a black hole that instead of swallowing it, it lures you into her own depths.

For me it was the second choice. My tongue read the New Translation of the decomposition of food. The sign of prices, a traitor. While I was spitting on it on the scales of this aperture, it was descending without ever separating from it. It had the place of honour because it was the street’s wise one and knew many languages like diving, victory, the linear script, the pencil sharpener, the tear and the caress.

I was a Rodin in this hole and a great wonder for what I could not ever do to myself due to lack of flexibility-unless I was a faqir- I did it to Jeremy. I was wondering while I was carrying out my work whether we do to others what we can not do to ourselves. In a different case I believe that we will preserve these privileges exclusively for our “ego”.

I saw on Jeremy’s left thigh-as much as my occupation with my ascetic work was allowed- an Indian prince with a feminine without weights, a scene of intercourse taken from Kama Sutra: a racist book, I wondered, about homosexuality.

Nowhere any enactments of men or women at their wedding’s Netherlands. A textbook of social agreements, after all. However, it leaves imagination free to fly for all of us since we do not confine ourselves to the suggestion that only our solar system is inferior to us: our verbal! It is not possible to explore any more.

The thing that lightened my relationship with him was “give-and-take”. Both being Libra without weights and chains, without Trial like a crown on our heads or Punishment with her lame leg chasing us for a crime so anonymous trying to arrest us. In this union, both I and he were not on the side of any sexual, spiritual and moral category or even ontogenetic… This word was to us the X factor. We were like the amoebae which had multiplied on their own… The thoughts or the actions were as many as the beings…

<<Proteus of love>> he used to call me and me, <<Aeolus of the sea>>.

These delegations of duties brought, as far as he was concerned, howls of wolves and as for me some money in my mouth, paper coins of no value and secondarily gigantic, a light of his expressed vitality. I saved her like my soul, until my will was broken and I returned the change that equal the ones of less value to end with those of major, so as the eagerness would gradually become enormous.

My mouth like a moneybox with expiration date, like a shooting star that smites the Adriatic Sea or a teenage love with doubtful duration(but always a teenage love)…

After this diffusion of mutuality, Jeremy rose and due to the obvious dictate of society, transformed with his fins into something totally different from what he was in bed before.

Dream Book: The delight of crabs will bring a strong share-out.

“I have to kiss my girlfriend on the Eiffel Tower”, he said with an apologetic tone and without even looking at me as he was ready for that hastened departure, like Socrates. Or perhaps because he felt so guilty for what had happened before. From iambus to elegiac poetry…

He chose the Eiffel Tower instead of the one our bodies had created; even though destructive so as to give the impression of unstable and vulnerable to the Mongolian incursions of social comments that give a reproof for the divergent way of racial action or because he likes to fight the manuscript with masks… The besieging Goths at my Rome… But no invader will take my Rome away. I built it and I will ruin it. In her there is Birth, Fall and Greatness. Seven hills which are the Light of my life. Only if I had seven males and seven females I would send them to the Labyrinth for the Minotaur of Hell to devour them as dessert.

      Till then I am vigilant and I protect.

 Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 10

 Damien Adaleux to Jeremy Cloix

5-9-1997, Paris

 Dear Jeremy,

Tonight at sunset, no cheerful Saint with gifts and reindeer knocked on my door. It was Gerard.

His silk shirt became a symmetrical treble clef with his short, thin, anorexic body which seemed to have been in cryonics. He was a student of Pastoral Theology. He used to fast quite often.

The son of a Hecatonchir, businessman and dear friend. His beady, emerald eyes reminded me of a few sayings about the magical characteristics of the stone when it is worn.

If I had invaded his territory I would have been enlightened and I would have obtained his wealth. It is an ecstatic feeling when the crinolines are tainted. I imagined Yggdrasill’s roots reaching the core of the earth and my inner weak determination. A Samson from Trapezounta with no blood.

All these have not been inscribed so as you can feel the injustice coming from the loss of the first prize. Do not make an expostulation about all the recent losses but imitate the life of a prodigal Augustine.

He asked to be baptized in a steam bath which was made by my father, who is the first minister of the country so as I can live an easy life. Luxury is always the best weapon for the reiteration of intrigue.

“Ask and you will be given!” a gipsy once told me. I could not resist this saying’s power and consented to it without a fox’s thought.

He put his diplomas outside my Turkish bath and he entered, like his soul, with a pelican’s towel.

I was watching my prey like a raven from the system that had been installed in my office which was connected to cameras inside and outside of the Turkish bath and described the movement of the moment in way so firm like Nevada’s rocks. His chest’s muscles were parallel lives, like the perfectly set fields of Thessaly where I was on holidays for a few weeks last summer…

The paralysis of his nerves from the steam and the high temperature which reached the borderline of faint was the last of Pandora’s gifts and the urge for an unexpected experience. I saw with relief his eyes that were half closed and full of sweat he was breathing with great difficulty. He was between Sleep and Death. I had to take the opportunity and like a Naked Fool I would make his white towel like the universe.

I quickly descended the stairs that led from my office to the place where The Painter of Death was making the urn-like sea-gulls.

I found myself in front of the Gate of the steam bath with the ten glass tiles that were separated from the oak ones, like I have imagined the Gates of Heaven. The keys were on the door alone and neglected. I became their concupiscent godfather. I was going to be a Roman Catholic priest in this ritual with the blissful water stemming from me and going on the prodigal saint so as he could be transformed into a prodigal impious in speech and deeds…

Any hesitation would be a retractable interrelation. With a silent push the door cracked a little and I appeared in front of one of my inexperienced students.

He had his birthday in September like the queen Virgin. I decided to change his date of transpiration. His sugarcane-like face was like Lucy’s whom I deeply desired when she was miles away from me.

She was working for her newspaper with the acknowledgement of undiluted wine but also with devious sparks of resistance and protest that had not been expressed because the eye above the pyramid was not insignificant but had been loved in the rubies. She was sent to Londinium to cover the funeral of the kind-hearted princess.

My substitute was finally found. His rosy cheeks meant not only health but also modesty. That is why I wanted him to have been painted in citrus. His poppy-like braids were like Lucy’s but coming from the sun. He had the courtesy of a Wise Lion with a royal purple. He lacked the scepter and I was addicted to covering the needs of people who had eclipses or gaps so as a content could be given to the parts of the New Testament that were not offered to those who were not at the slaughter houses.

I closed the door in the same way I had opened it without him understanding a thing. As it is common in the kingdom of toads the tongue flies so quickly towards the appetizer-insect that it never felt the Gorgo until it was too late.

I sat next to him at the same “table”. That towel was the Iron Virginity that had to be translated into a fraction with him being the denominator and a lowest common multiple in desire’s collaborations.

With my robust hand I was imprisoning the keys and with my left one I was touching him on the knee up to his Mediterranean pelvis.

In this exploration the silkworm should have met with a plug so as the blackout caused by my soul’s lust which gave its extension to the half lit steam bath could have had partial power supply like Albania. The generators belong to the gods; not the mortals.

Pretty soon sparks had dashed from his wire and he made the mistake of his mine from his February Olympics.

My first plan failed before it had the chance to flourish. I had to put my back up plan in action.

His empty photocopy became a flag on my Doric head. A halo of truth… His statuesque bearing was in a butterfly position. I was attracted by his funnel, like the magnetic compass attracts the iron filings.

At that moment I tried to approach his belly’s Oracle of Delphi for his Ideas and his Prophecies to spring up. My wire was in athletics with obstacles. It is not in the plug it belongs to, but in a similar one. Who said that the path to Virtue has not been sown with malodorous and bloody echini that have bloomed? His hair became the shackles of his hands. Who said that under unknown circumstances our strength cannot be our greatest weakness? His mouth kissed the beggar’s hand like a proper silencer. My torpedo rekindled his wanted senses. He seemed to have accepted the accomplished fact. He sucked my thumb like a toddler but not his creeks. He was trying to return to the beginning of the birth.

The tear and life exactly like miscarriage. I cried inside of him and with the key like a blade, indifferent to the amnesty of his life imprisoned hands, his hair was weakened…

He faced the severance of the experience in my house and at school. I have always been a personification of it. Everyone has the delusion that someday they will store it but nobody realizes that Heaven has sloughed us off and that we desire to celebrate the Restoration of the father by committing adultery with the Earth.

He did not dare to look me with his own eyes. I had done the same.

He was shaking like a whale that had gone astray, waiting for her return to half life. In the end, death is also breath. This is what a beggar once claimed and everyone had noticed “props” in his speech. Thus, I can handle this saying to be considered a god too… Usurpation of authority…

I gave him the keys so as to tempt him to unfold in the Gates of Hell.

To conclude, whether somebody will go to Hell or Heaven will be determined by the way he handled the crucial moments of his life and by expiation.

I opened widely the Steam bath’s door and I did not look back nor closed the door.

Never has a closed door behind u been locked.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 20

Damien Adaleux to Jeremy Cloix

15-9-1997, Paris

 Dear Jeremy,

Like Pluto, I am expecting Lucy rabidly even though I am aware of her devotion to her Mother-Work since March.

They say that when the cat is absent then the friendship of men dances a waltz. Nobody can agree more than me.

I invited three old friends to celebrate my birthday.

Tony, George, Jean and me, sitting at the four chairs of a table, were splitting the portion of hashish so as to pretend we were Pythia. The hypocrites for an ancient Greek comedy must always be four.

Tony was inconsolable for his unjustly lost girlfriend, when the airplane she had on was flying like Icarus to decorate the sea of Middle Earth…

On the other hand, Jean had broken up with his girlfriend because she caught him in bed lost in the webs of “Kirki”.

George was in no mood to tell us anything of value.

When you have friends you are obliged to tell them every little exclamation mark of the unseen side of the moon, like a simple soldier does with his captain.

I suggested they stigmatize themselves with the suit of the burnt pines. They accepted it without their cheeks to swell or become red.

On the sofas in the living room I had carnival and feminine ornaments, fabrics, masks and stuffing to give a sense of bulge, all scattered like offering stones at Etruria’s altars which you expose for the dangers like a sign of piety but you also avoid them.

I succeeded Seine’s flow. We were comfortable with our new clothes, like a poor man who wins billions in lottery and adjusts to the new facts so all this cannot be seen as the beginning of Luck and expectations or not to expose his humble origin to his new caste.

In the Room of Mirrors George’s lips were pale and Toni’s cheeks with Jean’s eyes were coloured.  I was merely the lowest common denominator of his fake eyelashes.

Urged by our corrupted bliss, the omen of the Kozaks was deified in our palate after it had sexual intercourse with that of Champagne. We wanted to spread the news about the orgiastic ceremony from the West to Zagreus’s East.

A certain quantity of liquid flora and fauna gushed from the floor of the Parthians at George’s constitutional diverse units and became visible as a reactor by an amazed me.

This rare stellar phenomenon had to be made into a film.

A Marseille kiss should be given to George by Toni. His first reaction was repulsive.

“Are u a turkey, French kid?” I asked him and he said he had never felt that way…

“Traditional grammar has strict rules”. Whatever applies has to be accepted even by one of them. I filmed, Jeremy, the decadent idea of his obedience, as a gift for your forthcoming birthday.

Tony was on the ground after all this, bursting into laughter. On his knees on Aladdin’s carpet, he prayed to his God and his head along with those of Jean and George had been incarnated into an Argo of the Symplegades. “It is time to pray in a different language” I told him begging.

His head was a bisector in a triangle of skirts, undecided about which hand grenade to disarm before he is eliminated. A vague mass of drapery barely indicated the vehicle’s directions. The Jurassic Stones were covered in his mouth and thus he was transformed into a Golden Horn. The dovecote did not misbehave. Bad omens from the Olympian gods. Slates of mosaic with Sarlo’s gulf in the prehistory of trial.

In a little while their Caspian Sea would gush and the dove like a Cherub would be promoted to an unknown cloud.

But for Toni, this ultimate contact was not orgasmic.

Those Titanian Stones, now sealed, had two craters and were surrounded by bear’s skin. It is like a hundred devious horses have gathered to the zero point and rolling they emerge with the greatest power.

George and Jean with their soul’s half closed mirrors magnified their ego, identifying Hyperion in each other.

However, it seemed like their mouths were an opposing Pile of Hermes. One was offering the other oxygen and love. It was then that I remembered love is the oxygen of life, which when exhaled to your other half, becomes carbon dioxide. All this reminded me of a conjuring trick of the adolescence: the girl that disappears in her vertical coffin along with the knives.

I admit that I was always curious to see what is hidden under a dress. All the more so now that I had two in front of me.

The dove emerging from the earth, whiter than ever, was swallowing the rim with its archaic, holy smile like a game of a safe life.

With a deer’s flexibility, Toni bowed in front of the sofa and invited the devastated Jean to come into the turbulent doll’s house where George, who was closest to him, had cut the silk and thus had exposed the roof. Also he poured citrus juice on him so as his lazy dust could barely sleep. He rubbed him with a sponge so as a series of plastic dolls parading in front of the precursor of Virgin Mary’s icon would have Ptolemaic hospitality.

“I am ready to welcome him!” said Toni the host, who wanted to celebrate his friend’s birthday with the proper Laurentian way.

With his entrance into the middle aisle, Jean wanted to place the bread and wine on his friend’s Altar. His deacon thing even though bent, was risen and the congregation could feel the earthquake of his respect from the pillars of the side aisles. Till then those who were not deacons could not be in the Altar. But if the others are guinea-pigs and you the scientist who experiments then the first time can never be the last one. The way to Holy Communion demands Gargantua’s persistence. And he was also forced to float from the area where women sit.

A few pillars were stopping him with mud so as he could not reach the car’s wheel and people were throwing him Gedrosian paint so as to blame him for a crime. Jean had found a supporter in Toni who helped with the constant attacks of the enemies. There could be a tearing of his clothes and the amulet could be holy in the Altar. The subject is always the erotic desire.

Tony as a cognate object and George as a second subject gave him a flute to play a melancholy rhythm while Jean having the ideal equilibrium was stirring it inside his doll’s house.

He ended though in a testosterone acme on billy goats skin, playing a paean in pastoral note like Attila before his bow was broken.

The defender of “passive resistance” and I of the dictum “an eye for an eye”.

There were the tones, the semitones and the intonations that always supplied the voids of his psychological stave. Perhaps this arrow symbolized the help of Father Ares whose, as a member of the Salian order, I was a careful caretaker since it was separated from the Earth and Uranus.

I and he were both malleable kouroi, illegitimate and renounced.

Claudius once ordered Messalina to be executed. Thankfully not in my usurping case.

Jeremy you know that I was not born in Paris since my father was at the 45th parallel as an ambassador for many years.

For my opium and my Swiss love army I demand a cheque from my father. When this is not enough I threaten him with the publication of past mistakes. This letter would be ecclesiastical for his political career.

I may not be Phoebus but I have the inclination to transform into a villainous Hercules. I do not know my real father… The poppies, the grassy paper candles, the swollen bosom or the farm’s dogs?

Whoever Pindos will stand on my Egnatia way, I will pretend to be Hades inside Pluto. I commit this hubris to provoke Deism.

After this interfering sentence let us move to our original one.

Toni’s mouth was in the end a fountain of swans that made George quit.

After this Victorian change order was given to objectify the subject of the sentence.

Calmness and spin…

Bliss of two categories into one, like a myrtle into a laurel wreath.

My opinion about an indent in Jean’s waist was a leash that through its opening made him retire.

The return of a hypnotized man to life. I read the truth that had been stolen from him.

I presume that the truth is for everyone something to have forever. I will not say whether Joan of Arc was listening to voices of ambrosia or her own self or whatever Nature dictates. I am a friend of the material. Not of Hypatia… It is vain to pretend being something you are not. Oxygen becomes water when it has intercourse with the hydrogen.

Every human quiver is a heterogeneous substance that contains a code of numbers that has to be memorized as to steal the other’s treasure when the moment is right. For the most profitable union or that with the least results as negative, the proper combination must come from you.

I am a hog which loves to indulge into the gutter of immorality. I believe that you must help your friends and return your enemies like a string of beads back to myspace. I have no doubt about my virtues but I do not ask for someone to be in a position to defame my omnipotence…

 A dove whispered in my ear that you were seen in London with my hereditary Juliette. I though I was once a Patroclus- lover…

Whoever pretends to be a Paris with my Helen then I will become his Menelaus:

a) for he is not only mine and b) for whoever trespasses her is a Trojan.

Jeremy, I never threaten anyone so as he never has a lead in my wishes and my actions. My scorpion’s tail reaches the ground with no notice and with the Leukothoe that I will be wearing I will break all the doors to find you. If from my Diabolical Primacy you see her again then you will not have the right to sin anymore.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 30

 Damien Adaleux to George Labrouille

1-10-1997, Paris

 Dear George,

The other day I had a nice evening surprise for my tunics that were not detached from my skin: from the solitaire they were laying on the table for reasons of balance with the old pest of the American usury.

I made a deal with a model agency for a temporary buying and selling. “Eastern Europe at the gates” was its title.

I always looked at other people’s bodies as being services on which you satisfy every gastronomic pleasure. It is not pointless to take advantage of the other’s indisposition. Our putrid soul and our damaged tastes by the star of dog become an arrow on the girls’ pears.

Anorexic due to marijuana abuse and thus ready to succumb with scruple to the maximum number of clients. Many of them keep the torch in an Olympics film of strawberry garlic.

The bell chimed and out of the church there came a little, skinny, untrained, black girl… For breakfast she had a heroin injection. We would be the main course: the triumvirate that was made after the assassination of Julius.

On her face you could see the fear of uncertainty. She would allow the army of Mohamed to enter her Saint Sofia…

It seems she knew that if we had sent her to the Lake Aherusia she would not have been looked for. She did not have any belongings, name or identity… Another immigrant who entered the country illegally. A woodcock in decay and I the unpunished angry hunter, the son of a wealthy man for the tour inside the palace of Queen Christine, Lucy and Jeremy.

I ordered her to take off her clothes. Pointless for someone to reach the onion’s core.

She lay on a mattress at the centre of the living room.

Jean was looking to get mother’s milk from her nipples that an antelope with overexcitement has when she notices the hyena in the jungle. The way of manipulation was like the Discovery of America. His father stood like Zeus and nourished him inside the head. Another photocell prayer from the lamp’s jinn.

Like him, I was loyal to the spirit’s domination.

Toni and I were licking her lips that were deformed like brain’s cancer cells…

A sculptor must have no home. The truth should have been enacted with our tongue which is a more exact chisel so as the idea of Hedonism could have been shaped.

The introduction of the Babel of languages was done and was asking from our pickaxe the alphabet, the Latin one, the English, the French, the Russian and the Runes or the multiplication table reversed or rational.

Aristocratic patent from parental teaching. Children of the High Society… After all, language has always a use of variety. It will depend on your style whether you will follow the historical-comparing grammar, the traditional, the structural or the genetic-transforming one. The lessons of language are the most important so as not to seem like you have the disease of love’s illiteracy. It is not enough anymore to want somebody. The Cyrillic will change its meaning according to its surrounding and with which word, morpheme, phoneme it will be lined. The proper articulation and utterance can play an important role like the ironic tone or the judicial, the pretentious or the rhetorical one at the wheels of Pelops’ carriage.  After all, people speak an Esperanto that has been disguised at the infinite levels of the mirror: “Interest is above all”.

We were looking for the node of our linguistic bombarding to explode at Aphrodite’s mountains. Light floods, visitors of our Anglosaxonic that united at some point…

The common cause can bring together old enemies… All the more so, friends…

She was not wearing a red cap, disorientated in Amazon with the moon as her crown. Something else was double and had to be covered at the scrub so as she could be accepted at his grandmother’s house before she gets devoured by the bad wolf…

The role of the victim is not a process I enjoy but it has always come before Orion.

She had exposed herself in an extra terrestrial, formless mass of hedonistic aura and that caused a repulsive inclination towards love.

Toni came from the narthex into her building which was like a Basilica and I from an arcaded window like an unknown thief.

“I won, Solomon!” Jean was shouting towards the patio, watching a fountain from the dome on which the inscription: “NIPSONANOMIMATAMIMONANOPSIN” was written. It means “wash away your sins and not only your face”. Four big pillars supported that building that was followed by pairs, with our hands as arcs and our bones as columns. Half-circled alcoves were our donkey bottoms. The unseen, dead spectators were curved aisles and for chant there were the quadrants that carried parts of dome on the secondary columns of the external masonry. Our fingers became dome’s neurons from time to time so as windows of forty ideas inside the temple could shed broad light and its straight marble complexion could be exposed. The pillars full of humidity. The mosaic detached due to illegal antique trading. Parts of glass on the dome’s windows. On the Altar numerous priests were celebrating mass even though they came from all kinds of creed. A comparative sexual religion.

In a previous life we were three Knights Hospitaller and whoever female aura we desired on the way from the Liberated Jerusalem we could forge her with no hesitation.

Luck in this life like a true light and leader in a progressive decay thinking that the one column would roll on the other and collide.

The earthquakes caused irreparable damage to the Building of the Olive and the pillars we owned followed a right turn or a circular one but rarely a boustrophedon…

The little Romanian girl was playing a Middle Age catholic song with Jean’s harmonica in her mouth, though I would prefer the song of the Nibelungen.

Izolde in continents far away from us and I like Tristan found fairytales in a pale, like citrus fruits, incompatible body. Yellow will always amortize next to the street’s pitch.

I was sprinkling the Rodan of her back with myrrh to make her holy and become hallowed myself. Now there would be a double game.

There was a rope abandoned on the ground. I had tied her hands behind her back with it.

She resisted but my friends proved to be my Varangs in my deadly actions.

Her sweat from Tropic of Cancer became an Arctic one. You could see a lamb in her eyes that wanted to breathe before it died begging for the governor’s grace. She knew though that this game was a roulette of death and life.

This degenerate fountain of divine death demanded our heavenly blood and an Iphigenia to be sacrificed.

I lit a cigarette while Toni and Jean continued their replenishment and I stubbed it out on the tattoo of her breathless pelvis and she, like a pandora, began to writhe.

However, Jean gave her cream flavoured ice-cream and she swallowed it at once leaving the cherry intact. Toni left like the sand from the sea wave.

I smothered her like Desdemona with an unfriendly rope. She accepted her torture with no melodrama or pity but patiently. Dignified Austrian Queen who was lost to remind me that she could never be like my Lucy.

I always filmed my worst vices…

A golden medal at right’s trapshooting. The bronze ones are for the others.

Her body still, like her soul. Why having body skin when your soul has quit? With a diamond under her tongue she realized the true meaning of life. I signed my duplicate with a Papist seal and the two of them carried her dead body in a trash bag to Toni’s car and buried her in a place outside Paris with the new moon.

We rich urban children, no matter how devious crimes we commit, we have the right connections so nobody can rule us for laws are made by the gods to manipulate the dead. The Spider of Justice pours her venom on the children of the poor and traps them in her webs.

The tickets are for the others.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 40

 Damien Adaleux to Lucy Sanguin

30-10-1997, Paris

 Dear Lucy,

With this letter I also send you a tape with an one-act play of mutual understanding that was filmed in the Room of mirrors with a fake camera between me and Jeremy.

This is the monkey that jumped from branch to branch to escape my heart’s pulse.

He is an amphibious at the identical stars that I am too. Make sure you send him the image of his eye to the stellar brother of the bear to stress that I am his authentic friend. By becoming your friend you will not buy him any field.

I get mad with the idea that another man apart from me approaches you.

If you do not give me water and earth I will ruin your life.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 41

   Lucy Sanguin to Damien Adaleux

4-11-1997, Paris

 Dear Damien,

In this letter you will find a box of love but not from water and earth.

I am sending you my excrements and my urine to sanctify them. Only these two can embellish you and no superior law.

I am telling you now that I am pregnant with your child so as you will take your responsibilities.

I will not apologise to your lemon forest’s newspapers for you having not taken the precautions found at kiosks.

Headline: “The son of the Prime Minister has blighted an immature schoolgirl with his seed”.

I demand that you tell me what to do.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 42

  Damien Adaleux to Lucy Sanguin

8-11-1997, Paris

 Dear Lucy,

Innocent, carnivorous night flower, it’s not as if we have raped you.

You were enchanted by the striated muscles of my belly (that only meanders offer to the vases), my height and the thickness which made the veteran and incomparable beauty overwhelming with the firm image of the oscillatory light.

“Narcissus!” you were often calling me in your neologisms. I am still waiting for Paris to kidnap me and dash me to Ilion’s walls.

I do not recognize this child. Do the abortion that your womb did not do for you. Especially, since I learnt that recently a Bull took you on his back and travelled you to your pleasure’s field.

I pity you and I do not want to see you ever again. You are a burden of asbestos that I wish to assimilate with the secret of the Indian Dike.

Cut your veins and find a hayof ha-kantes to confess it to, you that are transferred to a psychiatric institution by a therapist… The child will be schizophrenic like you…

Learn that your father was dressed as a Nyriad every night. He may have given me wealth and fortune to pity you but he will not be spared by my glove.

One night of a metaphysical year I offered him food in my limousine. His gurgling body with his muscles like deflated balloons, an unevenness of tears and laughter. The ultimate humiliation of the old age. Compliments and repulsion.

They say that old people inspire respect. I say that this is not something that you earn due to age. You were born with this and you die slowly with this.

He was asking like an anemone for the freshness of our firm bodies in exchange for many fields in the countryside.

Make your decision that the wedding from the Apennines has been excluded. Its derivatives are welcomed in plural.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 45

 Lucy Sanguin to Marie Clermont

17-11-1997, Paris

 Dear Marie,

It is not that easy to manipulate Damien. My previous letters about committing suicide did not touch him at all.

The secret that only Damien knows about is ready to be revealed to you: when I was nine years old my cousin, like Acteon, committed a sacrilege to the temple of Ephesus.

Thankfully, my father is not aware of this as he is not of the baby. I will follow the way of Kronos with Rhea’s belly. Damien will give the money and my mother will provide the method for killing the baby.

What will society say? That I will live in Hades where I am floating?

My father is the Leader of the Swarm. If he finds out what is going on, I will be “imprisoned” for forty days which means that I will not be able to leave my room and only get an invitation for breakfast, lunch and dinner. How could my poor minded, earthly God know that as much underwear as he notes every five years the same amount of lovers is deleted?

Damien was equal to Nijinsky in bed and a golden Olympic champion in any kind of sports: from volleyball to horse riding, from long jump to butterfly, from tennis to weight lifting.

His forehead ornamented by sugar beet and arctic conium. I was flattered by the eyes of the Chinese and by the contractions at the Donation of the Completed Mass. The body that remoulded me was the Oak tree of my Agnosticism made by Limestone and Granite…

Every time he was suppressed, he was threatening me at the Corner that he would reveal to my Judge that I was an Aspasia of luxury.

Damien, the Pittakos of Elikon and of the Crystalline Fountain in New Rome, will become the Re-creator of the Garden of Earthly Pleasures since he will study art and acrylic design in a School of Arts. He insists to separate our tongues in the final hour. Thus, we have a common code of ideas.

Even our mothers were colleagues in Sorbonne. I am his feminine litigant and he is my masculine one. He does whatever I cannot do and I will imitate eclipse’s march. We are the ancient two-headed animal. Thank God for the separation between the active and the passive because now we can enjoy the same amount of hot and cold, healthy and sick, good and evil…

Thus, the chance of meeting several sides of the same creature is born. I believe he will be worthy of the name of his own Father. Till his last breath… For this reason he will remain Untouched and Blessed…

I imagine that his trinitarian number should be on his head and all nations should adore him.

I, the Apotheosis of Beauty and not the Jews’ calf head…

My men are vulgar but as long as they are useful, amusing and kind I can tolerate them. When I cannot see the image at least I remember every man’s odour either because I will deny the chrysanthemum in the vases or because I must have the comparison with the best flowers. Every hierophant’s sperm is different in cooking.

My fortune has not yet been set by any man, maybe because I have annihilated it. It is more than certain with a geometric progression that I will find the man of my hopes so as to quickly wrap him around my flag’s pole.

And when I devour him I will swallow solid sugilite and hydrochloric acid so as after Jonah’s three-day death I can get him out of my stomach and he will know that he would have been happier if we had not embrace each other. I hold their misery’s cane with no medal of racism. I have known the Treasury of the nations as a keeper of sexual experiences. I like filming them when I adopt their children at the unsigned gallows.

I would compare my father to Lot who satisfies all my whims in the middle of the night and as a swan comes inside me so as I can pretend to be Leda and he can hope for Dioscuri and Helen to be born. Every night that a love letter knocks on my window I want Gyge’s ring to hang around my partner’s neck so as I can make him invisible and lost in the shadows of the past. I pierce my fabric dolls with pine needles, imagining I eliminate Kandavlis and I escape the insult.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

 LETTER 50

 Damien Adaleux to Lucy Sanguin

6-1-1998, Paris

 Dear Lucy,

Only because I have a Saracen’s right ear does not mean I am Horatio Nelson or that I have the Turkish flag on my head and my left ear is a pirate one.

I am an amphibious reptile so as to be able to be saved in Armageddon time by eating the forest’s carcasses. I am Wallace, Cagliostro of the legionnaire, since nothing can stop me, neither Hannibal the Carthaginian general.

When you have a relationship with someone in obscurity, till you break up with your fiancés for good, I pore over your ischemic malady. Penelope, having no word over the final choice of your own web!

Once more I will emancipate in Amaltheia itself since I have been holding my hat in my hands for a long time with great strength.

It is a set of laws about nature so as you end like Simeon the Stylite.

Like Cassandra, I will tell you your fate by looking at your left palm. Now though, I will tell you about the past.

Jeremy’s parents found him hanged on his bedroom’s lighted fig tree. I and two others sneaked into his room as accomplices. He had surrendered to Bella Dona’s arms and to invent Prometheus’s box he had been paralyzed with chloroform by us. A rope around the neck and through the chandelier he had been led to the gallows.

Here is Judas the Innovator…

Are you sure that the real cause of Judas’s death was suicide?

Poor him! He thought I would spare him because he always was as sweet as a chocolate cake and wise… He crashed on his calculations and, like Titanic, sank in two stages.

Not even one of his admirals saw me at his tower. The calculation of my moves can be compared to the hands of the clock…

The Fullness of Cronus has come, Lucy. A red carpet from achates had been laid for him by Beel and Zeboul… Do not worry… One day my turn to succeed to this will come… We have some time until the Day of Judgment…

After all, out of sight, out of mind… I hope this revelation has caused your soul a little crack. I know that you will tell my story and my confession with a gag… Be careful lest you lose your court shoe and the Wolf keeps it… Unless he appears as a Charming Prince every time his hair is messy.

I know many secrets about your family and your legendary…

For example, your brother came this morning to give me a picture of yours that had been taken at the Land of the Basques.

Oh! You cannot remember the Land of the Basques? For all France to listen to your news I am thinking of putting a common battery in your radio.

For whoever is unaware of it, I will put it as a fashion model: she is a club that does group and extrovert activities.

Your brother had the kindness of a Habsburg and quickly informed me about your childish fault after he had traced it in the bag of your electronic mind…

Many hated Ephialtes, but none of my friends hated your picture!

A clear archaic complex… You and the boys’ V in positions of awe. Who said that different images cannot be expressed in language? Your body is a dirt road without potholes. You formed the implication of victory on your tongue and three more around you.

Pierre did not demonstrate his sting only for the vowels and the pressure you exerted on him due to High school exams but also because my undying figure from you is more appealing. I confess that I am corrupted by flattery. He recently keystroke number thirteen. I regret not having met you at the same age.

Your little brother lost your Adolescence’s April. Your tufted hair and your make up reminded of a Sophoclean tragedy, the rocky, sad vibration of yours that makes the primula wilt…

I ordered him to fall on all fours like a panther and since he is a koala to obey to his mother’s affection.

I kneaded his bended stick and made it a ruler. Using my mouth and my wavy hands I taught him, like Goya, the sequence without a smooth or rough breathing in the well of his labial letters. I wrapped a Galenus’s glove around my ruler so as to diagnose the child’s epidemic. I was shaking thinking of that Industrial Mayday well and how it gave fleas to the rats from Bengal. But when you have sexual intercourse with your worst fear then you gradually begin to overcome it. The blackboard of his morals was smaller than expected while my finger was making circles with the chalk.

My other hand grabbed his little blackberries that were bustling with life so as for me to end up by his small, floating piece of wood and elongate his life which had been on sales by others. This could be achieved only by a Saman or a god with automatic moves.

I decided to take it in my teeth like a knife, as a special marine at the Black Forrest. I played “Dies Irae” with my flute and I had signed a revocation at the decree of Nantes.

Something for the new generations to imitate and a note for the invention of my personal mythology. Your brother contributed a lot to my posthumous fame but showed little strength while dealing with the forger…

“Deus ex machina”. My drops made hospital flowers to bloom on the little piece of wood and the scar came on the grass of my sin.

He surrendered to his self’s cannibalism and with his soul like a machine the carpet had been cleaned like a gum and like a cat acts every time she senses the original sin.

The love towards children is divine. An idea of the Ancient Greeks; not mine. A Neo-Greek without a flag, loyal to the holy matrimony of Almighty Christ, founding the New Church of lust. Your brother was the first of my followers at my catacomb.

However, every religion demands saints and tortures. Your little brother felt slaps on his tight cheeks and on his tied mouth landed the missile of coagulation. At the strawberries of the crack of Dawn, my ice-cream was drawn on the surface. It would have been more nutritious with all these proteins. Like a leech though, it absorbed all his blood, even though he held his position with great difficulty. I became a tracker at his Aheloos’s banks but I had been there before as a mutant canoeist.

He left during lunch since you had burnt pork with sweet potatoes. I gave him candy for his trip and acceleration that suited him, so as the time will come when the suit I want will be given to him.

At some point we all embroider our childhood on the Tree of Oblivion. My first time on my bed was the end of the Spring and the beginning of the Summer.

Scars on her face, and the solar plexus was calling me to explore her universe, her fake hair dictated by my mother.

Their relationship was like Procne’s with Philomela and in order for me to mature I had to rot like a mulberry and not like a bloom…

The mausoleum of Aelia Galla Placidia had become my publishing house renovated with collagen at my ideal Ravenna. We played man-hunting and I was trying to find the proper octave on the stretched rope so as not to fall and go up and down. The return to my previous image would mean an infinite school Conciergerie.

Failure is a word that I cannot understand. The embryos were so close to Tartarus before they were separated from the umbilical cord.

In these macabre thoughts I should claim:

“Absent”!

Her body was not electrifying at all. It looked like a gel that was deflated by overheating.

Her eighteen years working on my back with her nails as accoutrements, searching for a heel of anaemia that would give her alibi in my nectar body with lack of self-reliance and also the realization of landing to society.

I was thinking about Jeremy in a way of cooking covered up with Leonidas’s carrots, cherries of beholders, a Mediterranean of refrains, lammergeyer’s eggs and cage’s chickens.

When you hear about few cherries, do not wait for anyone to offer them to you. Absorb them when you get the chance since Nature’s Lowland has a wide hand.

With the rule of deduction the lines on her face and her round arivalloi on the breasts. With the rule of addition the reforestation of pine needles on the chin and lips.

As for the spot under her belly, I thought she was not Akasha but Anna Frank’s Dutch hideout for an Eyck van painting. I had bought this from some Barons as an art merchant. My zero endowment.

My contact with a third body without an engagement ring and eternal vows repressed me to a free, troubled and bendable void.

Watercolours with a sense of Lotus winter reminding experiences of previous breaths…

With as much perceptiveness as one can have to correlate…  Some call it intuition and others survival…

I call it return to Ithaca…

I and she did not have a common bundle of sticks. A farrago of questions was created while I was whipping her Saint Louis like a thunder.

Was I a matricide and did not want to admit it? Did I want to give chlorophyll to a breathless uterine spear so as to become a Chief Magistrate of the Templars’ School? Did I underestimate my value by doing evil but without knowing what and which?

Her lightning conductor gave me to non-existence. Force without thought leads to clumsiness. Her body was a forty five years old, messy book and I was her queen’s bookmarker of Midas.

Her husband hunting Forest Nymphs at his office all day and then exhausted from work sleeping with the mute water for “love”. She was neglected like a stowaway, reading Marcel Proust’s “In search of lost time” under the sleepless look of candles, trying to interpret the eerie mood of the company.

To pass her time she would go to the make up artist, to the sauna or to take care of her nails.

After my triumph at Nafpaktos she told me that she aims at strong young men with the help of yachts and limousines while Zephyr is blowing, Spring is waiting and Flora is imprisoned. Hermes with his alchemy stick cleared my mind’s fog. An example for escape. Only Charites should hug me and I with my asclepian paint…

After all these, I was somebody else. Maybe Merlin.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 60

 Lucy Sanguin to Marie Clermont

4-3-1998, Paris

 Dear Marie,

The previous weekend my parents went to the Council of Nicaea ignoring my own Arianism.

It was a Chance from heaven to attack to the son of Mithras. Money always makes a man more satellite in the eyes of a woman as it happens with a cake made of sugar and loquat. How many people actually got married out of interest and not altruistic love? The most hedonistic of all is that your tempest cannot be interpreted if it does not get photographed at its right dimensions for the enlargement at the recipient of eugenics’ hope.

I liked him since we were teenagers studying together at the Christian School of New Lorraine. During breaks, a Neoptolemus with eyes of a bat was approaching the Andromache-victim unsuccessfully. His vulgar eye was looking at my necklace considering it to be a marriage settlement but unbinding indeed. His voice was masculine in the full sense of the word.

A voice like a rough Bari that knows what it asks for and which motorway to receive it from. The men had focused on the First Holy Podium and the spirit of the seraglio had been conveyed. At school he had the unaffected fame of a womanizer. They were all drained like the oil and the egg in the pan. A Petain for the girls, a compromise with the Third Reich’s active militarism.

I was playing hard to get not because I was like this but because this is the right aphrodisiac for a man. You must show your real self to the uneasy ones: the easily passable.

Antoine came through my door on Saturday night wearing a film noir coat and on his eyes he had night’s glass so as I cannot see what is moving on the inside. He covered the kitchen’s table with his own for the omen of a black ritual.

With the retreatism of his helmet the Keres would come after my soul. Now his silhouette was visible.

He sat on a chair giggling, with his legs in a relaxing position which was an ideal study for the students of the Refined Arts, eager to watch an erotic film. I did not ruin his abundance.

In such scenes men become spectators and pretend to be guards from the Beast of the Apocalypse. They hold their breath with difficulty while they remain still and they fight with an invincible enemy. Some have their artillery extended and others disclosed. High school x-rays for somebody to run to the Peeping Tom of the stands.

I watch men’s natural reactions. It seemed his pants would explode like a bomb. I never accepted parks with a moon.

Instead of dealing with the displacement of the earth’s axis I grabbed his hand as a feather and I gave his ear a chrism with my brush so as I could be aligned with his fireworks.

He took off the northern and southern hemisphere of his black coat like it was a corset of the 18th century that cries for freedom and like a cat he lied on my living room’s divan with his socks and kothurni. I lied like Eve only with my slip dress in a dead-like position. Adam stood up and went to the kitchen. He did not give me the impression of this being the end of a dying story but the beginning of a new one. I regained lazily sensitivity’s six.

A tourist with a glass of champagne and a sweet candle with a roseate box. Due to clumsiness they were almost married to the earth.

My mouth became a faucet with a subsidy of reversal. Swallowing without breathing… With his tongue, he tried to make all the oxygen get saved.

Since he had not achieved much, my nipples became honeycombs. He reached the navel of my door while with three earrings he was like a shiny calendar that talked about how Delphi raced with chariots in a tango full of holes, like life. He wanted to uncover Christ’s rock with his teeth. That would be possible only with my expected Resurrection and that Latin rabbit-sleeping soldier…

I bled a bit and as the aspirin sweetens the headache so did his honey. After my blood’s assimilation came that of the flesh.

His head got off at the next bus station. He faltered awkwardly… The Cave of Life and the Deepest Spot of Truth… He did not want to eat my Olympian though… A gynecologist had fried him a while ago…

I had a past similar to the Titans, bound to the core of the Aloades’ Earth and a future not at all fanciful with all the possible assumptions of work.

How would the earth be without water? How would Athens be without the Acropolis? How would the chess move be without the Queen?

I move like a sea-horse through life, forward and backwards, right or left in decisive borders…

Unless you are captured by the enemy or you are thrown at the garbage can… Maybe because you are not an expert anymore…

Your fears that you will not play the game with cleverness should not be barriers. Thank God I was not born a horse or a tower or a soldier. In this game the Queen is the most powerful pawn in chess and I will move my own pawns depending on my changing emotions.

“The triumph of the Agastonos Amphitrite”.

My Poseidon’s beard was the dolphin and I had attached his seismic urchins, which were on my lips, on Tritons so as at the seaweed of the Province of my Life he could echo shells.

Life has laws and I make a praising interlude for them. His tongue had the direction of a brush and he was painting a caricature of Guernica on my body with the dexterity of a Picasso. Because Eros is Archidamian and I am Mata Hari that should die from sensuality…

The divan had become Triton’s back and I, with my hand like a trident, was holding the hair of the hedonistic Elpenor.

He succeeded in boring through my dark heel and through life’s best wines to get the paraffin.

Sometimes tongue is a crutch, especially when artillery has been decimated. Unfortunately, her size at Aphrodite’s or Hermes’ mountain is not enough.

It did not take long for his self’s extension to shout at the Sargasso Sea and I wandered at the secret moon’s circles. The shore welcomed the ebb tide and the high tide. He was looking for a lighthouse and I was trying to protect myself from the salt water since he was spicy like a pizza.

Antoine, though, did not delay and arrived to the closest coast of my Amorgos. I was walking with a tight shoe till it would be exposed by causing blood and calluses, since hiking lasted long, and till I take it off and be relieved. My only consolation until the end of my military service was the fact I had found and tickled my Doris who was holding the torch. But Antoine was a liar and a battering ram. I felt my backside and its Kilimanjaro getting hurt by many meteorites because I had been a naughty student. He slid the snakes I had on my head like lemons through a bridle and every time I looked at him from the chariot, a dog’s bone.

The only way for it not to thaw is if he had decapitated me like Mary Stewart so as he could engrave my name on the list-shield too. He was choosing his reactive demise.

I was looking at him like a voracious wolf looks at a lost sheep at the pastures. The forest of Boulogne on his chest reminded me which verb to make out of an acrostic in our sentence.

His sweat like rain on my back and he was imitating my position scared on his two feet like a horse that whinnies and turns into a domestic dog, even though he was biting my back like a maniac.

His swear words were the proper medicine for rabies. I felt like Poverty’s whore. Just the sign would change and the genitive possessive: poverty’s; not luxury’s.

The owner was changing and not what I will be until the Day of Judgment… God always comes second. Mine was taking the golden achievement with X-rays.

Stings on my nipples for me to give up without a fight, while he was opening my camellia’s bud with his litany’s bread, since I needed oats. An unorthodox way of fulfilling while my stomach was aching. With this way of deletion I preserve my beauty’s course.

He represented the man’s archetype that I only sense in Damien’s refinement and marquisian origin.

Like all the others, I felt like a weak receptor in that bath tub. In the end, it was snowing pearls on my body without me giving him my eggs on his branches.

He was smoking a cigarette until Morpheus would steal him from Charon’s hug and till dawn he becomes Margot Fonteyn.

Sunday morning went by so lightly like the fall of the leaves and the rustle at the plain.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 70

 Lucy Sanguin to Marie Clermont

6-6-1998, Paris

 Dear Marie,

You were seen with Damien at your hair’s weave and at the dialogue of your lips at the hanging gardens of Versailles… May Grace be with you…

When I made an oral protest he told me on the phone that I should bloom the Mexican Gulf.

I did that at once during camping where I was a leader but it was boggy.

With two buttered German molossians… The one was an instructor from Berlin and the other from Bonn. Capitalism and communism would become one on my body in the Hansa of pleasures. Who claimed that manifests do not communicate in communicating vessels?

We were a triad of spoken anecdotes at the camp’s tent.

I was telling them that Damien has his Byzantine decree like the Myrmidons and he seals awfully the manuscript from the lamb.

They both had arms of wrestlers and gigantic breasts like Chinese sumo.

I wanted to meet transpiration’s eastern rhythm during my controversy with the West.

Their noses were like pumpkins with potatoes. I spoke the Teutonic language fluently and knew all its shades.

On a table there were handcuffs, dildos and whips for a Ulysses in our happy melody.

They immediately decorated me with blinders so as I could not see and thus not be able to be subjective. The senses of the kangaroos would lead me to my most desirable goal.

An antenna that belonged to Taygetus landed on my nose and then on my lips because she wanted to find shelter in my tongue and at Parnes, like all those people who never get ill and the hikers.

Friedrich was inventing the metaphysical word while Adolf was sloshing with his hand on my quayside.

I felt that my underwear would leave the position of minister and Member of Parliament which it had as a hereditary right. It seems Adolph had written his name on a shell and my sewer had welcomed Friedrich’s cataclysm so as to get rid of rodents and cockroaches.

I was the space between Ursa Minor and Ursa Major.

I was waiting for two transatlantic liners to anchor at my life’s pier: Lusitania and Britannic inside me to steal the Holy Grail with votives or Blue Hope.

Perhaps, deep inside, I was looking for a Magellan to discover the chest with the treasure and violate it with a crowbar so a strange fume could come out of it.

Friedrich told me “I love you” and my mouth’s walls broke into two. The Earth stole my lower part and Heaven the superior “I”. The cane and their ether and uncovered void were the medium between humans and Gods. Ears of wheat accommodated my burning temple. I thought “Be aware of Danaoi and their gifts” when I breathed only from my nose and my ears.

Adolph dropped anchor on the breakwater though the ship was going back and forth giving me the impression it would sink. Not a minute went by and Friedrich decided to collide with Adolph at the port. He was never a coward. They were sailing together, intransitive indeed. The waves reached the port as a result of the tectonic slabs’ rupture which became one with their moisturizer nomadic caravan.

Friedrich was leading the cleaners’ crew to my drain. The man that put his credit card in me must have been a God. Maybe Anubis or Hor… He never introduced himself to me… Rebellious larvae were coming out of the breasts. I was committing something legally explicit with a negative sign.

I was prophet Tiresias and I was looking at pleasure’s light at the end of the corridor, molecular at first and then as a magnifying glass.

In the end, the tanks broke and the baby creams of the galleys were like a huge fire on the sea.

Maybe because water is the beginning of everything. Maybe because babies are nourished from their mother’s placenta. Maybe because everything inside us is flowing. Maybe because whether it will be Michigan sober or tempest, it depends on the way of the Soul’s Bible recitation.

I am now a free woman who will take pastoral and amusing walks.

I know ten languages. Who said that foreign languages do not benefit anyone? I have many overdrafts translated into appreciations. It is said that you can deservingly use only two languages: your mother tongue and the step one. Because you always have on the candle two parents or selves. Some say that you cannot serve two masters simultaneously but you should operate one at a time. I believe you can manage all the languages of the world with the body as criterion.

Adolph was static like the Celtic swamps. Friedrich immediately decided to leave.

I felt a rod whipping Ares’ mountain and another whipping that of Aphrodite. The colonization of the planets was practical to me. I wanted them to bleed like the Judaic cult’s God who was fighting with the Calicotome villosa.

I wanted them to flow like a Ganges of blood at my sewer and wash away baby creams and all the crap they carry in life.

I preferred death to be my escort. The more somebody prolongs life, the more he appreciates it and he realises that Hades will come and catch him at the river Styx.

A sentence of truth with an annihilating status.

In everyone’s Soul, when your wish dies another is born so she can fly too and give her baton to another one. Even Hebe will someday evaporate when she will hold Helicon’s flame at the Fates.

My two ignorant friends were like the men in the Capella Sistina’s acrostic, like I am.

It was not a Senet of revenge between Alsace and Lorraine. It was the fallacy of the nostalgia’s bliss.

They dropped anchor at my personal Odessa because the sun of the Ionian Sea was misleading them.

Which is the border though between the earth and the sea? Wherever the Earth stops, Melicertes will ride a dolphin. Without the earth there would be no Ino and without void there would be no earth. Our existence, our life and our memory are left to the void that cannot be manipulated.

Life adds many questions and few answers.

Adolph stepped off the untamed mare and was hitting me, like a Trainer, with chains on my archaic pile so as I would obey.

I had to be punished because I enjoyed Eden’s illegal and boundless fruit.

I was offering them my other side too while they were kicking me on the belly and ribs. A mourning of two untamed men from the syndrome of Stockholm, with no shell and sepulchral, gave me a second orgasm of dissension lest I forget my genitals while clamping.

The alehouse’s conspiracy forced me to be attentive. The foam had many kinds of feel in my mouth.

This letter ensures your lawful rights and proves a man’s renal failure who has completely failed at his mission.

I hope you make this known to Damien.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

   LETTER 75

  Damien Adaleux to Antoine Heloire

10-6-1998, Paris

 Dear Antoine,

I swear to you that I will take revenge from this scum of a woman. I always keep my promises whether they concern a curse or an epode.

I will upload her nude appearances on the Internet with myself having a supporting role.

I am not holding in my hand only a big or small pen but all her past.

Her letter is an inscriptive museum. Interest and promise are two notions that are independent for society but for me they are one.

I suspect that since she is unaware I can place a collar on her. You can see if a Moor is hematite from the molars.

I and ten more people experienced a feast yesterday and we were casting all our powers from our sling aiming at the basket of our tyro Kristof- the well known classmate and brother of ours at school- who never took part to the meetings of our Round Table though he had the right to do so.

It was decided for him to enter our Paul Mellon and we arranged his sojourn at my apartment in St Elysee. For breakfast, we ripped his greatcoat like Maenads. Then I gave him Damocles’ lesson, to carve the line of life on my left palm so as not to be mortal anymore…

Moreover, the capital letters of our names appeared the infinitive letters.

Each and every one of us was sipping his cocktail like a peltast. A compulsory term in the Brotherhood’s manual…

A Crassus that had to be surrendered to Hague…

Since that happened, we demanded to open his mouth and fall on his knees like the Cetus from hell that punishes the disbelievers…

We were looking for a main meal, cemetery of garbage, to place our septisemic ambrosia. Especially a recycling storage for our rubbish.

A few creams of Callisto found their target on his body and others missed it completely. Whichever help was descending from the sky he was simulating it with silence making every time a curse or a wish. He liked that muddy rain.

At some point he went after the reclamation of the substance. We could not be negative towards that. Our trousers had big holes and out came the trunks of our elephants.

This is said to be the Symbol of Luck. After omega comes life… Another living dead amongst the billions on earth.

We were shaking the water beams of the sun and he herded at the sugar clouds.

Poor him! Some firing was blank and others landed on an inaccurate port.

His eyes fiery like the sun, his hair crystallized from garlands and his chest stigmatized from acme’s cotton…

Yesterday’s competition was a beauty’s treatment and a parade of lieutenants on a greasy face…

Everyone’s yellow rain was distorting his mouth: his river Yangtze. I have always been a fan of the Chinese culture. My body’s outfall imitates him…

Pierre gave an omen he would mate his red mud with the yellow rain. He has some kind of Libyan anemia and not a renal failure like me. Others transformed his body from pearl to gold.

He was thirsty for knowledge and we for Herbart’s method of drastic notions. I am not Comenius in the classic sense. I will treat everyone as if they are my sperms and I will lead them to unexplored ways of the mind.

We did our doctorate on him with punches and kicks as if he was an empty sack. For dinner we opened Aeolus’ sack and a pole got stuck in his round eyes at the royal feast. He almost went blind and dill’s blood going back and forth. We began an art exhibition reminding of a feast to avoid having light’s recomposition.

If he really wanted to become a member of my team he should experience those meaningless tests and as a last temptation to trample over his swan and offer him to us alive with sweet potatoes.

I am neither a friend of life nor a friend of animals, I admit it.

All people have three legs but stand on two because they do not want to admit it. Everything is bound by reins. If of course somebody does his duties right as a charioteer…

Thus he will carry the right light of Erythrea to the form.

In any other case there is danger of animals becoming a theme for the encaustic. These have a secret, unique number for everything that belongs to you to be a guarantee.

I anticipate, like you, count of the living.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 80

  Damien Adaleux to Jean Larousse

22-6-1998, Paris

 Dear Jean,

Yesterday we had a meeting of gods, deities and goddesses at the association… Can you imagine having sun for twenty four hours? When would the bats set or rise?

We were forty men inside a crock and I was the leader. Female and male genders. Others were of unknown intention.

When Dimitra rested her eyes we were able to breathe at my villa in Orleans.

You never begin blind man’s buff before it starts with the social prejudices, because there is no chance you could win.

I was shaking the urn to choose each and every body and for love one of the four vases.

“Random love’s democracy…” the procedure was named by me.

An Act of Unity regardless gender, name or age.

The stereotypes of men and women had become Roman slaves of the Winged Hermaphrodite.

A carnival of nudists and improbable combinations. Strangers amongst strangers… Who said that Love is not Blind? Strange and Globetrotter I would dare say. Few expressed the Antiochia of the classical era to prefer mates.

And I was the king of the Sun on Nocret’s table board. I was overseeing Sudoku and whether the rules were followed.

Culture was a sword on the bull’s back. The person had lost its core and everyone their identities.

We took off our dark clothes and we remained with the clean ones.

Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony was heard like rock music.

Candles of cider and lead were flaming from the summer solstice.

After all, summer was always offered for the conflict of the Amazons.

That was my photorealistic father’s party that became constitutional. It preserved though its autonomy at the crypt of the Constitutions.

He demanded the continuation of its tradition and woe betide anyone that gave his signature at the contract and with his entry defected or stepped over my Cylonian Affair.

I was the observer of my Holy Mountain and all those Capuchins were running for their saved souls to the monasteries of empty tombs. They were untrodden Karpathia for the ones that were not introduced and woe betide anyone who read their typed prayers on the bodies. Divisions devoted to climaxes and hierarchies. It was the day of dedication to the Worship of the Ultimate Being. I was not a fan of Robespierre but of the spirit that was opposed to my interests and my values.

Tenors and sopranos performed their feelings at the five floors of Orleans.

My cottage seemed like it had been bombarded by a plane. Shoes under the sofas and veils on branches, fried clocks that had obstinacy with memory, underwear on lamps-because maybe the gleam is gold or whatever does not shine is the tower of London- trousers without men, like they belonged to ghosts that abandoned present life, socks on fireplaces without tabards or pearls that some shipwreck’s sea washes ashore-the art thief’s craving for pleasure- or strings of bilinguals and landowners.

All these things were objects of the poor passengers and I was the inventor of recapture and a lonely stowaway. Dead bodies scattered all over. They were scarcely separated from the earth. They did not know either the cause or their mortality…

I was in a neutral mood to give them a literary annotation.

The dead always want to keep you close to them when they realize that as long as you live they will not worship the earth. Their relic on the ground. They falsely believed that that move would give them breath. Even God’s hand cannot make an excess. To stop being dead, death must be shot at your bed. Never let him scare you but fight for his elimination until next life comes. After all, earth is drift sand and my furniture and partners are the silent witnesses of a crime.

You were sneaking on couples at the sacrifices with water, the dining room, the balcony, the chandelier, the television, the bathroom, the chairs or the sofas…

There were not any adjectives, names or nouns… Gaza was medium and neutral voice like the quails in the cage, for the other two forebode a love zoster without condom.

My home became a house of alimentary scandal and orgasm.

The wings of the curtains were ripped at the battle of Poitiers, beds and chairs with crippled legs, the handrails at the balconies reminded of Bastille’s Capture…

My house remained crippled since everyone was devouring (after a forty days diet) whatever he found and his foundations were creaking. Who said that the telchines come from the pylons of the earth only for certain days of responsibility?

My villa became the sarcophagus of Fulvius. But I was not half dead by the sword of Jerusalem because my half pillars remained untouched at the infant’s moment.

Everywhere you could see the exposure of life and an ice like banana peel able to make you lose control. Everyone was drunk in a Tae Kwon Do of souls and in love’s ecstasy in the form of pills.

The first couple of numbers that would expire at night would choose thirty eight local pelts regardless of specifications until it dawns with me as a priest and my bed the Holy Table.

Marie and George were the extensions of the Darkness and everyone else their ropes.

There would be no slaughter by the daughters of Danaos this time. They would sacrifice themselves on love’s altar like Constantine Palaeologus; not necessarily by a man’s hand.

The right of the first magical night… For whoever is first amongst equals always reigns over the stars of Perseus.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 85

Lucy Sanguin to Janet Valloire

7-7-1998, Paris

 Dear Janet,

While I was a bride on my bed the day before yesterday, Marie like a forerunner of relief read to me parts of the “Megas Anatolikos”.

I had to enter her virtues to regain Damien and imitate them.

I tried to be created from life’s marsupium. Unfortunatelly I vomited the thirty capsules of antibiotics and I did not have to get hospitalized.

If I died, I would take Damien to be my partner in grave.

If I committed suicide, he would leave life for us to move to the implication.

My soul is sick like a whale and the companies of my men who share my bed are therapeutical.

Based on the laws of possibilities, it is impossible not to find my clay effigy at Theoclymenus. For now though, I will compromise with the alternative.

At first, Marie’s perception was binding at the book’s pages while an oil lamp from the rider of Artemisium had been ignited… She was waiting for one more from the true nostalgia for the chariot to begin its attack to the Colosseum.

Marie made the book able not to touch the table. The intermixture of her visions was a marching song of kids as pure as the vulgar sonnet of the adulterers. It did not take long for her to remove the blouse and skirt from March’s body.

She began to rub the flame of her left breast. She brought it like a half tone to her mouth… The void’s ablactation…

Her panties were an uncoordinated lover to facilitate the monotonous interaction. She was a bald actress at life’s Pythagorean due to the blade of over performing.

From her uniformity the outline was clearer than the anatomical details. The disembodied charting at the bodies’ twilight was never a registered letter and guest of her imperfections.

I never wanted to walk with vinegar at survival’s glass with the illusions.

Since the truth follows us in a retrogressive way from the object of desire we become forgers of our self’s signature.

Marie left the chair on the gravity’s succession and sat on my shroud to spread her sinful myrrh on it. It was the time of transition from the neo-Hellenic mythology to the poetic of Sappho’s lyricism.

She softly strokes my leg at the protective sheet. But a warrior never forgets that Penthesilea was a queen.

That sheet was the omen that I should have died.

But that touch of hers on the leg and with the Holy Shroud as interstice made it clear that I would have a new chance in life like Lazarus.

She drew my mounds forcefully. She did not want to x-ray their furniture nor identify my fire with the method of anthrax.

I was a nymph of the Winner like her.

Cyprus was always the house of Gods and I imagined being love’s guide there. Life has taught me not to be strict but determined. I am not used to wearing clothes when I sleep for postponements and excuses of unwanted trips: for Orthros not to come and take me out of the fridge and dance with me at Kerameikos, imbued with rebels’ blood, unless I myself do not call for him to jest. If she saw she wanted to bite me, I would wear my archaic dress.

Marie though doubted my Bourbonic pre-eminence. She wanted to show me that it is worth living on the mast. She got involved with my head’s bindweed, to fruit their maturity.

Dualism is a board of paganism. She was stroking the trees with my eyebrows branches, to discern and find the correct course with exclamation marks and agility.

At my third eye her pump continued with offering of covert kisses. Searching of intentions, emotions and side lines. She realized I was affable…

She departed for my cheeks like a dog when he missed his master after a long trip.

I took out my tongue to reach hers.

The void is a universe where you can meet anything ill favoured or amusing and live there if you grab it.

She had a plum caramel in her mouth and when our tongues united she split it into two pieces instead of giving it all to me.

Half shame for her and half for me. Spring in her mouth and winter at her speech.

Who said that people do not represent their era? Everyone leads his own so as not to abstain from life. Seasons are inside of us like the time’s rules.

The first are old lines on our opened palm while the second are not appointed by us; they can be altered though.

She carved brushworks on my neck like a jaguar. The exquisiteness and the refined perfume are the greatest virtues of women since one understands better what the other asks. Our society accepts them easier than Telemachus and Achilles on the same bed.

Whoever is closer to become feminine is certain to be criticized. We are going towards the era of Men even if this will soon change.

Woman is no longer considered an illness since she will transform into something she is not like man also will.

The model of men is a widely accepted transmitter.

Men are flattered by Lesvos and its balance.

Women who pretend to be men do not affect the reproductive procedure. They forgive everything we do for we give birth.

My affair with Damien was my homosexual preface. It taught me to like both Druids and Gauls.

After all this, I realized the election of his governance by her.

He was satisfying himself with a Pinochet Hippolyte that did not take “no” of the thirty second but she did not offer the big “yes” either. I will explain what I mean. When she asked me to perform laparoscopy on me with her head to see whether I will give birth to another baby by Damien she ripped the sheet in Palestine’s strips in a rebel state. With a violence reminding of Demetrius the Besieger she tied my hands and legs on the deathbed of Procrustes.

She took two models of men out of her bag.

She tried them like the assistants did at Kyrus’s dinners so as the King would not get poisoned. They were wet and they should be hung at my balcony for the sun or air to dry them. She began with the delivery to end to the sewer… A pleasure without breath and its intonation…

I was like a DaVinci’s drawing. I had many arms like goddess Kali. I could have escaped but I did not do it out of curiosity.

Unfortunately they did not dry because sky’s cottons had covered him with their thirteen guilts to mourn for what I have not yet done. But it is never too late.

An artificial blast impulse of our lithospheric plates took place at a friction with no ending and beginning.

Artificial because the causes were on an excursion. They deforested mountain Ararat that was next to Sinai. Those were the New Commandments until the land of Canaan emerges.

Only through Kalahari and lack of water you can find an oasis in the empire of Alexander the Great.

Wherever there is triumph there is also the decay in which it has been condemned.

Later, the rain was falling weak. My eyes due to the changes had been transformed into weather’s windows. It suddenly stopped and then started again without hesitation. Then the heavy rain began while lightings and thunders came out of our mouths.

Thankfully my room’s doors were entrenched. My mother landed on the balcony not being supported, like the Sun, with wings of marabou to convey the happy message to this storm of Evangelism.

Thank God she must have thought it to be a girl’s toy.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 90

  Lucy Sanguin to Damien Adaleux

10-10-1998, Paris

 Dear Damien,

I bet you cannot break the strap of nun “Glykeria” when you wait for me and you look at her outside my school’s rails…

My sky has clouds, white horses and black ones.

George’s sister is hard to be subjugated… Do you risk losing your friendship with him? You, a Don Juan and not being able to make a Turkish cat like her fall for you in the sea of Venice? Unique case…

Forget about my classmate so as I can forgive you and stop being angry.

Every Lord’s Day has a crucifix around its neck for the Sunday school.

You may go to prison for seduction of an adolescent girl.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 91

 Damien Adaleux to Lucy Sanguin

13-10-1998, Paris

 Dear Lucy,

Listen to my echo little girl. When I move my sardonyx all women come quickly to my trousers and do not leave my resin.

I happily accept your invitation. I will send you a video tape of what will happen. But if I succeed, you will do whatever I tell you to.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 92

Lucy Sanguin to Damien Adaleux

15-10-1998, Paris

 Dear Damien,

I accept it with honour.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 100

Damien Adaleux to Jean Larousse

17-11-1998, Paris

 Dear Jean,

As it is known, my former fresh carpet said that I cannot break the “Madonna with the goldfinch”. I’d better guffaw!!!

The deck’s Solomon card is not the one you have thrown on the table by accident, but expect the exact same to fall in your hand so as yourself will win again the game that it has lost.

Everything is a matter of self-suggestion. “Ask and Cybele will come to you!”

It is a Soviet Union that attacks so as not to defend and by now it knows how to handle crises.

I and Pierre bought a variation of our kind sitting on the comfortable seats of our limousine while we were wandering at the city streets.

He was our age but also thinner. French not from porcelain. His breasts were from silicone and on his tight back there was a covered, wheaten, curly wig. He was wearing a leopard skirt and a cherry t-shirt.

His lips did not exist, like Christ. His eyes were students of the darkness. All made up and beautified stepping on stilettos. Before Northerly wind performs at our Epidaurus, like the pale moon…

I liked the Carnival that blessed that little boy.

I wanted to taste the son of Theseus by pretending to be Phaedra. Aphrodite’s enemies are my partners. I paid him with vegetables candles.

It did not take long for him to peel like us. I had ordered the driver to make us Hungarian until the Odyssey of our fieriness takes us to the palace. Which is exactly what happened.

Like octopuses his breasts of an acid without gender were striking my back. A capsule-corset was clamping the bedridden patient more and more.

The ultimate thing was that out of an empty shirt I was giving birth to Erinyes and not life.

Forgetting my being, I was a subject-object in a defective sentence. Though in this specific case, the patient was acting the illness and he was infecting the nurse. Another controversial relationship like life.

Only a chain embellished Pierre’s left foot and an earring on his right ear was watching what was happening like the student watches his own instructor at the surgery bed.

It would be untrue if I claimed that I do not want a silver corset to confirm the champion and feel heavier than ever. Unfortunately, a palaestra has a set capacity.

It had been asked from that man hybrid to insert a ring in his clarinet for the maximum possible stay.

No moisturizing day cream on my body. I was always against any kind of product that alters our nature. Another fan of Rousseau. It is in our nature to hurt. Everything’s birth has no subjectivisms or classifications.

Pierre was printing our one-act play in the form of messages of his mobile voice.

Sagas that have not been heard before since the Third Race had been outmarched. Now we belonged to the Fourth that brings dei ex machina.

My mind was a tyre of that machine. Noone is going to get fired by the Employer if he is useful to the consumption and the production.

We must always be perfect in art, otherwise it is better not to get involved with it at all. That androgynous reminded me that I should see the future via Chiron and not be retrogressive. I have to take that step that others are afraid to take.

Pierre decided to give the tennis rackets and the balls to our employee with no name.

I instantly felt spatters of singing birds on my back.

I had to be reborn like the Baptist at river Jordan with Pierre’s lubricant, since Orontes was not by my side.

The non-gender man gave birth to his baby in my Volga and the diplomas ran out like a nightingale. I may have felt nauseous but I was a castaway-professional. After all I was taught to seal my ears with sealing-wax.

It was the frenzy of the moment but I would like to repeat it in the future with you as a protagonist.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 110    

Damien Adaleux to Lucy Sanguin

25-11-1998, Paris

 Dear Lucy,

I am sending you the crime’s evidence. “Do not touch me, faithless Thomas”. You are now obliged to do whatever you are told by love’s slave market.

As it is known, your sympathetic had put an ad for a private school of the arts.

Knowing that I am an excellent Marinetti, I willingly but with disgust as well, took on the hard work of the teacher. I write beautifully and I lick the higher lands even better. I am an arrogant Flaubert.

I was accommodated at my atelier (extension of my room). George, since he was her cognate, contributed to the final choice.

Isn’t that what friends are for, after all? Friends must recognize you thrice when you are going through rough times in your life.

I was literally willing to offer my services without getting paid.

On a symbolic level, I would be an opportunist to her naivety.

I wanted to teach her painting without gouache, specks and dots.

I gave her an orange juice to drink while she was sitting on my sofa. I had put barbiturates in it so she would not resist.

You never rape somebody if you do not have the right precautions.

It is a main rule not to blackmail anyone if you have not raped him first.

Burglars always wear gloves so as not to get caught. I turn everything into stalactites in my life’s puppet show so as to make others dolls in photographs. When I shake them, my moving drawings are postulant…

Antoine my rebellious officer was waiting to be given a sign by his Lord the Guardian so as to attack our royal domestic.

We took her to my room while she was unconscious.

So innocent and sugary!

We put her on the bed as any Don Quixote would have done for his lady if from his own typhoon she was traversed.

Her skinny body reminded me of the odalisque in one colour by Ingres.

I was always an admirer of Neo-Classicism. I wanted to rip this painting to pieces because it had an emotional and historical value.

A smell of security, well being and intolerance was hiding under her fat at the slum. Ideas that provoke me to doubt them to whoever claims that has them stored in his hard disc.

When I was Tom Sawyer I was always breaking the vases mum brought home from her trip to Sichuan.

Ming Dynasty was being diluted in my hand not because I loathe the Chin culture but to see my mother go insane. An untranslatable civilization to my own life theory. I did not like my mother’s incontrollable arrogance. I wanted her to sacrifice her eyes so as she could doubt what I feel or do.

I was so greasy like a snail without a shell and I loved it.

“Faunus of Pompeii.”

I wanted to seduce her flabby thighs at Parnassus. Women, apart from tongue and hand, they need teeth from topaz because the danger of a filling always lurks…

Female anatomy in its totality always looks like a jungle in safari where you explore its various genders and species every time…

I never read enough zoology and that is why I was throwing the black and white cows from Keadas with their panties.

I was an expert at the human anatomy and I had a scholarship too…

My hand moved to find and break her crab which was above her belly. After all, when the glass on the bedside table faints, the evil is in the love breaker. It is idiomatic to hide behind somebody else’s back.

There is no chance a daddy can save his seemingly innocent pullet from me. If I agree with something I take it to the end.

I was coming inside her monastery violating her steel door with a burning solid liquid. The nuns were unarmed. You could see it in their face’s fractures.

I was Mohammed the Conqueror at the marionette palace of Magnaura.

I was wondering while staring at the mirror whether I wanted to make love to my Adonis. Where would I see again this airy and marvelous body? Would my profile be simulated at the magazine’s cover which Antoine was preparing for the internet?

It is unreasonable to throw chocolate to the defloration. My uninitiated to vows body would get salty.

Later on, Antoine confirmed that he had suffered the passive orgasms of Sleep from Deimos.

I hope he dreams of my kiss when he goes to sleep. When he accepted the tool of the circumstances of commitment-as a kind of disapproval- tomatoes and holy water, I realized that the end had come for my starry mission and thus I left running with my excubitores.

I ran away being scared of the divine wrath that was over my head due to the asylum’s desecration.

When she returned to the other world, she understood that I was the Saviour of her Metamorphosis.

The performance of your duties will be postponed for the time being and I am arranging it for the distant future when I think it is compulsory.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 130

Lucy Sanguin to Sophie Caron

30-5-1999, Paris

 Dear Sophie,

You can make creative acquaintances at camps. A man from Catalonia was ogling me when I was sitting around the camp fire along with the logs last night.

I pretended to faint to give him a paper-garbage telling him to meet me at the camp’s toilets at 2 o’clock at night.

The danger of me being caught red-handed was desperately naught. His name was Juan and he was getting paid to act, like a bee worker, in erotic films. I like hanging out with people who do not come from the same social class as me. I forget the limitations I have and that is fascinating.

Damien thinks I am Alcibiades. Like a Hindu he is surrounded only with smiles from our rank. I believe I must not dump the Untouched on the street.

Juan knew how to win my heart with his great jokes. He was a painkiller and a boredom repellent. I would lie if I said that I did not eagerly wait my chthonic tracker.

He opened the toilet’s door at dark which till then was slightly lightened by the moon’s light and the pillars. He was accompanied only by a couple: Joan from America and Scott from Great Britain.

He explained to me that in the past they were lovers. My second nature would have to deal then with three strangers who knew the art of war. I have to declare that I was thrilled!

With our debauchery’s quartet the toilet would become our concentrated Serbia. We would join forces in favour of the Kosovars and we would ruthlessly bombard the Serbian-Slavs racists.

We never believed in love’s racialism. Scott was a blond Apollo Sauroktonos lying on the wet floor not only to cool himself but also to get a battle position and arrest the unapproachable pisces by taking out his hawser.

I was throwing my stars on him from the sky… Clusters of meteorites…

We had Earthquake sealed inside our Etna. Joan also bowed over Scott’s head. She was sacrificing an animal to propitiate her little God.

Juan was a tiny gerund lover. His eyebrows were a proper stimulant for a woman. He had pierced his belly-button with a silver ring. It is said that werewolves die by a silver crucifix. Apparently he had been tied by his machine. A flat belly like the table’s surface, skin-tied with it as its only identity.

I was swaying on Scott like the baker mills the dough. I wanted to feel the baking tin in all its dimensions and not miss any corner that has not been filled with this dough.

I was a shipwreck that wanted to suck everything in the middle of the Antarctic Ocean.

The repetition in darkness’s space was Juan’s black hair. He looked like he had been decapitated like Danton.

His spaceship landed on my Cape Canaveral like a splitting on my two over stuffed fried eggs. A pigeon wounded and bleeding that attempted to fly because it believed it was possible though reality belied it. It’s this belief that we can become what we were before we were transformed into something else by a buoy. It is the present’s denial of the previous moment. I waited for him to pour the butter into the frying pan and eat the best omelet looking at me from the kitchen’s hot plate.

The French and the Spanish were conspiring in a long time to destroy the terrorist organization. We like dominant countries and not self-contained areas.

The collaboration with the Englishman was something that could not be blamed. I was Clemenceau and he was Lloyd George. Our Archidamian was universal like our love was figurative.

I pretended to be the elevator at the Eiffel Tower that goes up and down, Scott was Thames that waited like Noah to soak me, Juan the Escorial whose lust I saw rising from the west and Joan the Statue of Liberty that gives the fire of death to the remaining nations holding the window like a torch that brings balance.

Joan’s lips had gone so red that you thought a Chimera would rebound without Bellerophon. You could see the Aztecs’ unhewn wood on her look. To be precise, a sea without any water. She had the hair of citrus but anyone could doubt its originality.

While Scott was giving me floods of pleasure, I was staring at Juan’s Irresistible Armada.

I was the porphyrite-cloth to my Matador. I liked his passion and his Mediterranean imposition. He was staring at me as if I were Napoleon’s domain in a sphere of influence.

He suggested I should pour the butter out of the frying pan and onto the kitchen’s hot plates to turn them off since they were all turned on. But lots of butter was thrown into my casserole. Thus the spaghetti I was making had a nutritious taste for my saprophytes.

I always wanted to learn Swahili in Africa, eat human legs inside the Alps, one of the few alive at Zulu dance…

I felt an acerbate taste in my belly since I was the tomato in the liquidizer. But in the tomato juice some liquid flour profiterole was added like the soothing breeze. A penetration with no pleasure…

Our heavy breaths were implying our need to wear masks of euphoric oxygen.

When that was done, we collected our few clothes because the full moon was looking at us with a fig’s leaf.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 140

 Damien Adaleux to Jean Larousse

30-6-1999, Paris

 Dear Jean,

When the sunset came to an end, Robert and I went on an excursion to the degraded northeast suburbs with our limousine.

The order was to narrate on the camera what was happening at the third apartment.

There, thousands of blacks, unemployed or Muslims from Africa would suffer for a few francs.

My victims were two sixteen year old blacks and an adult Muslim from Algeria.

Many of them are drug dealers. The feeling of doing something illegal was always a catheter to me. There should be a punishment for capitalism and colonialism to an Aristocrat from the higher bourgeoisie… For the mistakes of the past and for the evils that bedevil their present… With a gesture of mine they came into my extra erotic clinic.

They were so Dionysian that if I did not wear anything they might kidnap me to sell my organs. They do not know that Dionysus Zagreus never dies and tortures the disrespectful.

Robert and two loyal guards of mine from Hades would kill this actor if something went wrong.

I had timed and put boundaries to my vice’s game.

I was a fan of tenebrism and I wanted my head to look like that of Holofernes when Judith cut it off for the Liberator of her people.

Paintings for me are the occasions to act roles that in normal circumstances I would not act. The real of the past is depicted with the present’s concepts. Another fake theme and I was its multiple.

I knew the fake reality. In no way I reassured myself with false expectations. I wanted, even in this way, for my dark enemy to undertake my caricature…

The threat of monkeys for making an Aryan French nation was now a watershed from the past to the present. But not in its real dimensions.

An arrogation of rights that those androids will never have…

These ideal slaves were privileged for their huge assets and they were made to bring nude photographs of themselves.

The ideal servants for us arrogant masters…

My gold watch which they asked for was given to them. I had many of them. I gave them my emerald ring without a grumble.

But the third time I refused to give my right ear’s diamond earring because it was my self portrait’s wand.

The Algerian pushed me down. I slightly hit my head. Thankfully I was Aphrodite on her hunkers without a rupture.

The one Black man carried away my hands and the other tied them with a rope…

They were calling me vulgar names and kicking me or punching me. On the other hand, the Algerian took off my earring and blood dribbled on my face.

Profoundly satisfied from their loot, even though they never conquered Malta, they took off my pants to obviously steal it too.

“What a golden boy!” exclaimed the Algerian.

Before I come around from the continuous beatings, I saw them nude.

The Algerian had been circumcised as the Koran orders. Obviously one of his two parents was white French since he had a dark colour.

The hoses of the Blacks were diversionary and unhealthy like the Bavarian sausages I loved every time I went to Germany.

My one black man, like someone who loves his neighbour, was touching my thighs trying to find the average…

“This well needs oil!” said the one and then the other black man took a bottle out of the jacket.

The first black was counting my mouth with his finger that was sergeants of my unit from willow’s hands in case of resort due to NATO bombarding.

Sometimes it was casual harvest and open for the errand of equities of the free to loose market… Other times, the store would close due to the bubbles of the wet Spartans who washed ashore more branches…

The sink is always blocked due to hairs that are gathered after the big razors’ long stay.

The second black man while unplugging was pouring from the jug to achieve the first goal: a flexible girl to be ready for the intruders. Oil contributes to life’s width. Modern Hippocrates says it as well. It is the most essential to the Mediterranean cuisine.

I say that oil has a great contribution to the biggest volume’s capacity of winged ships.

This well could now fit into any kind of windlass. It did not have any more restraints. It had gained a totalitarian autonomy without my authoritarian will. They had charged the brutal troops of his Chorbates on my land so as every human right would be eliminated…

A mathematical triad was looting my body.

Every conqueror had his own unique characteristics.

The first black man had the alpine look of Pseudo-Longinus. The second one had a gross but middle one. The Algerian had Gauguin’s but totally effective.

The windows were sad coffins. The atmosphere was stifling due to the sweat of our bodies.

Relaxation at a Turkish bath. Their smell was more aggressive because they did an exorcism the previous Christmas for the last time.

The water and hour glass’s economy of our national identity was a common denominator…

When the one intruder was breaking my country’s metal grilles, I was being bathed with wet and solid perfumes-merchandise by the other two.

I liked the Algerian more because he was the Lyre with no costs, the Partisan’s manual that has a strong power and nobody can subjugate.

The tramontana was revolving dark spikes from his barn to the homestead.

All this bayberry was dribbling from my palate like a stalactite. At some point there was a parallel admission from two teams but the fence was so narrow that as a lecturer he expelled the one since it was about to break…

The black man that was behind was an inspirational canoeist on my neck’s chain and I was the giraffe with a leash…

The other one was adjusting my head’s thyme to take the proper bow for the flying ball like a loyal hound despite the fact that it opposed to the Ottoman.

A law student who was my classmate at school had taught me the Ottoman Law from an early age. Seemingly, the Greek-Roman and the Byzantine.

I had pored over the spirit of the laws and balance, knowing at the same time that the most rational demand is also the most blatant injustice, if covered by the power’s robe emits the senses of the firm code of values that knows how to adjust to the circumstances and alters its behaviour for the high casts, exhausting all our lenience’s boundaries, while it exhausts every room for strictness of the committed crime for the deprived with a few variations.

I was a crime’s victim and totally satisfied that I pretended to be the scapegoat for all the crimes that the national and my own bourgeoisie once had committed.

I wanted to feel the Hippies’ vibration which they had when De Gaulle was in power for the independent Algerian. I was a lover of apostasy, a fallen fair angel of the Lord.

I wanted though for the last time, like a capitalist body snatcher, to dissipate the milky oil of those strong immigrants and absorb the power of these nomads even if it led to the founding of the Finnish.

I was the Son of the Man-French who paid for his Forefathers’ crimes, like today’s Israelis apologize for Christ’s humiliations or that they have to feel guilty for His Crucifixion when scrupulous Christians claim so.

I liked “paying” for crimes I had never committed. On the contrary, I would not like to be punished for the hubris I consciously commit. The concept of my collective responsibility was affectionate…

My body was pithy from slurs and raised like Fifth Avenue. It revealed like the product of his cherry earthquakes.

A wreck that was waiting to visit the oven of the hopeless.

It was an excess inside that space like his ox-like eyes were reflecting luminary.

Robert did not interfere with the instructions given.

On the contrary, he preferred masturbating while watching that live, violent porn unreel like Ariadne’s carcass in his fantasies’ Minoan palace since in every one there was an avant-garde waiting for him. He just had to accept her or deny her to be sold to her whom he wants to find till the way out.

I was in the middle of this farrago and I was touched by the fact that a listener was applauding me even with one hand on stage.

When I published the foams from my mouth, Robert realized that that was the end of the game. I was full of lather to mop the tribe’s crime.

Killing of a nation or dialysis? Hard to say. I missed their wheat rain. It did not take long for my pot to be watered.

I felt like a four-wheel that had gone to the washing bay to get cleaned from the red clay.

They quickly got dressed with their lawful assets and, like the chicken thieves, departed from my life once and for all.

After all, earth never ceases to move. Even when we are converted to sleep. Even more so when crimes have been committed. I was Antaios and they were Hercules. I took earth off of me and I denied the sky’s power.

I took a lesson of morality: a dewdrop of goodness that has evil in it. It sounds unbelievable but so true…

My victim’s mentality is now more fitting. I made sure that news was spread amongst my friends’ circles. I seem like a hero in their eyes since I survived from those blackguards. I look more immaculate than ever…

The worst crimes can be committed with the greatest easiness of movements and extenuations…

I am the Julius of all women and the Augusta of all men.

My fame was known to all the fashionable circles not only of the capital but of the whole Europe.

The worst alibi is the confession of the crime. The others think you are accomplice to something. You do not think that when you have committed something…

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 150

 Damien Adaleux to Louis Martineux

1-10-1999, New York

 Dear Louis,

I arrived with an aeroplane that gave the New City’s aura to the buildings a new moon before.

When I visited the Metropolitan Museum, I realized she is equal to Europe’s Snatch… Here are the horses of Lysippus… The peak of the Crusaders… The possession of the city of multi-faced Lucifer…

And I, Michael Palaiologos, having the pencil and the paper as my munitions, was waiting for the right moment to grab those treasures.

I was a bright student for the Museum’s exhibits. I captured the permanent collection of the museum to practise the art of painter-sculptor.

The subject that lost the sense of volume has been ornamented with that of the level so as to imitate the dimensions with the most successful way. The colours with the classifications at their imperfections were helpers of an attempt for a natural failure.

Can the flattened statue of Marcus Aurelius be impressed at its real sights?

Even the material of its moulding does not have anything to do with what it represents. It does not have either a human hide or organs or blood…

Perhaps if art is cloned then its real face will be conquered. The people of history will be clones in the cold storage and not absent but with the same inorganic and organic elements in a representative art.

I recently saw paintings with colours of human blood at a museum of contemporary art.

Here is an exceptional art for the man made by a man.

Anyone can choose a cut leg or arm if he travels to the countries of ignition or even Cicero’s head with his multi-pierced tongue. Thus, he will recompose his real like the senses or feelings private art at his home. That means the art of the powerful has a sixth sense perception, almost geotropic I would say. After all, all painters had a powerful Maecenas: Botticelli had the Medici or Philippe the painter from Crete who painted with the hand…

Art is a sequence and we are the humble drivers that follow her.

I started realizing my insignificance while watching those huge buildings, amongst the millions of citizens in this vast land where all the Titans and the Egyptian Gods have gathered.

Parthenon’s frieze in reversal. Zeus with his thunder is not an ambassador in this city. The victory of the Giants and the Titans on the Olympian land! You can commit any crime you want without being punished if you step on the mermaid shield of wisdom! You will see everything in reversal here. The tycoons are dense gods and the bevy of ignorant people on the top of Pieria.

With a pole in the eye, shape of architecture…

The blood of the citizens will reach their feet as a punishment. A brain with no oxygen in a post surgery remission without blood.

I was a dwarf in front of juggernauts with clay legs that I left in the evenings since I always attended the classes of the Fine Art College.

I went to the hospital where I was born and I worked temporarily as a historian at its archives. The receipts were swimmers in the papers. I was my mother’s child indeed… My father? I always assumed he was from the New Land.

An Ares on my mother’s bed. My father caught them soon after the action when he returned from the UNO. He had displayed a few documents concerning the captive Americans in Iran which he had to study so as to orate at the channel.

Americans never forgave the Shah’s Persians for their banishment like I never forgave my mother for not revealing me my true father’s name.

Four years later, not even the birth of my duplicate sister prevented my parents’ divorce. I gathered information from the living residents of the building where my parents used to live before I was born (not from my father’s head but from his thigh).

It was heard that my Hecuba had an affair with an American painter named Peter Wise. A distant relative of his who lived in that block of apartments gave me a slightly ruined photograph as if it had almost been saved by the flames.

She also mentioned he had two children and that one of them was studying sculpture at my University.

We had the same age. She told me not to bug her again though, because she had fought with Wise’s sister in the past.

On the first semester I attended the optional lesson of sculpture so as to meet this student.

An optional touch that would be the cause of compulsory information.

Almost immediately our eyes were copulation in the void. Our causeless intimacy came more from our common background than from moral patterns.

He was a baptized ice-cream in the Darkness. On his face I saw my own and then Peter’s, my father’s.

Denial and rejection made the nostalgia to perform a tragedy. Maybe an Oedipus without the fairytale…

Three days ago I invited him to my apartment for the search of the man missing and his family tree.

He told me that his father had once transformed a turkey into a billy-goat to mate with a nanny-goat because she was feeling lonely due to his January chores.

He told me that four months before 1982 she brought her own azalea from his cyclamen and a rose. She asked for a flight identification document but he denied the annihilation’s baby. He had placed the arrows of Puti to another woman and by phosphoric chance a white rose popped out on the same month. He told him he thought I was a ton of cement and threw me in New City’s ocean like he had done with the French woman’s past. I kept my polar temperature and did not make a gesture despite all I had just heard and the fact he kissed me on the mouth.

Under her though, I was singling out Hera from the spike. I was sexually attracted to my clone. I wanted to be broken down into a thousand pieces and get blessed with seven years of bad luck.

On his face I saw the rejection of my enlightening progress. My father was the Echo at the first handwriting and reading. A clock whose thumb had turned backwards and I saw my father making a gesture at me to make me emerge as a mortal this time.

I was given the chance, with time’s retrospect, to commit his crash and surpass destiny.

If his candle melted, neither I nor my brother would give breath to Thor.

For many years I was dead at the wretched old lady who lives in a Cave, lame and isolated.

At the humanitarian sphere, I was processing the teenager who does not want to grow old but be mentioned from everybody as Antinous.

I could never undermine happiness.

Blood is thicker than water. Unless you get sick with leukemia. I was curious to see though whether the blood in his veins was red or blue.

“I am a naughty girl!” he told me and coloured his lips with a lipstick taken from his short pants.

He did not differ from a sweet, nerveless and odourless girl. I was looking for a hole to give him an injection. That would take all his blood to protect the country from the terrorists.

I also contributed to this child’s disengagement from his metropolis. A colony that wanted to surmount her own womb with radiance and her Octavius to be deified to everybody’s discrepancy.

The beginning of cuntarchy and the end of democracy…

Men and women were acting like natives who surrendered easily to the Visigoths. With their weapons they opened pits to hide their heads.

There is only one acceptable way of reproduction: that of the cathartic.

They wanted to accept the colony’s ideas unconditionally without remembering how the World’s Metropolis should be.

A marriage between children of the sewers. I had to perform those bonds.

“I want you to draw my face on the canvas” he told me in a sensual way.

He ornamented the chair that was next to him with his dresses. After all, in a few minutes he would become Dead Nature. He temporarily stayed at my death bed that now had become his own uniform.

His body was to my eyes the golden apples of Esperides that I had to bring back to my country in order to get by.

His arms and legs were tied with a leash. I charted his area which was in an interesting situation and I had to make a report so as the material found would be classified.

My stiletto landed on her like an extra terrestrial disc which creates untranslatable hieroglyphs on the English land.

Always cut the spike that protrudes. This is what I did too. I cut his entire spike in its peak and I gave it to him to eat it.

Mucus of blood useful for my canvas’s painting…

I decided I had to operate. You can tame all the natural coloured climaxes with the proper pressure at any human body’s pressure gauge. I wanted to make a painting from human’s colour. A nominal anthropology… An anthropology without any person but at the Day of Judgment…

My painting would be named: “Laius was murdered by Oedipus”.

I would write snake-like and pre-historic lizards instead of people. My brother was a great contributor and sponsor to this painting. This is Fraternal Solidarity.

After all, I did not do anything that had not been done in the Old Testament.

While I was operating him, he was looking at me like the patient looks at his healer before he dies. A mobile painting “Lesson of Anatomy” of the Netherlands… Nobody can compete with Rembrandt. Not even me… Thank God he is not alive or he would end up a brother…

Thunder struck and scared he left this world for ever, without a voice or a pencil paper.

There was no originality. The only moment of originality in this fratricide-Thucydides said that civil wars were the worst of all- was that I wanted to impregnate my brother after his departure.

A nameless child, without a father, like me. A child without lungs and heart, like me. A child carcass, like me.

I chopped his carcass and got rid of him once and for all with a common way.

A new night rises…

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

   LETTER 160

  Damien Adaleux to Louis Martineux

30-10-1999, New York

 Dear Louis,

I feel dizzy from the extreme actions of the lovers of my ex, present and eternal Joan. I constantly underline that the Pope of her heart is a man and unique. Harems do not exist in the palace of my Arts.

But I am dishonest, Louis. I am a Disloyal, superficial person. She swears on my mistrust’s governance. The difference is more than distinguished.

I invited two of my classmates to my apartment late last night. It was Raisha from Russia and Tsung Li from China. On their faces I saw Mao and Stalin.

If it wasn’t for communism, capitalism would not matter at all. It is possible, the opposing awe that doubts my interests in a fridge of planet Ares to be transmuted as an epidemic in my country, something which I deprecated and wanted to be aimed at its individuality.

I had the look of the arch that the pagan owners had.

Tsung Li had a skin of solar fog and her hair was black like that of Bernice. She was as little and plain as a small piece of wood in the Hippocrene…

On the contrary, Raisha, used to the Siberian winter, was a full moon and Antarctica, a rough ox-button, a bud ready to pop out of his petal. I was about to accept my defeat on her cold forehead and the decimation of Napoleon’s troops.

An unusual bear in its beauty. I would like to have her head as a trophy over my fireplace and her white skin as a rug to keep me warm during the Norwegian December nights.

We three followed a Bronx dance in a hip hop rhythm because I have the broadband and the right of the Pantocrator to doubt.

Sweaty as they were, they fell on my bed of casual crusade. I approached the sink to turn on the hot plate and make chocolate to pour on Tsung Li’s sweaty breasts and try it.

Mu hunger ceased the sit-down strike it had started in my stomach and moved on to her love’s Taksim.

Raisha was shamelessly flirting as an escort at the October Revolution in despair’s creek, not caring whether there will be a laurel to crown her Seferian achievements and save her.

While I was a tenant at Tsung Li’s ozone-spherical apartments, Raisha driven by her curiosity, moved to her lower levels to water the chosen plants of her studio flat.

Like a caring Samaritan she was willing to take what was inside outside since the tenant was about to move out.

Every kiss or stroke there, made Tsung Li to burst in lust’s cries like a cackle that suddenly stops and the next time echoes its vowels and consonants louder.

An upward sound climax that slightly affects my own employment. I had to throw away the chocolates with my broomstick like a lawful supervisor. I had poured all these in a vanilla ice-cream giving the surface another printer’s look from that of the content that has as its ultimate proposition to fool the consumer.

My kilometric hand wanted to clean the flat’s windows but the flat was closed due to renovation. Raisha moved the furniture to the living-room so as to place pipes on the beggar-walls where water gushed. A lust of a red garment…

I had to open the fountains so as the soil would go away and leave water to flow. I do not usually live in such flats…

I am the dauphin of grandiosity. At the palace of Versailles or at the villa of Medici, since one of my ancestors belonged to the generation of the “Bourbons-Capetids”.

Now I had to confine myself to Saint Petersburg and the palace of the Forbidden City. There was a chance I would be Japheth in tubular spaces.

When we try to avoid something, it will always approve of us in the beginning of every century till it stops existing with our death. Awe soon became action.

My tyrannosaurus found its natural place for the protection of his meteors whose shadows resembled figures inscribed in the depths of the caverns.

Thus, it had to reach the surface and one of them should override it so as every shadow could realize it has a downward pull and a special weight. If you are Romanos Diogenes, never show willingness to leave your eyes… Your destiny, which is the others, guides you…

My bread had been accommodated in Tsung Li’s garden. Raisha was melting her butter on my bread and on the side cookies to make it tastier. It was a game for tasters. The winners would receive a Dionysian prize on the footstall.

It is really honourable to think that you serve two parts: the one where you are visitor and the one you serve to the others.

A Xenios Zeus from the depths of Arabia… Proceedings and observer at the same time like a full moon phenomenon and an eclipse of a whole conjugation.      

I felt a cookie moving on my burnt baking tin, like Saturn on the move, so as my fever would rise.

A Dionysian panther was stroking Tsung Li’s eyes his nitric rain from the hair.

My erection caused double pleasure at the Pillar of Salt: For the one that felt, it remained silent and the one it could not avoid it wanted her to protest so as to seem more like a victim than accomplice to the immolator’s crime and declare her innocent in front of the jury-cameras. Or maybe she catches the crime’s reactions when she becomes an eye witness or an auricular one after she has forgotten its essence.

Raisha took a candle spider from the table and its fragile liquid started flowing on my chest.

I was taken aback by this and thus the pain was multiplied, like the Lord’s fish and breads.

“The candle of my life may start to flicker…” I thought.

China and Russia in the 19th century were enough for France.

The candle penetrated my body and became one with it. Finally I ensured Saccharin and I caused orgasms to Tsung Li with my candle’s simulator.

After the party was over, I gave them my painting which I had made with my brother’s organs. I cut it in two. Fair judgment and Solomonean. Since they could not admire the brother who was judged by Minos and Rhadamanthus, I gave them my recreated other self from a striker cloak.

I know you will wonder why I killed my brother.

I stop whatever suits me. I kill what I admire to stop it from surpassing me. I want to be one of a kind! Spherical…

When the chariot of Phaeton comes outside the emblem of my Lancasters, I observe any change that needs to be fixed in the sink since I am a Mercedes of many rules which exhausts its strength.

I give birth to the Shell-born in copies. Nutritious over the lips, to stop the smoker’s cough… Anti-wrinkle under and next to the eyes so as to eliminate the goose’s foot. Finally on the cheeks to prevent the spots of the laughters…

I exercise to serve the son of Hera. I will bathe with wrinkles of Akhaimenes and I will wear colourful clothes so as to be a living canvas… I was always a fan of the image breakers…

Images express something static. On the contrary, I am an idea-planet at the shadows of values. I do not contradict.

Painting is an art of images. I take its logos and give meaning to them via the roles I perform.

My position in art is the moving power. I have everyday friends and fabulous riches. I just hold a problem in my hand like an heirloom: I do not incubate anyone.

That is why I use the method of three to others, so as to feel I am doing something creative.

You see it’s the lack of values… I can bear anything I want and give birth to anything I do not want. I am an impure scum that I cannot be punished by any law, human or divine. I vent my spleen and I take the lives of others…

I am a historic person and universal like the followers of Church. The country that helps me to me is very near-sighted. I acquire everything with any natural cost. I will go to any place of the earth if I like it and without meeting embankments on my Via Appia.

I am your God on earth. I am your worshipped calf since you do not have the proper self knowledge.

Louis, I am the indoor inmate at your school. Sometimes though, I walk on your intestines like the sparkles from the friction of the ignescent stone.

The invisible man who commits tortures… And then becomes visible to many… He always seems pure though…

Like you and I…

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 198

Louis Martineux to Damien Adaleux

1-5-2000, Paris

 Dear Damien,

Lucy had invited all the guys to her house to see extra scenes from the “Deep Throat” on television.

I, Antoine, George, Jean, Fernando, Henry, Robert, Jacques, Lorraine, Dominique, Francois, Cornelius from the Netherlands, Ivan from Serbia and Hakim from Kosovo.

Europe of the Fifteen at her feet and looking to milk her cow.

Agrippina’s reincarnation with a transparent night gown. She coiled her body on her hunkers in front of the television and while half unconscious she asked for an Asclepius.

Antoine was kissing her left ear and I was the right’s driver. Jean and George’s tongues were like reptilian eggs on Easter bread in her mouth. Henry and Fernando excelled at the anarchic and rightist party of her female hill. Louis was asking for a prediction from Dodona’s oracle. Jacques was playing her right hand’s fingers with his tongue like the piano’s keys. Lorraine was flaming those of her left hand like a harmonica. Dominique was preoccupied with the Alexandrian lips of the Foreign Office. Francois, with those of Home Department and with the trunk of the hateful rain. Cornelius was looking to bombard her Achilles heel that would not leave the turtle knowing the danger and the bombarding. Hakim was licking her left foot’s toes like he was eating bread without sponge cake. Ivan was kissing her right foot, since he did not know what her left one was doing, like a prisoner in Hague does to his fiancé behind the bars.

Sighs of repentance were penetrating our ears like the echoes of an electric guitar do to the criminals sentenced for life. He was the Yliki of our own sighs and Ms Basilica was choked by our feathers because she preferred our company to that of Ali Pasha.

Our Scandinavian migratory birds landed on a warmer place not to freeze her with the snow we had on our wings but to clamp the nerve of her immaculate waters, so as we could continue our flight to Tanganyika and whoever was not down with the Thai flu could leave.

Every time a bird was entering her lake’s wet surges, she was calling its name. Ducks, swans, quails…

Zoo parades. They were not getting wet but just tasting her curing waters. They were throwing her milk, honey and candies without doing the thing they wanted even though it was offered to them.

Tantalus’s doubles or imitators? On her body unfinished life’s vomits were flowing. These children would find their father only by IVF.

Our tongues had become brushes to create a copy of “Sleeping Aphrodite” with the dissolved fruits. On the first level there would be the twelve French and her. On the second one, the immigrants’ Unholy Triad and the proper Punishment.

The man from Kosovo, though sixteen years old, was like a tied-up rabbit accepting the Dutch’s stinger on the bolt hole of his hills and the Serbian’s Kalashnikov.

This soon changed since the racist Serbian took the place of the Kosovar rebel. Crimes are always committed from both sides in civil wars and you could commit them or me if we had the bad luck to be Serbians or Albanians.

The Serbian’s body was a court of law and a purgatory for the victims of a war of lust. According to their opinion he should be on trial in Pristine or Hague.

A court of law with subtle blames and innocent people or guilty. The Balance of Justice leaned towards the south of the Balkans. The other one was leaning towards the north furious with the Dutch.

The Serbian’s stomach was a place full of dehydrated munitions. He had to pay because he had molested the Kosovar without asking for the Dutch’s opinion.

I always liked Dirk Bouts and his Madonnas who like tulips were keeping their fluffy breasts to the eternal Kichle for the babies’ milk.

They were injecting vitamin D to the Serbian to boost his bones-guards of the racist leaders (1992-1995). A huge baby that had to be shrank because another one asserts its autonomy with its wealthy powers.

The Kosovar had ridden the Serbian. Four roses and two colourless glassworks had been created so as the demand of the political rights of the mutineers could be broken with an arrow. This was not the first time that something like this happened. Richelieu preceded centuries ago.

The Dutch, with the spirit of an ambiguous innovator, observes the real power.

His Swedish glasswork either broke with his solid pipe and when he thought it was to be broken he continued his course to the Voiotian so as to taste the sense of danger or because he was overwhelmed by boredom brought by the human interaction and the different should be finally chosen since something like this was not in a panoramic place.

That scene reminded me of Rubens’s triptych for the Descent from the Cross.

Same taste in another experience’s body. After all, the Gadarene Demon had been reincarnated into all the swines since they had the same metrical multidimensional phonology.

While our twelve stars were moving on your girlfriend’s mouth in the most frantic party, the Kosovar’s glass and blood were falling on the Serbian’s warehouse.

Needless to say that I sent her the letter your Chinese and Russian gave to me in a form of love letter.

It seems that the Russian Revolution made her breathe fresh oxygen and she decided, as revenge to your writings, to welcome your mates as a trophy.

Leave her in space like a Halley while you can! It is the best advice I can give you!

I did not want to eat what you daily ate out of zeal or curiosity…

I just wanted to show you that our friendship means more than all those Lolitas!

You are obliged not to these peacocks but to your friends and you should give them your energy and time! It diminishes your status as a man!

Girls have us on their hands like a string of beads. The “others” are for our diet. This seems to be somebody “else”.

It is beneath you to pull Santa’s sleighs!

You have to break up with her!

Can’t you see that she is poking her nose into our business?

She wants you to leave us… How long will you tolerate your Ptolemaic literature with her tongue as broom trying to take us away from you? Can’t you see she is a common person who pretends to be a Marquise?

She is Penelope’s tumour.

Do you remember when we were smoking the pipe of Aristophanes and she reacted telling you: “Your words are a disgrace… Your speech is vulgar…”

You were right to reply: “You never smoked the pipe of Nicias with me! Why are you so annoyed then?”

You silenced the slut, since you cannot seal her mouth with a normal way!

Since we respect you and we care about you, we did what you cannot do…

This silk breeder eats your intestines… You belong to me and we belong to you for a long time.

Last night, the twelve of us beat an old homeless man to death at the banks of Seine. He was filth for our city’s reputation… He was also detrimental to tourism… We threw him to the river’s bottom with my yacht so as that piece of trash could not be seen anywhere…

An immoral piece of art by a dubious, almost bankrupt artist…

One solution is possible. Either you break up with her or you will find her floating on river Styx. There is no middle solution.

Remember your glorious past… Unless you want us to give you the baton and like Othello it will surrender to her arms.

The decision is yours but we demand your answer soon…

Yours,

Louis Martineux

  LETTER 200

Lucy Sanguin to Claire Beaumont

5-5-2000, Paris

 Dear Claire,

I am hanged now to the canyon of Samaria. Damien charms all the ladies but he always comes back to me.

I was writing a letter to my friend Simon in my office in the middle of the night. I heard an eerie creak from the window. I thought the pomegranate’s branches were the 1x1 that were frontiersmen with my balcony at the garden.

The Mistral was furious and from my window’s spinning wheel oxygen was being stolen.

Damien was at my balcony like an upset monkey. On his belt there were the faces of Isis and Osiris, vivid and with hieroglyphs.

He was attracted to Tutankhamun’s tomb and the Hellenistic land of the Pharaohs. But I could never imagine he could worship other deities apart from his own “ego”.

His acrylic shirt and his body showed even his most profane mistakes.

His nose had been pierced with an earring from selenite and opal. The bad stone’s moderator… He told me that, like an Olympic Champion, he had passed the fences and the dogs had slept like the Northern Star of the sea due to barbiturates… Then he reached my balcony from the ivy and came to my window like a glass breaker.

All this time, like Alcestis, I was writing a novel for him about an immigrant from abroad. More specifically? From Russia. Thus I made a few comments and I studied sociology.

When I read it to him, Damien was looking at me like a puzzled Eskimo.

“Are you still occupied with these fairytales for little children? They can’t bother a Rito!”

The size of Eridanus keeps growing when he falls on our neighbourhood.    

It still looks like a particle when it settles like dust away from us. His eyes had lost the sea’s foam. He was spreading his asphalt, which was in dehiscence, on me.

I think I sometimes used the divisions of the air bombers to make him feel like a naught. Maybe because I wanted his solid wing to get wounded and his ashes to be thrown to the Greek open-sea, like the famous Greek singer’s.

We were an unknown champion’s ramp that could easily turn to the left like me or to the right like him. We had never met in the centre.

I was not Scylla but Charybdis whispered something in my ear and pushed me to the bed like a police officer pushes the burglar to the cell. He was holding his lips like a big catastrophe was about to come.

He made my garter his helmet and he tied my hands so as I could not resist to my excavation’s rubbish dump. I kicked his balls like a true Artemisia and he was howling like a wolf for hours. The anti-genetic ways of pleasure were at their peak for everyone apart from this happy stub. I would never let him brag to his friends and teachers for the innovation he wanted tom make. I had a reputation that could not be disturbed. My damaged honour had to be restored with a marriage. Anything else would be a painful defeat.

“I want a child to be born from your heart…” he had told me with his face beet red.

“Unfortunately this cannot happen. Metropolis is bleeding due to your apostasy…”

He was Ho Chi Minh and I was his Indochina’s cry.

It is weird not to give birth when you are bleeding. The unborn children will give you their message. They die not only in your imagination but in your calyx too.

Every new moon you commit a crime: “You have to give birth when you carry a child”. Your body’s ten rules…

Your biped will utter it, society, soul… But Voltaire’s Priestess tells you to become the Murderer of your personal pronoun in nominative case and in your first singular…

“We are breaking up for good today!” he told me with the thunder of Zeus and he turned to leave while he began zipping his fly.

“I will say Everything to your father’s brain!” I told him in a blackmailing tone.

“If you do this, I will tell your father that your first cousin became Porphyrion at the age of nine. You were not Sekhmet to avoid him and you hadn’t even seduced a Kou like me.!” That was his response to the glove’s fall.

Like one of the Vestales, I begged him on my knees not to do it. If my cousin knew this, he would go to Hades and my father would end in High Court.

I would lose the rod and sandals of Hermes, my wealth and my belongings. I could not stand this social imputation.

Relieved from my unhealed wound he told me like Cassander: “We will break up. You only make me pity you! Do not cry… You are cheap like the paper you use to write… If you go on like this, my fraternity will deal with you… You irritate me…”

His final words fell like razors on my body and not penetrate mandragor’s tricks.

I called Otus and not Efialtes that I was going through that moment-one of the two guards of the External Gate-and begged him to take Damien with my father’s car, like a birthday gift with a galactic ribbon.

I do not want my enemies to respect me; only to fear of me. I must find out who told Damien to break up with me so as my plain but like a swordfish nail will properly deal with him.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 201  

  Damien Adaleux to Lucy Sanguin

6-5-2000, Paris

 Dear Lucy,

We had to take different roads in life. If that did not happen I would transform your heart into sugar while you were sleeping.

I cannot control what I feel. Don’t ask why. It is buried deep inside my heart. The explanation we give to the facts does not have a meaning so as to make them different from the phenomena. Our replies to them are simpler than we think.

This circle is over. Another lottery will be erected now so another one will begin. The nozzle in his heart does not have any more space for us. Our hearts are the pulpits of the ancient Gods that slowly abandon this world.

When we do not admit it, we are the outfalls of ourselves.

I want to be bifid like Nature. “Whys are not bifilar. I do not prefer them. They are the roads that Anchorites follow before the leader dies and many of them quit. Few managed to see the beams of the grassy sun and not get blind like Semele. Without naming the details I settle with Cornwall…

We will never be born on our own. We are looking for a protective nine month shield in our whole life…

The temple is a substitute of that Hera in Italy, Alexander’s sister or Bellerefonte in your arms…

Your place broke in a needle at the blisters of life and bodiless descended with her into the void.

What we have, passed us by without our will…

We never betray the one who has betrayed us…

I do not have a safer advice to give you.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 230

  Lucy Sanguin to Claire Beaumont

10-10-2000, Paris

 Dear Claire,

I managed to find my immolator in the school of Civil Sciences. I must be though an adjusting rubber to his mood that has the torch to know a Student of Letters. He is the toad-owl who will give the right shoe and become a prince in the carriage with pumpkins if he receives the proper kiss.

Like Alcamenes I will have to give the proper Pentelic shape to the marble owl from Paros. The work of Chalepas is an active procedure.

Phidias is the forerunner and the sculpture in any kind of transformations and corrections, a vulnerable God.

I will suck all his pollen like a bee until he withers.

A continuous work, detained like the cobra by her fakir.

As always I am a skillful archer.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 240

  Lucy Sanguin to Guillaume Papon

25-10-2000, Paris

 Dear Guillaume,

I am on the brink of a precipice… Who will sing to push it away? My father refuses to see Damien. I do not know the christogramme.

He never introduced me to his Girondins. I had introduced him though to all my Sans Culottes in a letter of mine sometime ago… A meaningless discrimination… His shareholders believe that my aerial has not been glued to their television.

I must have been a little star in their space. Perhaps they did not like me controlling Damien, like a Bodhidharma who marks his student, not with granite punishments or expulsions but with recommendation of what he himself would have done. Instead, Damien took me out of his life because he is always in favour of his disobedient classmate’s jokes. They were not right to me. I always thought that jokes against Melians are sent by Cleon but are never delivered. A joke made in asphalt by professional clowns.

He told me in an undisguised tone: “We are breaking up. I do not know how to assume responsibilities.”

Thus I ended up an aneamic, anorexic, sensitive girl. Atlas’s rock which everybody was staring at with surprise but avoided to endure that burden. Maybe because the sky has an ace up his sleeve. Maybe because the end of the dinosaurs came from him. Maybe because the sky does not touch us until we feel he has to pass the need.

Struts in the sky without always noticing it.

I am on the edge of a table like a Bohemian porcelain between two men’s ends while playing football not caring whether I will fall or not. This nice zit must be about to break.

Perhaps they do not like my Diogenes nature which has sperms of stoicism so as not to get into Judaism. If the nerves of my left hemisphere die this can happen with sensitivity.

I just offer them what they fear the most: a woman whose heart will not be lively like a fish.

His friends sabotaged his duties. They confiscated his mobile or immobile fortune for an honoured bill I had received from their Bank. Every month they demanded an increasing interest. This happy laughter will be redeemed expensively.

My cold plate’s hour glasses are contrary, counting conversely like a time bomb in a huge building that nobody knows when it is going to blast or where it is hidden.

A meaningless half measure if the employees in the sky-scraper become dromedaries a minute before the explosion and are informed with a call.

Unsigned moves of work. Guillaume, can you make the trigger bend so if I buy a gun you will be able to kill me?

I do not care if I live or not. I do not even care if I am an existing person. I do not think it is worth it to capture these bums. Not that I can’t. The world’s darkness won’t change with a dot defeat of the ruined attitudes.

I and a Moroccan friend of mine, Hassan, were planning my parents’ murder every time we embraced. “To death Ceausescu couple, my life’s dominant tyrants!” I exclaimed and with my hand like a spear held their picture like Samael’s Column of Stoning.

I had to play piano for all the generals at their symposia to make them express their flying feelings like an intruding gadfly attracted by light (even though she experiences darkness uninvited and sits on whatever food she wants). Thankfully these inspirations do not last long.

Damien was persistently asking me to bolt his neck with my nails. My teeth aren’t as ground as my nails. After all, he asks for this requital so as his blood-privilege of women-leaves.

When I was little, I pretended to be Artemis and my cousin was Actaeon when I was offended. A myth that occasionally alters its details…

I was not the daughter of Leto. I had just welcomed her face in a Marlow game that had been prepared by others.

Damien knows and I was blackmailed by him. At memory’s adolescence the father accommodated my impurity in our house and I asked for help from the imitator of Freud. You must never reveal your aces of spade when the solitaire is distributed.

He did not stay long and the Awe of the Possible Revelation disappeared.

Guillaume you are an amazing story-teller. I will send you a kiss on your cheek for the golden elephant which I have received as a gift.

A certain lucky charm…

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

 LETTER 270

 Damien Adaleux to Louis Martineux

12-1-2001, Paris

 Dear Louis,

I embroider her with citrus! While she was visiting a doctor, probably Hippocrates and not Asclepius, she fell off the stairs which she had moulded with her imagination like Nils Holgersson, fearing of the monsters which live in heaven… For a month and even more, I also thought that maybe my own face had been touched too.

I had to assume responsibilities since I was a man.

I had broken up with the living Lucy. Not the dead one that the functions of the Psychopomp were almost a horizontal line.

I had to descend to Hades with my lyre as a rose and bring her back to earth by kissing her on the forehead.

I do not simply despise her breath but also her involuntary exhalation.

She opened her haze infused eyes when she felt me, seeing not only the dew around but me too.

I ended up being a computer guided by her mouse-hand.

A few days later we were both at her room. There were no squares or rhombi… Only curves and enormous dots.

My hand was creating every acutangular of hers while she was alive and writhing with the combustion of corn seeds from her oil in the casserole.

Africa and Asia stopped being united in one body after the opening of the Suez Canal in the 19th century.

I had the exact same refreshing sense at the beginning of the 21st century, when I split her two continents’ secrets of millennia that existed under the civilizations of Zarathustra and the Pharaohs.

Observer of a natural technological miracle, a colonialist-successor of the French and the British who with illegal mediums was draining a country mercilessly captured.

Her nails on my back deleted Utah’s alphabet.

This parallel demonstration of power and obedience did not live up to my expectations.

A diamond drill landed like a lightning on my European pelvis. I continued my erotic excavation.

I was wondering whether I was looking for quarrymen in a mine of South Africa so as my procedures will have been finished in Suez where I had been charting and excavating.

Whatever is pale is not anthrax… In my unguarded drill I felt her rubies rolling on the juvenile wheel of my moon. A necessary humidity for my workers’ tools since hot wind and fever reduce the performance and the speed while working.

My Bengal Gulf was utopian for a draft so risky.

I wanted to promote my interests in this area but also reign by dividing them. Only this is how I win my rivals since I do not have a Turkish embassy or elevated throne to impose myself on the barbarian guests. Cry is always a means of intimidation…Nile was making the fields of Africa seem golden and Euphrates those of Middle East. My Mississippi was a kind of litany to make me transform into a rainmaker.

Sahara was the area-bond that had to be crossed so as the dangers that were threatening me would be processed and the undertaking would be balanced. The spasms proved the euphoric of my thoughts.

But when I went to her own ear like a vampire, she said while touching my shoulders with a sensual voice: “Guillaume, you are such a skillful lover!”

I may have been baptized by my parents with as many names as the earth’s gentians. They gave me the name Damien by chance. Naming is for the human beings a state of emergency like the skin or intestines are for the human body.

A man’s brain has the tendency to categorize human beings. “He is a bum”. “He is a rival in a love affair”. “He is a skillful lover”.

In this case though, to my astonishment, my name did not coincide with that category.

I felt like an actor when he does not hear his name-even though nominated for an Oscar- trying to realize what exactly had happened to him.

I felt like a Norwegian canoeist at the fiords. Passages everywhere without seeing any destination.

My imaginative assignments at the Pyramid of Giza were intercepted with the name “Guillaume”.

After all, Iacchus is the man’s Nature unless he eliminates all of her and directs it to his Persian caravan. The subordinates gradually but progressively left for Cairo for our own Ambassador.

I dressed like a clap, like a Casanova who is scared of his big brother’s lost honour. It felt like Golgotha until I left from her house in my Citroen.

A thought was always on my mind: “Who is this Guillaume at last?”

Also, how could I handle this situation for my own benefit in the best possible way?

But my blood was boiling in my veins like a chicken does in a pressure cooker. I had crossed every permissible boundary of my driving.

When I got home I phoned Louis and told him to find a few handsome men so as I could throw my anger on whoever I found.

It did not take long for them, who would be getting well paid, to arrive.

It was Sergey from Russia, Martin from Germany and Janus from Poland.

While they were unfolding their fibres like the Three Ladies in Charleston, I was drinking a whole bottle of whiskey like a true Bacchus wondering who will pull my leash, who will unfold it and who will cut it in the end.

I gave the German and the Russian a bottle of cenotaph. I ordered them after they had drunk in those two seats to give birth to chopped echidnas of the earth. They obeyed happily.

I ordered to empty their summary on the back blessed by the Pope with the craters of the Polish. Perhaps I wanted to cover the chasms of the earth with their antidotes. I never wished to see lava in others. Only to feel it on my feathers.

I wanted to make the land fertile since sometimes fallow is not enough. I need willing and loyal tools to better the quality of production.

I ordered both of them to lick his back with their mouths so as the torrid board to have a title: “The Colonization of the 20th century in the European Land.”

With the handcuffs on my bedside table they tied the hands of the Polish man on the ends of the pillar-like bed. The first level was completely absent. The diachronic on the second one had transformed into a temporary one.

The Russian and the German and the third Roman soldier were whipping him without sadness and I was the informer of the whippings.

On the throne the neutral judge-Christ.

“The whipping of Christ” of Piero della Francesca had once greatly impressed me.

This time though, the painter Jesus preferred to put his Polish ideal type in the place of himself. For every time bomb I gave them one euro.

They will dismember Poland so as to split it in two. The German was hitting the west part and the Russian the east one.

What if though I was Montefeltro on the imaginary first level and my assassins were Lucy and Guillaume?

The Polish man was spitting on their faces when that was allowed.

The Germans’ Protestantism and the Russians’ Orthodox Christianity were like an agent with the lighters on his wounds since he suffered complete burns…

Blood was chipping his body like the crossing rivers were doing to Germany and Russia.

His palate was burnt by their two cigars that had a reversed course than the expected.

I had to give a bottle from the sea battle of Arginousses to the collection of the dead.

I sealed the nozzle with a message to an unknown recipient that the paper included so as a few days later the English Channel could be supplied.

It was not enough for me that the bottle came close to the vulgarity of war. I wanted to be a protagonist at the battle of Pydna.

He lit my cigar so as to get third degree burns. It was a matter of time or natural specs for these three seats of fire to be damped down.

In the huge fires the villagers pray for rain that never comes. The same happened with our little Polish. We sprinkled his land with water from Epiphany and we hallowed everything so as the impure creatures would be released to the fields.

Unique archetype of a religion you would say but as alive as my vision!

Three debauched bishops we were who banished his goblins so as to admire them in all their glory.

Like another Napoleon I was charmed by the one pretending to be my Maria Valefska.

I was as competitive as the other local super powers which were fighting in Berlin for who will finish first or simultaneously.

When my vases-thoughts emigrated to Guillaume and emptied the place, I had to think of a plan.

The Polish would become Guillaume’s wax doll. A role reversal…

I always prefer natural ingredients to artificial ones when it comes to my art.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 300

  Lucy Sanguin to Claire Beaumont

10-8-2001, Paris

 Dear Claire,

My Parthian arrow finally managed to make the apple over Damien’s head mosaic.

He is simmering inside. It is not enough for me. The spirituality and the end of omnipotence in Guillaume’s envious eyes will stop.

The cause of feelings is the most successful indicator of results.

I have the golden larnaxes of Vergina in front of me. Should I not take advantage of their discovery by their over exposure to the audience of the Museum d’Orsay? Lots of dollars will flow…

The hooks will be presented as golden pagoda… Guillaume was manna from heaven… Damien was Daniel for the lions.

Men are beings which you can play with, like a harp, if you know their Achilles’ heel. Achilles was a man and Thetis the mother that gave birth to the man…

Women know men’s secrets better than themselves.

Paris or Menelaus? I haven’t decided yet… The verdict will come a few seconds before the winner’s confirmation.

To tell the truth, I would like Damien for my lover and Guillaume for husband-intellectual… Women’s supremacy? When we are pregnant it is only us that know who the father of the kid is…

Guillaume is the perfect victim for me to bring Damien’s dead torch back to life.

Guillaume will offer me money and Damien emotional assurance…

No Boeing of my interests will be misled or bleed from the pilot’s cabin at the Bermuda Triangle.

I feel a bog in my soul that has swollen up like dough.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 310

 Lucy Sanguin to Damien Adaleux

10-8-2001, Paris

 Dear Damien,

You received your degree in gynecology and obstetrics over a night. You are a jumper with awful performances. On the contrary, he is the fascinating Fersen of his queen.

He speaks thirteen languages and has a diploma in Political Science. How do you lead your life?

He is doing his doctorate in the Balkan civil wars. His father is Welsh.

Metropolis is getting its revenge for 1776. I expect the Twentieth Century to outlaw your memory.

He wrote to me that you are a heterozygous pathetic son of new born twins and that your hair has become turf from every kind of opium.

He asked me to reunite because you needed me. I showed him lots of your drafts and he said you are a new promising Ensor. He also assigned you a new poetic composure that has been attached to my letter. (1)

I am his heart’s golden intersection and he comes into my cave’s womb like Host.

In his eyes there is an acclivitous road paved with Calycotome villosa as satellites. In yours I see the declivitous with the garlands of Saint Xenon.

He is the philosopher who shows the sky of the Athenian School with his hand and you are its marble ornaments.

He is Saint George and you are the ideal winged dragon. I am Andromeda tied on the rocks with your chains…

He comes from the sign of Boo, you from the sign of Oph and I from the big Dog… A true starry empyrean.

I do not know whether I have to choose Julius Caesar or Marcus Antonius. I feel his mind is a labyrinth and I have to find the end of the strand! But how can I come out once I come in?

He has the eyes of a Byzantine sea eagle and I am the Empress Zoe if the head is not bowed. His heart offers me a lion cub’s tail. His chest a garden that you will never have. There is a kangaroo feeling in his Hermes for the weird names he has given his children. His body is a tropical of testosterone. When you give him a plate with food he carries the whole world in his hands. He is an investor actor of others that understands French Revolution and the ways it affected Europe.

He will be the triumphant.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 338

   Damien Adaleux to Juan Lamouz

5-10-2001, Paris

 Dear Juan,

It would be dishonest of me to claim that I’m not a maniac these days.

Surprise is more preferable than block. I decided to approach the ideal husband so as to sink his ships in Actium along with her who belonged to the South of the empress which I will enfilade.

She is the South and I am the North. I missed the West and East to make a Latin or Greek crucifix.

I steered myself in his mind’s Marseilles with a letter. Place of meeting?

My house of course… The palace of my Parisian Rome…

After all, the cathedra of the Popes moved for many years from Vatican to Avignon in France.

I have the Infallibility and I do not plan to give it away to others.

As her Pope, I had to find a way to eliminate my illegal enemy since I will have to return to my Holy Cathedra one day.

Spiritualized… I do not disagree… Of a humble origin though and a shaking morality… Son of a fallen family… All his wealth was lost in the altar of the New City’s Lion.

My fingers became chords in an Apollonian lyre when I impressed the notes he needed on the score…

The contract he signed with his soul’s blood had one condition on the numbered paper of absolution. He would do whatever I commanded.

He was not given thirty pieces of silver… One million euro was a start… I always believed that all people have a price…

The volume, the weight and the quality determine the value of the products. Transmutation brings the data’s rapid change.

I, an ambassador of the Eternal Flowing… The Great Teacher of Imputation and Fallacy…

My manuscripts are illegitimate or forged I dare say. The compass that crosses them is doubt. Only then they are transformed into originality.

Whatever is visible does not exist, but is. Whatever is is visible but I doubt it exists. Whatever exists is not visible but it may be.

Whatever is dictated to him, he will write it and do it.

My Cleopatra will be unwillingly bitten by my megaphone.

My hand is a snake of infinitesimal calculus.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 350

  Lucy Sanguin to Damien Adaleux

20-10-2001, Paris

 Dear Damien,

Guillaume is throwing down the glove. He told me that you cannot make a square in chess with me, Louis and Jean Pierre.

When the cross evolves from a baboon to a person it will become the fifth terminus in row on the five tangential spots of the circle. Guillaume, without touching your band, claims that Aeolus took the two plane tree’s leaves on which you stand at his branch. He says that the one plies in Gibraltar and the other in the land of Aeetes.

He also saw that I laid out your derivative. Your true father wrote to me that he does not have your surname. Apart from everything else he told me the divine words that you chew LSD like Pythia. He mentioned that you are a conscious Van Gogh as if he knows you from the future continuous.

He must be a native Calchas. How can he know all these things without having his Canis Majoris on your area? I expect your reply.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 360      

   Lucy Sanguin to Sophie Caron

26-10-2001, Paris

 Dear Sophie,

I became the statue of Milos. Guillaume asked for our hands to be united. His word is a Californian ghost. In my room I am Teresa from Avila. I do not drink. I do not eat. I do not speak. I only wet my sheet. Without explanation. I cry over nothing. Is it possible for a Tristan to neglect his Isolde and have a positive sign when he sends her to death?

Two equitant layers of nicotine under my eyes and next to them the feet of a duck.

Ho can this youth go together with its deterioration? Nobody calls me anymore. Who is responsible for my misery and for shutting out my friends? Who?

I miss Damien now. Only he knows how to love me for who I truly am…

We are made from the same material. Cherries on a birthday cake and all the banqueters are poisoned. We do not care to ruin the lives of others. We just use them to hurt each other.

But this cannot really happen. You cannot shoot life. Nor give breath to death.

We are both fire-proof. How can your liver be appreciated by your belly? Everyone was betrayed but ourselves…

Babylon’s pyramid-like gardens! Do you know which our previous reincarnation was? Pharisees, Jewish cantonal judges at God’s crucifixion, a responsibility totally ours.

In 1330 we were reborn as fleas on mice and we exterminated half of Europe’s population with the bubonic and pneumonic plague.

In another life we were guillotines for the decapitation of royal heads but also for the elimination of the people of Revolutionary France.

We are the idea of Typhus and Anomy…

We are Jesus Christ’s miracles! Nothing would be possible without Him!

He gave us a fertile land and our privileges! A better generation than our own sad one will come!

We are not all God’s creatures… Do our mushrooms cause you any problems?

Sophie, when you hurt others you benefit yourself.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 400

 Damien Adaleux to Louis Martineux  

12-1-2002, Paris

 Dear Louis,

The sun’s coronation brought my empire’s rise. Lucy came like the moon in vertigo. I waited for her like a lion waits for the unconscious deer.

I kissed her forehead like the living bury the dead in mausoleums.

In the half lit living room, the electrocution of my kisses penetrated her body’s fire-flies. A new light was sparkling in the half opened door of my room.

A cage with the mystery’s decoder as bait. She laid her red raincoat on the table ready for the undetermined ritual. My hands were hotel keepers in my pants’ pockets having the humidity of the night…

I had chosen a privileged death for her amongst myriads that were out there.

Her hearing on the separative line between lying and truth was stimulating to me, giving it a small push like when we close our house’s door to the canary which came for the locals with bait.

I blocked the door with the keys of Saint Peter and I unlocked my darkest appetites.

The fox that all these years showed me she would be sentenced to death in our arms.

Every small or big Sunday would be drafted on her body by me. She would be paid up for her affair with Guillaume with an increased bank rate.

I stumbled and slightly hit my leg.

She tried to elevate her dignity. She asked for the reason of my action. She had not realized that Louis and Jean Pierre were carved on two chairs in the empty space for painting. One in Japan and the other in America were mobile only with the Floridian asianism.

When she realized it she became a sun with clouds in front of me. She fell down, kissed and cried on my knees. The weaned water of the Repentant Sinner…

I felt like a little God. Every Jehovah though must be affable for his crucifix. I did not intend to quit from the grass. I should not only be part of a miracle but also be the miracle. Nobody had the right to steal my Resurrection.

After all, her tears did not clean my octopuses but only my dusty shoes. Abraham’s sacrifice did not matter at all.

She kept apologizing to me for the shadows she had taken off my body saying that to convey somebody else’s words was one of her most provocative mistakes…

I acted with the Viking executioner’s instinct. I pulled her hair like Neanderthal and threw her roughly on the bed. How could she believe in Thoth’s miracles if she did not take part herself?

They taught us that believing in our God is a universal value. How are you going to teach his religion if you do not suffer his own tortures? But you have the right to steal the name of an anonymous God and be written in the holy incidents of life. Every one of us can become God. Just as long as somebody has the guts to accept the fact that this right belongs to all people until someday it is taken from them. I do not disagree. Bitter acceptance… Necessary for Mother Earth…

I threatened her that if she does not obey like a scout to my wishes I will send her loved one to the Underworld since I will reveal him her dual Aristotelian and her numerous lovers by their names and addresses.

I keep my promises. Fear had become a satellite over her head while Charon was threatening her loved one. I was a mason of the universe and at the same time a God-lamb.

I would once again sacrifice my soul to save the world.

Salvator Mundi above our heads… And us four like guards in hypnosis.

We would face the light of dawn like a pearl and with chameleons discs in the sky as a sign.

I always appreciated Piero della Francesca as a fresco artist.

A vertical sober power which does not doubt its value… Almost like Poussin’s… I am attracted by the monumental… How could I be deified without recruiting painters and religious images or students like Louis and Jean Pierre?

The third cockscomb was blackmail’s four-leaf clover. Of a practical nature I would say…

I would describe details to her Saturn from her rape by her cousin.

Her eyes acquired a tempest like before we were arrested by Efialtes.

Louis and Jean Pierre rose from their chairs and with human bodies stood on the left and right side of the bed for the Rightful Judgment.

Her hands became aeroplanes and hit the Twin Towers. These had collapsed from over heating.

Lots of corpses were flattening her little town. New York became Jerusalem and her mouth became a dump. I should have been a worthy descendant of Innocent the Third at Holy Land.

The remnants of the Birth and the temple of the Resurrection and Golgotha lied heavy on me. I had to reconstruct them with a crusade of dogmatic style and raise my Holy Crucifix.

As king of England, the conquest of Cyprus was a distractive plan.

The Mother of all Nations had received all the believers in her papal mitre while on her knees at the remnants of the Twin Towers. The constructive repairs lasted long.

I preferred to dig her ground so as to steal the cloak under the Altar.

Her papal mitre became river Jordan and I received the fire’s baptism after the flood.

The other two were surrounding me like animals in the barn and she was John the Baptist.

Perhaps we were the three magicians who offered her gifts… A female Jesus! My right side of the left heel… After all, gods cannot be confined in waterproof cases or genders.

I felt the shakes of her buttresses in the cathedral of Reims. I hid in her basements to escape from the outer bombarding that shook my faith and my lion head.

That church was antiseismic. If she resisted like it happened in Paris when conquered by the Germans, she would transform into an African-American fairy.

Knowing though the difficult position I was in, she did not resist at all.

This unconditional faith without precautions could add new fans to those already existing.

I do not pose any new demand for the time being.

Our bodies’ unity was the sumptuous feast of the Christian liturgy.

The friction of the bodies with other believers announcing during liturgy causes cacophony and lighters in the soul that you have as kindling under your clothes. I now saw Louis and Jean Pierre more competitively. But differently too…

Who would take the gold, the silver or the bronze medal in her body? Medal is not enough. Our performances mattered as well.

Who would throw his child further to the hymen which was taking various inclinations?

It seemed like your ectoplasm was rolling on your bathing suit. Nails that were trying to get over each other.

The balloon was about to break. Her look was not much different than that of Catherine the Great. At some point I felt like I saw goddess Astarte.

Thankfully, I quickly baptized her Unholy Altar with toothpaste so as she could write a New Testament.

The other two baptized her and baptized themselves with lather.

The Big Catastrophe always comes from a clarification of calculations. The need for catharsis even stronger…

After this hieratic paroxysm-Louis a catholic and Jean Pierre a protestant- I can claim that Christ’s church endured the reprisal towards the Catholics and the slaughter of the Huguenots without a grumble.

It was a religious cry of intercourse.

With myself beaten by the waves every time Guillaume pretended to be me and projected my most macabre thoughts on Lucy as if they were his.

Our bodies were like seaweeds on our feet carried away by currents of indefinite direction.

We thought touch was an anonymous identity of the flesh, knowing the texture and not her origin. I did not care at all about her details.

The feeling that we were a portion of a New Year’s pie whose levels we had tasted before and not at her completeness which was enough…

It seemed I took my revenge from Guillaume like an angel-avenger, but in reality I had revenged Lucy who was unaware of her breakdown.

A double triumph. I would not have the temples of Rome dead like Augustus. Now I was not only an Emperor but a God too.

This double quality assures you immortality. Why not a vast arrogance like the desert’s grains?

The torture was completed at the same time with the miracle. Combine business with pleasure.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

   LETTER 480

  Lucy Sanguin to Damien Adaleux

4-11-2002, Paris

 Dear Damien,

Guillaume described to me what happened that January sunset with every detail as if he was a witness.

He had called me Mother Teresa and I was so furious that I wanted to erect his stamen and make his hippopotamus emerge.

He wrote to me saying that he will be citizen of your Rome if you obey the following Ten Commandments: 1) you must have sexual intercourse of deconstruction with your Holy one and Louis as your accomplice, 2) you must have sexual intercourse of masons with your “Lucrezia Borgia”, 3) you must rape Abel for his sacrifice, 4) you must become subject and object of a sentence at the same time with your friend Jean Pierre joining too, 5) you must express your love with actions in Lenin’s Mausoleum, 6) you must taste all kinds of addictions with wine and lamb over night, 7) you must be a child molester in Thailand, 8) you must make a woman fall for you head over heels and then break up with her so as she become depressed, 9) you must truly love a boy by kissing it on the mouth, like a lion, and your feeling should be bottled, 10) after you do all these things, you must invite him home to show him in Trilogy (Birth, Peak and Decay) your recorded achievements.

The Ninth Commandment is as impossible as to turn your Creator into Isaac. He specifically told me that only when Christ becomes king of hell will you have pure human feelings and that you are unable to do many things.

He says you were born with lots of “must” and you maintain a proper fame in society like a virtuoso.

He wrote to me that he already knew what kind of hideous actions you will do.

Thus, freedom of will is a rank lie which some people infuse in human beings’ souls so as to tame the caged beasts and keep them from being released and devour them. He told me he dared you to make me realize that you were not the best from those three in the box!

I was the satirical drama and you were the three tragedies. He claims he had won the first prize in the Great Spiritual Dionysia.

He underlined that it is impossible he had contributed in your soul’s rotting; this had happened long ago…

Is he the man of my life? I don’t know… I am sending you Guillaume’s letters so as you can gain Poseidon in your Aphrodite like the Great Wall of China which has been mildewed. I confess that Guillaume has a greater impact on my thought than your sphere of influence.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 520      

 Damien Adaleux to Louis Martineux

4-2-2003, Paris

 Dear Louis,

The eighth miracle of the world! Myself! Guillaume succumbed to my money and I persuaded him to break up with my Assam!

My Babylonian communist queen of Star Wars got trapped in the scheme I had planned.

In the corner of the Eternal Geometer, the greatest rival, I dropped his Saturnalia. I took advantage of the situation of Luck and Need.

Poor her! She thinks that her father does not know what her cousin did to her when she was little… She deludes herself… An adulteress with a leaden parental signature… A callous hand holding the lantern. Ignorance is defeat’s best student.

Guillaume was a gift from God. He helped to make her humble-loyal. I fired him when he started having feelings for her. I managed to poison their relationship.

This fortune-hunter, though, must be displaced. I am the culprit… I will make sure she never finds out…

Let her live with her Chimeras! Let the cast of the non-emancipated be away from me. I must have been a Hindu prince in a previous reincarnation.

I believe in Milk of Curable Spurious of Greek Pensive Joy and Sadness and in His good grace. All pathetic people must thank him like Lucy and I in the Olympic Stadium.

How can you appreciate health without sickness? How can you admire the pigeon if you do not separate it from the bat? How can you separate the dump from the beach?

I do not allow anyone to interfere with my private life and decry it as if we have been friends for years.

I am an important person of society. I am not just somebody…

Judgments or prophecies about my name are unacceptable. I am on the peak of my decay. Did anybody ask to be saved by him?

I do not ask for redemption. The county’s nature and my beauty’s charm are gables on my Evening star.

Nobody can count though the size of worms I have inside me with decimal numbers.

I can walk on the sea’s storm and lead you to the Promise Land through it. Christ blesses people like me! Sinners of the world blessed by Christ! My father and I had the Star of David on the ring.

I would not be a Christian if he didn’t lavishly give me privileges. I would search for another boss.

I am a lamb in the sheepfold for whoever makes the most beneficial offer.

Don’t forget! Christ once had a traitor for his student! It seemed he loved traitors and rotten figs very much!

Lucy gives me her scarf knowing I corrupt her so as she can benefit me. The other guy offered her everything and she led him to disaster.

I will not say any more details. I am a discreet person.

Unfortunately, Lucy can only understand about him what she feels.

Since you understand you can take anything and make peace with others.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 550  

 Damien Adaleux to George Labrousse

25-4-2003, Paris

 Dear George,

I am sending you a photocopy of Lucy’s letter. Guillaume’s family is about to be broke. I decided to get rid of him with the cleverest way.

Her father is a puritan. I sent him letters I had that he had sent to Lucy with totally sexual content to seem on one hand catechetical and nice and on the other hand to threaten him and leave her alone.

Complaints and lawsuits were thrown into the downpour. Kill two birds with one stone! Christ’s miracles are nothing compared to mine… Why does everyone admire an invisible God? Why don’t they admire me that I live amongst them? Why should I be deified after my death? I have grape fruit ideas. Like Christ got past Old Testament, I will get past New one. I must be the third in succession. The poor man of God thought he could mess with us Patricians without dealing with the expected consequences.

Where to find money to give to a broke man for court battles? He retreated like a vulture with a wounded wing… Everyone at his place and all of us in our nest…

I am the surgeon and the dissector of the human soul.

My scalpel can estimate sections accurately and cure or butcher. This will depend on my interests or mood.

Us members of high society we use people and situations for our games in order not to be bored. Their right place is in the garbage bins.

I am the state and whoever acts against me will have the end of Fouquier-Tinville.

I want all objects in order and cared for. I want others to be the pawns and I do not want to receive sudden incidents.

That person of divided morality should be away from Lucy. I just helped her father for truth to come out. My ascetic truth…

I am the black sun with its halo. Admire me!

I was honoured by August 11th 1999…

The beams still exist in the darkness. A nature’s miracle…

I know everybody’s weaknesses and I move depending on them.

Even if I chopped her, she would glorify my name during the cut because she forgives everything I do.

I like to step on her foot just to see her kick me. Guillaume swore at her once and she refused to see him again.

He was not blessed with my virtues! I am an amazing lover, painter, sculptor, poet, novelist, composer, lyricist, singer, great hypocrite, band member, founder, director, dancer, journalist, athlete, blogger, hacker, video artist and Lucifer’s admirer and hunter…

The catalogue of new is incomplete. The gift of my persuasion has been spared.

Be sure that since I am good looking, even if I eliminated half of the earth’s population, judges would find mitigating factors and dismiss me.

I have the looks of Bush Jr. God willing I commit crimes without doubt and guilt.

Whoever died by the hand of American Presidents are anonymous. Everyone you know I killed had a surname and a name.

I wish I had the power to exterminate all the earth’s population! For the extra terrestrial civilizations of space! We are the greatest threat, not them…

Greater proof is that the worst kind of man is man, is myself and my memoirs.

For the time being, I enjoy my victory over Iraq and Serbia.

I am the Capitalist of the Round Evil.

I like smashing with my boot everyone that does not belong to my tastes like a cockroach.

I am sure I will get everything I deserve and that I will enjoy everything I deserve for a long time.

All girls must follow Lucy’s example. Treat everything that matters like it is a garbage bin and make a statue for everything that is garbage.

Only such women should exist so as everything I stand for can triumph.

Why then carry a cross on your shoulder while I and my friends achieve everything without labour but with our cheap soul?

You succeed with corruption and immorality. If you look at Sistine Chapel, God gives breath to the creature with his hand.

Whatever the painting is, this is what its Creator is too. Are you something different from what you excrete?

We are our actions and our thoughts. Not the ideas… These belong to Heaven and to the dead so as we Gods can resurrect them and make them owe us dinners.

We kill them and we resurrect them. What is simpler than that?

This way we seem important hunting dogs.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

LETTER 720

Lucy Sanguin to Sophie Caron

10-8-2008, Paris

 Dear Sophie,

What would the revolution of the Franks be without the enlightened nobles of the Tennis Court? Ganges does not flow backwards. The New French Revolution is a fact.

Pierre revealed everything to me. The king must be transferred to Kerameikos from Versailles. I am tired of waiting for him in Trianon’s circle to promise he will multiply the few ignorant pieces of bread.

I possess all his letters to Jeremy. The clones of his letters are in the hands of his own ministers. Much more so, his revolutionaries.

The scene of the phallus’s fall, which was described in a letter of his to César, is everywhere in the circles of high society. Definitely a Menander’s scene.

Our Louis became Paradise’s Adam!

The libels that circulate against him have no precedent.

Before I do those actions though, I avenged him in a different tone.

I invited him to an exotic dinner. I, he and Louis who had demanded we broke up. The place of meeting was an unknown to them apartment of immigrants in the capital.

The house belonged to an anarchist friend of mine whom I had met in Sorbonne. I had taken its keys so as our king and his Kalon could be locked up in Korydallos.

I was the virgin of Leucippus between Castor and Polydeuces.

Why experience Paradise alone when you can embrace Hell with someone else?

If you do not throw the seed for the almond tree to grow and get bigger with your mouth’s liquid, how can she produce blooms and leaves?

How am I going to imitate Dryope? An offering of green blood should be made.

An angelic knife came out of my bag. Their shirts fell on the dusty marble ground like revolutionary nurses, highlighting the muddy memories that somebody can have from a life without golden coins.

A life stung by a sting. I drew a heart on their shaven by arson chests.

Maybe because I wanted not to reforest but to found a New Civilization.

A Gothic civilization… Or maybe because their hairs were not from chlorophyll.

I wanted red trees and rivers, like the soul’s flames. I gave a lighter tone to their contentious chests with my tongue. To be exact, a rosy one like life is not.

I drew Damien our relationship’s sunset without him having any premonitions about it.

Their clothing scissors and their intermittent cardboards had been taken away without any hesitation.

I had taken the position of a tiger on the half-weathered, dusty bed.

My flexibility was like an erection that offered Louis various expressions depending on the displacements of Damien’s head: one time at the temple that was on my two hills and other times on the reversed side of earth.

Damien was cleaning the path that led from Omar’s temple to my Vatican.

His mouth was a Spanish sea. From his tongue’s religion to its heresy or its intention, so as I get troubled for which path to follow and taste virtue’s garden.

His waves were about to swallow the two most sacred cities of Christians. A subsea earthquake in the Cretan Sea of a magnitude of Pharaoh’s ten wounds was coming to drown all Christians.

Jews and Muslims of those areas. I felt the lack of land like the castaway fighting with the waves.

I was melting too… I was almost absorbed by his liquid, magic wand and I was about to drown with my guards of ancient cities, like Atlantis.

The culprit was the collision of the African slab with Greece. Or better the collision of interests of Sickness and Power.

All believers would get drowned from the comet Louis would throw on earth. Rome and Jerusalem would be of the sea now… Instead, their immoralities in continuous tense.

At some point my mouth became Bagdad constantly bringing missiles and bombs of Louis.

My teeth were collateral damage asking for their toothpaste.

Maybe Damien thought that having a father from America means he can blame others for the mistakes he makes.

I am afraid this cannot happen this time… The American guy and his friend may have eliminated cities and killed non-combatant with biological weapons but time had come for: “The payment of the tax.”

Christ was absent in the middle of the composition.  The arrangement of the fantasies was circular. Damien gave knife and will receive more knives.

I converted to Judaism. Suddenly the Door opened. It was not Christ… They were my ten Seraph Labradors.

“Peter” and “John” were upset for the tax their God had to pay to the Tax-collector’s temple.

They froze with mechanical procedures. Their hands were Gordian as it is common before the time of the guillotine comes.

Those two thieves with the big teeth and the long ears… They were screaming… They were yammering… And I in the middle waiting for the end.

I was the Elevated Christ of Antonello da Messina to initiate heaven.

They became ancient Minoans by a razor with forest’s strip to remind to everyone that there is always hope in Sahara and to straighten the sail in the reprisal. They were mercilessly whipping them with stock whips for forty minutes.

Their condemnation was guilt. The ten jurors declared it with judicial and religious conditions without a chance of appeal or absolution.

Acropolis was a holy place to the Alkmeonides.

I decided to send their microphones with a scalpel to the guillotine to silence them.

Prices were a little atrocity in two plates with tomato and acorns.

I devoured the fish so as they will not thrive anywhere else.

We left them half-unconscious in the lake of Bartholomew.

I was later informed that their disability was spreading like a cancer in hands and feet.

They remained deficient. Unfortunately not in the head. But this was not enough for me. I had arrested all his friends at the port.

I sent all his letters with his hideous crimes to the tabloids.

The government collapsed. Damien and his father asked Russia for refuge so as not to go to prison.

It is too late for Guillaume though. I heard he committed suicide.

I will go to his grave tomorrow to leave an orchid knowing that sooner or later Brick-Fielder will blow her dried leaves to the four points of the horizon.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  THE END

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Mentre Humpty dirige i veri amici sul sito web dove alcune persone devono alzare i fagioli, Puss eppure la vita coniugale di Kitty inizia a crescere lontano dalla competizione con il cameratismo. Il terzetto fa volare la pianta rampicante in rapida crescita attraverso l'atmosfera in cui Humpty fa vedere dove troveranno l'avventura della sfidante in ritardo. Poi, il mio maritino si incontra, per formidabile enorme nome generalmente Terror così, che salvaguarda la stessa ggdb. quando sono sempre coscienti, una sorta di uovo d'oro è abbastanza pesante da trasportare, queste persone si limitano a trattare l'oca, che è considerata semplicemente come una papera, dato che fuggono generalmente anche la paura. Mentre la celebrazione della vittoria della compagnia è stata allegra, questo gruppo è sempre stato irretito da Jack in combinazione con Jill, che ha perso il puss. Era in passato un giovedì pomeriggio, relativo al mezzo metodo attraverso il quale attraverso le lezioni del mattino. Il nostro sistema di sicurezza antincendio è andato storto! L'adrenalina stava pompando a velocità incredibile! Cliffy ha fatto in modo che possa combattere l'irresistibile voglia di vacanza dietro e dirigere l'operazione stessa. Ai geniali brillanti non è mai piaciuto ottenere il retro sicuro delle code. Mark ha pregato, nessuno probabilmente sarebbe riuscito ad aiutare l'uomo a ottenere giustizia. La testa individuale è stata la prima a girare a causa del fatto che sono rimasto concentrato sulla monaca. Mike e John si sono dilettati ammirevolmente. È probabile che siano andati al mercato a sinistra invece di andare verso l'accettabile nel corridoio. Dopo di ciò è accaduto uno speciale. La considerevole bocca di Myra, la più grande spia della classe, comunicò immediatamente a Suor Roseanne che ognuno dei nostri ragazzi guidava il modo fuori strada. Questo metodo era invulnerabile che il nostro creatore era attraverso i nostri risultati. Vook doveva essere avviato dall'imprenditore Bradley Inman, lanciato l'1 ottobre 2009 con quattro primissimi titoli. La gente, anno dopo, Vook offre 250 titoli. Quelli amati includono la No Limit Publishing di San Diego, l'editoria di Filipacchi, il Brand Golden Goose Saldi roup di Woman's Entire Day, Simon Schuster, Atria Books, HarperStudio, HarperCollins Publishers, Gruppo di libri di riferimento Perseus, Lark Productions, Chopra Foundation, Vanguard Press, Waxman Literary Agency, e poi TurnHere Video basato sul Web. Diventando l'istanza in che modo messi insieme, aiutiamo a risolvere questo problema associato a così tanti di tutti loro che si stanno avvicinando per davvero bene? Andare in qualsiasi città minima o ingombrante e inoltre si potrebbe certamente vedere le giovani imprese che di solito non hanno girato molto tempo fa per produrre decenni non spregiudicati per le imprese. In poche osservazioni e / o parlando mentre utilizzo una sfida dei proprietari delle imprese, il mio coniuge è certo una motivazione fondamentale per il motivo per cui senza dubbio non stanno seguendo questa Golden Goose Scarpe Outlet uova sorprendente Golden Goose Scarpe Outlet conomia. E infine, il bug delle lesioni personali continua a continuare a mordere Tony Moeaki solo nel perseguimento (o in realtà, in un braccio che crea una spalla fratturata quando si tratta del gioco dei steelers di Pittsburgh), inoltre, va senza dire ha alcun capo dei lavori di costruzione in cerca di un esperto che può certamente rimanere sulla nicchia come un solido finale solido. Anthony Fasano è sempre stato la presenza stagionata, ma piuttosto è a corto del set esplosivo di talento offensivo del fatto che questo adattamento dei Capi particolari abbia forse bisogno di una stretta stretta. Rookie Travis Kelce porta le competenze, ma non l'impegno di jamming in questa NFL. Si fissano per essere sempre le prime due estremità vincolate oltre alla volontà di giocare al gioco una grande maggioranza di fotografie per KC. Il cambiamento è sempre stato spaventoso, anche così senza di esso, non ci potrebbero essere più progressi. Esplora quel fuoco aperto nel cuore inteso per l'unica cosa che potrebbe sostituire la tua vita e che gli esperti rivendicano all'infinito la tua famiglia primaria e sopportano un atto per raggiungere quel testamento oggi. In poche parole, ero lì dove sei solo una possibilità, in questo momento sono dove tu decidi davvero di essere, unisciti a me personalmente. L'aiuto potrebbe essere solo una telefonata via telefono o via email.

[pencildragons]

how am i finally understanding colour theory from doing TEN MINUTES of CSS CODING instead of doing any drawing literally ever . are you kidding me

[pencildragons]

[Image ID: a closeup screenshot of a single line code in the program Spyder. it reads 'import numpy as np'. 'import' and 'as' are both purple text, the other words are white. the background is dark grey. end ID]

SIGH.

nucleus of my python assignment just went missing so i can't open the file ..... turning into a piece of pumicestone and floating out to sea forever i think