* * *
“You see, my dear friend,” Joseph said, sitting on the stoop of the alleyway back entrance of a remarkably homogenized fashionable restaurant known simply as Top and feeding several small, slinky feral cats, one of which was part Persian, part Long-hair, with an orange coat, “it’s not so much a matter of beauty and harmony. We can liken it to a painting, if you will. My mother, not of course, my maternal progenitor, but rather my adopted caregiver, forgive me for my impertinence, I do not know feline, used to say I was page one hundred and fifty-six and page two hundred and twelve of Madam Bovary. Meaning of course — she was speaking of my eyeballs — that I am a construction of influences. Consider, my good friend, the notion of consciousness, for most people, death is a fearful thing because you lose consciousness, it dissipates into the void, who you are dies along with the flesh’s decay. But really, if you think about it, what is consciousness? Are we conscious of our liver, our heart, do we have any conscious control over blood flow or the synaptic flames in our brain? No, of course, I see you assenting — this is true logic. Our consciousness then, we must agree, is how we perceive ourselves based upon unreliable sources, other people, our impressions on how we behave, our fallible understanding of our own mannerisms, our little thoughts and emotions guided by outer influences. The more influences, the more fodder for this understanding we receive, the greater the consciousness. In other words, our access to ideas, information, art, all of these things, determines the expanse of personal awareness. You, for instance, have never read Tolstoy or Andrew Marvell, you’ve never seen a Cassatt or Raphael, you have never heard Vivaldi or Monk, and therefore, your own awareness is severely limited. Forgive me for saying so, but your ignorance, although seemingly blissful, is actually imprisonment. People, I should say, they fear death because they will lose their impressions of themselves. These they acquired based upon abstractions. It is not a fear of loss of blood, we do not fear the actual mechanism of our hearts stopping, we fear the outcome, that the energy will no longer flow to our brains and we shall expand exponentially into nothingness, no longer aware of the physical world. However, the way things are, most of these people have not had the influences to expand their consciousness beyond melodrama and what, in that, is really tragic? You see Theo, I do not embark on this mission as a saboteur, to proverbially throw a wrench in the great mechanism, no, no, my dear cat, I am an assassin, I’m afraid, the very most dangerous of the honorable, this is then, an act of hubris. How you ask, I expected it, how you ask can I leap off a bridge? Because I was fortunate enough to be given to idleness as a young man and to have been reared by an idle woman. We had nothing but our thoughts and our consciousness and we fed them like they were starving urchins. A death then, was nothing more than a loss of how I was perceived, a forcible ending to the engines of my anatomy, closing the book, if you will, on my own expansion, a return to ignorance. For does a child die if they pass before they have consciousness, before they can understand that they are perceived and that they should begin to acquire information? I think not, they go from whence they came. They do not know that they have lived, so how can they really die? If death is feared for stripping us of who we are, who we understand ourselves to be, it is nonexistent then to one who does not understand they exist. Our harmony then, makes us like innocent babes, stunting our ability to be conscious. We are as children, unaware of living so our lives are meaningless. We are the citizens of a content purgatory that does not allow us to consider what’s outside its confines. Like you, kitty cats, whom never expanded beyond the realm of simple needs, we are inflated beasts, only our needs multiplied without acquiring a true understanding of ourselves in order to fathom anything more. That is a tragedy, my dear friends, a manufactured mythology. As you may be aware, humanity has often times invented these control devices, these ways of suppressing wisdom and knowledge, these manacles of consciousness. This, I believe, is our theory of humours, the invented explanation for why we require control. We replace one fable with another, if it’s not Hippocrates’ than its Immunex’s, however both, equal in their intolerable grandeur of contortion, are essentially the same, they limit our ability to realize our existence and the innate value in it.
“You might think, and in this case you would be wrong, that I intend then, to stab Hippocrates to death. But no, my friendly audience, I intend to have Hippocrates stab me to death. For we can only disprove a theory by experimentation, this we have not been given the right to do and so, I shall take it upon myself to be our universal scientist. My theory contradicts the prevailing zeitgeist and if the world is not round than I shall fall off the side.”
* * *
Halfway up the array, slowly gliding into frame in a drapey, lucent robe with bell tower sleeves, one tie, right there, two inches under the sternum, tossed open to the sides, fingers trickling downwards, swaying to music they can’t hear, palms cupping her own flanks, bent forward, twisting, file reads like a domestic differences court proceeding: “subversive requests… immoral needs… several documented instances of perversion… indication of self-gratification rituals… husband filed action request… episode involving produce inserted into vagina… a lack of sociability…” as she sways her hips towards a mirror, licks the air in front of thirty or so people (unbeknownst to her), and leans against the wall. Hand spread open begins to descend down, pulls string slowly, tosses back the gown, two round tits, presses from the outside in, mashing them together, feigned attempt to lick left nipple, squeezing roughly, Vincent with tented pants already, two uncomfortable coughs, clearing throats, strained focus on anything else, sideward glances, stroking them stiff, snake-like torso movements, mouth open, lazy wanting eyes, hand continues downward over right breast, dips into ribs, over abdominal muscles (very nicely defined), brushing belly button, fingers pointing down, twirling groomed hair-line, disappearing finger tips, Vincent leaking, wetting lips, a few coughs, ah-hum, obviously moaning, leans against wall, legs buckling, increasing velocity of massage, red light, red light…
Vincent turns towards the wall above the seats and heads for his office, a manila folder at fly-height, makes it without being seen and inspects the damage. Takes a seat behind his desk, lest anyone should wander in, unzips, dollop of creamy lotion, and tubes his right hand, concentrates, tissue ready, UUUuuuuhhhhhhh…
A few moments later, Vincent leaves his office and heads to the end of the hall, takes a right, counts nine doors, enters, take a left, counts six doors, enters, takes another right, counts eight doors, enters, turns left, counts three doors, enters, goes down the hall to door number six on the right, and knocks…
“Good morning, Captain Vincent, please come in.”
“I got a message you wanted to see me.”
Two matured soldiers, purely formulaic thoughts, fanfaronade from director, probably commanders… Section 9…
“Yes, this is Commander Charles and Commander Franklin of Section 9. They have been monitoring your progress.”
“I see.”
Misfeasance, intolerably so too, none of their business, really, he is knowledgeable about her… no reason for questions, already know the answers, the other has been packed along for numbers, a tactic, strategy, two commanders versus a captain…