In the beginning he knew no difference, no heaven or hell or paradise or pandemonium, only the sameness of lack-luster days, the information told over radio waves, the screen’s promises, the packaging of tranquility in rainbow boxes, the inert force of future conquests, of suppressed sexuality leaking out of the hooded tubes of products, the whole perfect world balancing on terms and definitions. These were the prejudices, myths in a definite Sorelian context, the foundations of which held the entire structure of his consciousness.
The stage was set, a great black wolf joining a friendly ghost, Frankenstein, a skeleton, and a pirate. They cheered quietly. Joseph watched without joining in, he was already a member, the words were impeded within the text he’d read to his children for years, they’d been hiding in the last place, having been systematically gleaned from all the rest, they’d wisely escaped to children’s books. There are no more courageous verses, no cadence of bardic splendor, timbre has been called on their poetry, they are checked, censored, stiffly adjusted for maximum consumption, they are made democratic, they are the victims of Readian notions of accessibility, they are the failing voices of dissention. He is introduced; there is no guilt. They look upon him suspiciously.
Prowling on stage the Cat advances on cue, fluid, graceful, publicly expressing midnight thoughts, romantic poses, cocked head, hips extenuated, the long line of her abdomen, the crescent shadows of pert breasts, the posture of a siren. Joseph watches her consciously maneuver their eyes to the Wolf. She sees him as he wonders what she thinks of her role in the proceedings. She does not turn away.
“Good, good, I’m glad you came, we’re all very glad to have you,” the ghost of Carl Reagan’s voice says into his ear. “He’ll speak for a little while, then it’s off to meet and greet your new friends. We’re calling you Morning Star.”
Mr. Mephisto.
“No one has a name here, that’s the Wolf, I’m ghost, the woman we’re all gawking at’s Miss Kitty, and so on. The Wolf’s the boss, he’s going to ask you to agree to certain terms, the most important of which is for you to throw off the manacles of your oppression, namely the drugs, we’re all off of them, not a bite. You see that’s the control factor, the rebranding technique, the gone for the thirty days and brainwashed into submission, convincing us all we need tranquility and can only achieve it through managed care of our emotions, but they’ve engineered us that way, my friend, you see, I may have my problems, but they’re not natural, no, for every solution they’ve coded into my chemistry they’ve added their little defense systems, making it oh so believable my friend. But I’ll let him tell you about it more. But welcome, welcome, welcome to the Players.”
Joseph had not turned his eyes away from her; he saw her standing alone (usually meaning one is in bad company) on the podium. There was expression to her stance; it was odd to see her body capped by a mask so queer, so opposing to the organic angularity of her limbs. Her legs were posed oddly, highlighting the curve of her posterior and the slope of her back, as if she always advertised her body parts, those portions of her flesh that men noticed first, her chest, her stomach, her crotch, her backside, her legs, and hid her personality. He felt a soothing pleasure, she seemed unable to turn away from him, undisguised, her eyes searching him without turning away, he felt himself transported across the wires between them.
Then he was guided away. She watched him. He was looking off, above them as they were introduced. He glanced back towards her every few minutes, as if he was making sure that she was still watching, as if he was about do to something and she needed to see it.
* * *
As an introduction, which is currently, coincidentally, occurring in the plot, the Player’s Rebellion (they prefer the more anfractuous term ‘resistance’) is a loose rabble of hardly fifty members that meet infrequently to devise nyctophoniac plots against their fellow citizens in order to ‘awaken’ them to their own (subjectively speaking) proverbial social incarceration. Arthur Dodger, also known as Father Nicholas (and amongst the rebels: the Wolf), is recognized, both ceremonially and conventionally, as the leader (however he knows far better), and during this initiation service, as Joseph is, shall we say knighted, he passively (very nobly) welcomes the new recruit by delivering a kalokagathical sermon that is Derridian in its pure deconstructionalism, although the Bonhoefferian undertones are missed by many of his listeners. If we were to be metoposcopic about Arthur Dodger, we would have to say he appeared to be reflective, while at the same time given to grinning widely (this we deduce from facial etchings) rather than jocularity, that he had unused working man hands (thick fingers with cinnamon rolls for knuckles), a prejudice for treating people as inferiors (he puts on certain apparent airs), and a philosophical brow. His eyes were slightly large in comparison to the phrenologically sound size of his head, giving Arthur an innocence that was mere mirage, and providing him with that attribute so utilitarian in his occupation that one might say it was exploited. Seated in a large, plush (throne) chair and surrounding himself in bona fide tobacco smoke, Arthur Dodger stares at the new initiate as three other ‘players’ co-mingle in hushed voices and in an evident orchestration of dutiful behavior.
Since Joseph doesn’t know him, he cannot be aware of Arthur’s true nature (we won’t offer a prosopography here), and is forced to rely on the face set so strictly before him. However, the paradox has some indications, Arthur’s interest in grapholagnia while at the same time being afflicted with gymnophobia is indicated somewhat disinterestingly by his tendency to cloth himself in high collars, long sleeves (overly long, down to his own fingers), and full-length socks (so that when he sits, there is no sliver of hairy leg between his trousers and his socks). But, of course, Joseph makes no mention of this and patiently waits to be addressed (as per the instructions of Carl Reagan).
Carl Reagan is not present at this time. Although, seemingly always present for the entire interview, is Noah Petrov, known as Granny Winslow to the children’s book reading public (and amongst the rebels: the Pirate), who, unbeknownst to Joseph, is given to treating the movement as his very own expergefaction due to his undiagnosed sophomania coupled with bipolar desipiency, causing Noah to say things like: “the rhadamanthine hierodule that I am, I cannot uncover a dolorifuge to end my suffering.” Noah scurries about the room, mumbling, stopping to see if he can add anything to the conversation, and then, continuing his asymmetrical hyperboles. He is a small man, easily confused as a woman if seen from the back, due to slight shoulders, supple arms, and a tendency to swing his hips quite violently when he walks (which has recently become a point of great irritation for poor Noah, who realizes that he’s doing it and tries to stop it, giving the appearance of a hula dancer with no tempo). In order to combat his effeminate stature, Noah Petrov has an enormous Whitmanesq beard that he allows to grow impudently and unwashed hair he slicks back with grease.