Barnabas Whitley
From Plastic Tub
To disavow Nietzche and Zoroaster with such venom, to disobey Darwin and Mendel with such unmitigated malice. ‘Tis tantamount to undoing aeons of autopoeic unfolding with a ravenous autolicity unknown since the antigenic hijacking of the Ordovician period. He receives nothing.
Fattened Cow
Aristotle stopped short of promoting the darker Promethean ideal of 'self-organizing' and neglected to inform his students of his true belief--that the image of the self arises from the side effects of the behavior of the compounding aggregates inherent in self-organizing processes that emerge from complex systems. (I have no time to discuss the transitory essence of memory....) He was shaken when he had to admit, as a student of truth, that his concept of self was really a side effect of the many components grinding away beneath his very substance, somewhere beyond that hinterland where his machines meet the meat he finds the lonely hole here his whole is said to be 'emergent'. How deep this process? How many layers within layers? And what of...above? Beyond the ever-stretching umbra of night--the Copernicuian expansion of Ptolemy’s' simple sphere must pop with the same Mardukian resonance as the ever-popular (rightfully so) Cambrian Explosion.
He had read enough.
The manuscript was placed carefully into A's briefcase and after he was sure of its authenticity and at the conclusion of the proper monetary exchange, of which this time included (and considering the clandestine nature of arrangements of this sort was not unusual): a small crate containing bound manuscripts of both the personal and the cartographical; four pocket-watches embedded with Gnomic regalia--one with an appendage attached with small chain depicting an exquisitely rendered portrait of Molech accompanied by twenty three triskelionic teratopths of which each trident was complete with infants three; two packs of Lucky Strike brand cigarettes and a rotting pair of breeches accredited to A.W. Slippers that supposedly hold the key to the accompanying red suitcase rumored to be carrying not only an unfinished Grignotti symphony or two but also a spangled bodice with a pair of rusting tweezers in a compact attributed to Wilhemina Forkes; three small collections of treatises and broadsides (attributed anonymously) wrapped in brown pelt labeled German lampshade; and most peculiarly two Unfinished Holmesian mysteries with more than simple coincidental anecdotes that lend credence to the many conspiracies around the mysterious murder case of Richard Lancelyn Green. Excited, he (A) exited a black door unto a back alley embarking into the uncertainty of an already uncomfortable expanse, quietly submerging through many shafts of shadow and the lashings of the spliced lights forever befouling his shortest path and exhibiting habits of a man under surveillance - arms bulky with suitcase and crate and with much caution - makes through the darkness and cuts a slow and determined exit beneath the Braquean byways of Charonic underpasses into the awaiting automobile piloted by what could be determined from the fourth floor apartment currently usurped from its regular occupant (Mr. and Mrs. J--) by a secret surveillance outfit as a black male 5'10-6'2 with afrocentric hair, and which in this case - and from this distance (400 m.)- one shameless underling referred to as “Piggy” rolls to the amusement of the other two greenhorns who silenced quickly under threat of the raised horsewhip of the man with the expensive headphones now standing next to the man in charge, who was witnessing the retreating auto through his binoculars and, exhaling deformed tendrils of smoke through his nostril most north by northeast (our culprits now headed north), turned to his fellow intelligence team and with a gleam somewhere behind his multipurpose intelligence goggles said in a tone he always considered more Hannibal then Heston, "I think we got us a Secret Negro."
The automobile emerged from the underpass and joined the growing flow of life expanding below the encroaching day. The oxidized sky a ceiling of sepia seemingly wet with streaks of ochre and gray splits with cracks of any other city blue.
Dewey had removed the afrocentric wig shortly after daybreak but Buehb remained in Stimes' surprisingly well-fit hat (size under debate) until well after breakfast. Balthazar read the manuscript (two blocks from the corner lot) while Dewey made the arrangements with the third party. Buehb knew that Dewey was shaken after the O'Donnely murder and was straining the vague underfooting between a psychic breaking point and a gnostic breaking through and that his downfall was approaching and eminent. Buehb, approached the corner lot and thought it sad that he agreed with Rose's superiors about Dewey's viability. Buehb stopped short of taking any blame for the madness that inflicted Dewy Rose and made his way across the lot to the park where amongst the sounds of children swinging he found the only lonely bench and returned his interest to the manuscript.
The deal was arranged and after an afternoon of wandering and waiting Buehb and Rose arrived at the meeting place and awaited their call in the hotel bar. Dewey Rose grew impatient and his agitation alarmed the bartender who was ready to have the authorities have them removed when Tommy the Bookie cooled the room with his entrance and the subsequent round of handshaking between the Bartender, Buehb, Dewey and Tommy's seemingly superfluous sidekicks. Tommy led Balthazar aside as his cohorts book-ended Rose and led him beyond the bar into a little area behind the sturdy shelves.
