Fiction for Artists, presents--
Universal Particle .com
------------Book IV-------------
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Adding wings through things to range,
Makes him to his own blood strange.
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Everyone has scars.
Some scars are invisible. They hover over wounds
that have already healed. Some scars are divine—
they sharpen the will and bestow great gifts
upon the world. Some scars, yet, are fatal.
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Every scar is a burden. Some find the burden
too heavy, and attempt to escape their fate—
they seek out masks.
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Every mask has a name, just as every name is a mask—
people grow into them, wearing them everyday until it
wears them out and becomes who they are.
(But that is neither here nor there.)
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Every mask has a name: it is inscribed on the inside
with permanent invisible ink; the name the wearer
protects at all costs, for it is the source of its powers.
Masks can bestow great powers upon their hosts.
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There are over 360 masks, each corresponding to its
respective habit or talent, —idea or ideal, —demon or deity.
Some say the masks are alive.
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"They overpower the wearer if the owner
is not strong enough to withstand the heat."
Good or evil, you ask?
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...It is beyond us to assess the nature of good and evil.
Masks merely exist, perhaps to serve some higher purpose
which forever eludes the faculties of the common man.
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Once, many years ago, I met a man covered in scars—
his body shined magnificently. He too was obsessed
with an idea: to seek out the Mask of Masks,
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"—the Mask of Emptiness."
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--when the song ends, we listen.--
* It Takes Two to Write a Story
* The Jolly Ranchers of Central Park
--The Politician, Part III --Idol of the Marketplace--
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BOOK FOUR: "Far Eastern Mysteries."
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Carry on, stranger.
Aphorism #11
Laozi and a disciple, went for sightseeing.
His disciple exclaimed: —"How beautiful!"
Laozi never brought that disciple
sightseeing in his mountains, again.
Your Silence He Sings
--"when the bird sings very close to the music of what happens,"--
In 1997 - Year of the Grass-Fed Ox, - a courageous band of travelers set sail for the mysterious East—the land we now know for its Godzilla, cheap cars, sesame oil and Hello Kitty. Records of their adventure have long since been lost to man. But, atop the purple peaks on the iron mountains of Mount Fujitsu, perhaps one might catch bits and pieces of the story from the yellow-furred monkeys bathing in their semi-tolerable cold springs, drinking their sour-plum teas:—
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"Go! Go! You're all free now!" screams the red-headed girl, unhinging the rickety doors to the dozen hanging cages.
Sqawk! Sqawk! —sqawk the relieved creatures, newly released.
"Girl, are you crazy?" shouts the merchant. "They domesticated! They will all die!"
"Oh," says the girl, but too late; flap, flap, go the birds in the sky.
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Just then, two strangers arrive—a delicate-looking blond boy, and a tall, stern-looking black one.
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"Maddie, are you ready to go?" asks the blond.
"Er," says the girl.
"She not going nowhere!" screams the merchant. "Give me back my birds!"
"But they looked so miserable in their cages," the girl protests. "And they hardly sang—"
"—'cause they food, stupid girl!" shouts the merchant.
"Look, uh." The blond tries to stand between the two. "How about we pay you for them?"
"No time," says the darker one. He examines the bird-market— "We've wasted
enough here already. If we don't leave, we'll miss the bloom of Washington—"
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"What?" interrupts the merchant. "Did you say, —Washington—?"
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The three companions look to one another, then nod their heads.
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"you mean, that legendary flower, —of such indescribable color and beauty, that young men from
our village seek to find on the summits of Mount Fujitsu for their dearly beloved, and never return?"
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"Er," sweats the blond.
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"Well why didn't you say so!" the merchant's face shifts from putrid red to conniving green.
He takes out a wooden abacus from his drawers—"I cut you better deal," he says.
"You go—you return, with flower—a single petal—and the young lady-debt here is cleared."
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"In fact," the merchant runs off into the backroom, and returns a few moments later—
"to make your quest easier, here, —a super-secret map, leading to the fabled flower! ...for best price, $34.50."
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"Gee that's er, mighty generous of you." —
"This is drawn with cheap pen," says the black, peering over the map.
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"If the lady didn't release my treasure-finding birds," the merchant sighs, —then takes a nasty, furtive glance at the girl.
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"All right, all right!" says the blond. "We'll take it."
Meanwhile, from across the street a brown-haired boy is running out of a red-tiled pagoda,
an angry-looking woman at his heel—"And don't you ever come back!" screams the woman.
The three companions notice the sign by the pagoda, —
"Wind, Flowers, Snow, Moonlight."
"Hey, guys!" says the boy, just arriving. "What'd I miss?"
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The trail to Mount Fujitsu through the countryside is filled by scenes of wonder
and vibrancy one might expect as a child from a Saturday morning cartoon—
wild deer with spiraling antlers to their left,
shaggy buffaloes to their right—
underwear-stealing grandpas, hidden in the subways below—
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—and golden-furred monkeys in the sour-plum trees above,
picking and grooming one another, gossiping about...
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"Franky! how are you going to carry all that while we're climbing?"
The girl Maddie is referring to the giant knapsack slinging over the shoulders
of the brown-haired boy straggling in the back. "Well..." says the boy, hopefully.
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The girl groans. "No, Franky," says she. "We are not carrying your crap."
("But, gadgets!" says he. "And so shiny...")
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Aye, 'tis a strange world—and lo! the flowers! of such size and
diversity they thought only existed on shocks of anime hair—
tiger-lilies and freesias like frozen clouds of wine and juice—
hibiscus petals, like delicate sheets of tissue origami;—
chrysanthemums and primroses, like giant whirligigs in the wind;—
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"Fish!" pipes Franky in the back. "I can't wait to try them. I hear they're the size of trucks."
"And eaten raw!" adds the blond in front, utterly delighted.
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Maddie sighs. Not wishing to profane the silent beauty of the giant flowers, she picks up from the pathside
a leaf instead, in green abundance. "Look how big these are!" —She wraps it around her waist like an apron.
"I wonder what Washington looks like," she ponders.
"A deep and rich yellow, like the glorious sun!" says the blond.
"Or a dazzling orange, like me!" spouts Franky in the back.
"Blue, I suppose—like the melding of ocean and sky," suggests the black.
"Or pink, like tender love," sighs Maddie.
They are fast approaching that magnificent spine of the great Earth Dragon, carved by rain and snow.
A flock of cranes overhead, —with arched necks and tired flap - flap - flaps, —dip low over the horizon.
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It had started raining, hard—and the setting sun, blurring the edges of the world,
began to surround them in deep ravines, treacherous precipices, and slippery grass ledges.
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"This won't do." The blond pokes out from under the giant leaf he is holding over his head.
He points toward the cliffs before them— "We'll have to hug along the base to get through—
but the rain, it'll be nearly impossible to cross without slipping."
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"Must be monsoon season," says the black. "This time of year—with the warm air rising, and cooling—"
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"Well, well well," smarts Franky in the back, tossing aside his leaf. "I knew it'd come to this, sooner or
later. We'd face some life-threatening danger and I'd have to swoop in—per usual—and save the day."
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He sets down his knapsack, opens it, and starts rummaging through the contents. The rest of them watch on, skeptically.
("No, not this—nor this, nope, don't remember getting this—")
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The ground is soon covered with strange oriental trinkets: luck-altering dice, Sriracha gummies,
invisibility suppositories, watermelon growing-kits, tentacle pillows, skin-exposing iPhone lenses—
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"Aha!" Franky pulls out a jar, something that looks an awful lot like...
"Paint, Franky?" asks Maddie, rolling her eyes. "Really?"
"Not just any paint," says Franky smugly. "Gravity paint."
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He demonstrates by scrubbing some of that noxious black stuff on the
bottom of his shoes and walking up perpendicularly along the side of a cliff.
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"Well damn," whistles the black boy.
"That's—that's amazing," admits Maddie.
"Guess that's our answer," shrugs the blond, —and they carry forth, each taking turns carrying Franky's knapsack.
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...until, forty-five minutes later—
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The boy in front is the first to go.
"Ah—!" he screams.
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"Jeff!" shouts the black boy, reaching forward, —but he too loses his grip and, before he
could utter another sound, finds the ground beneath slipping away into a dark, dark abyss.
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"Guys!" Maddie screams. She peers below;
she hears Franky behind her, fumbling for the paint—
("But it says at least three hours!")
—she turns, meets his gaze, —sighs,— and leaps to her doom.
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"Oh c'mon!" groans Franky. But then he checks the label on the jar—"MADE IN CHINA."
He shrugs, and jumps.
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Franky opens his eyes. The sun stares back at him.
He checks his hair. Then he checks for broken bones.
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Looking around, he sees himself surrounded by
a bed of leaves; the same type of leaf they had used
as umbrella earlier in the storm had broken their fall.
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"Is everyone okay?" someone asks.
"Gah, so soft! yes, I'm okay," says Franky. "Cole?"
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The black boy is up already, studying the terrain—standing there
in the belly of a wild, mystical creature, they find themselves lost
in an open rib-cage, frosted purple and orange in white moss mist.
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They hear the chime of flowing water. The boy named Jeff traces the water to its source—
"Look!" he points. Off in the distance, they see a small wooden bridge curved over rushing water,
—and a man in a straw hat, sitting alone atop of it.
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They hurry over.
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The bridge is suspended over the rapid frontiers of a waterfall—and the man, with
a long, red fishing-pole in one hand, is dangling precariously over the rapids, snoring.
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"Um, sir—?"
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"Huh—what?" garbles the man. The voice catches him off-guard and he nearly topples over—but recovers
himself and says, "Oh my, visitors?" ...as he wipes a string of drool, also dangling, precariously from his lips.
He is old... they can tell. —most likely a monk, judging by his robe and sandals.
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The Gang helps the man closer into the bridge—
"Sorry to disturb your sleep, sir," says Maddie. "But we seemed to have lost our way and—"
"—And now you've lost the way to Washington?" chuckles the old man, —
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"Well you young boobies found the right place! there's a whole patch of them about to bloom
right yonder behind that shrine." He raises his arm to point with his rod a general
direction beyond the bridge—and they notice, for the first time, two curious things:—
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a small, solitary wooden temple, just some forty meters away,
...and that the man had been fishing with an empty line.
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"Actually I was wondering about dinner. How's the bite?" Franky starts digging through
his knapsack—"What you need is some Sriracha gummies. They make excellent bait."
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The girl Maddie wacks him over the head.
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"How know you we were looking for the flower?" asks Cole.
"The birds never lie," grins the old man, flashing a row a sinister teeth—
"Granted, I never said I'd let you pass the shrine for free."
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The old man stands up. He tucks his rod in an armpit and begins searching through his worn, downy robe—
"There are tunnels over there"—he points with his chin—" carved into the mountainsides by the shrine's
earliest visitors, which lead back through town. However"—he pulls out something now from behind his back—
—a Chinese take-out box—
"If you wish passage through the shrine, you'll first need to answer this riddle."
(He pulls out a fortunecookie from the box and breaks it open,)
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"Which came first: the shrine, or those cave-paths leading up to it?"
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"What is this, a German dungeon-trap hentai!? " asks Franky. "Nice try
sir but I know a questionable premise when I see one. Let's boogie, Gang!"
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"Your brain is a dungeon-trap hentai," mutters the old man.
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"Why else would you try fishing without bait or lure?" retorts Franky, unconvinced—
(He thinks about unplugged monitors and toolless plumbers.)
"This is clearly a set-up for something I know absolutely nothing about!"
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"Lad," says the old man. "Lures are for catching fishermen. I'm hooking for a dragon—"
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"The cave-paths first."
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"Is that so?" smiles the old man.
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"Yes. Because even the very first steps, however
faint the trail, serve as road for posterity thereafter."
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"Ho-ho. Is that your final answer?" the old man asks the group.
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The Gang looks to one another, then nod and agree—for, as useless
as he is generally, they've learned to trust Jeff's poetic sensibilities.
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The old man considers their answer. He strokes his chin—
"Well—" says he. "That's not bad, —but not the answer I was looking for.
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"Wouldn't you agree the shrine came first, carried in the hearts of man through those very first footsteps?"
—And with that, the old man starts laughing boisterously. He points to the shrine with his hand.
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The Gang turns to look when suddenly, the laughter becomes unbearably loud, higher and higher pitched, —until doubling back they
see where the old man once stood a swirling mass of density, ascending higher and higher, —reaching beyond the wooden bridge, over the shrine, dismantling all below it and carrying it forth in that tornado of feathers and birdsong, rattling, rattling like a rickety old cage—
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"That's—" says Maddie.
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And the sound is no more. In fact, no trace of man, bridge, or shrine appears to have existed.
The mist, too, had cleared, as if an invisible layer of film peeled from right before their eyes.
The air is filled with the smell of fresh dew.
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The Gang walks cautiously toward the direction of the shrine.
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They come upon an open cliff—a vast ocean before the horizon. The water so clear, when they look down they can make out
all the details of the coral structure beneath the cyan surface, like the submerged remains of some exotic, mystical civilization—
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And then they notice the garden—surrounded by a circle of stone,
with these words carved into a wooden sign before the entrance:—
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—Washington—
"transparencii transcendentalis"
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They step inside the garden. Not a flower in sight—
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just a dense patch of leafy green, shining fresh with the morning dewdrops, —the same type of
broad open leaf, in fact, that hung over their heads during the storm, and had earlier broken their fall.
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"Pure leaf... all vascular strength," says Cole, finally.
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They stand around. They don't say anything.
But somehow they all feel a little closer than before.
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Aphorism #328
A black ship sails, —crashes,
and sinks.
But in a raft
your knees are always dragging in water.
The Republic
--a political statement--
Gentlemen & Gentlewomen.
I do not believe in equality;
nor do I believe in popular sovereignty.
I shall address the latter first.
I do not believe in popular sovereignty, because I am an elitist—not, in the sense that I am better than any one particular
individual, but that my opinion, as it applies to me, is always better than those of the masses.
I need only cite examples of schoolyard bullying—and in its extension, national wars—to convince most, I think,
the whole futility of its premise: that mob stupidity could ever trump reason.
Second. I do not believe in equality. I raise this point on two grounds:
its failures idealistically, and its failures practically.
The former holds no point of contention: idealistically, it's never happened.

The latter I will illustrate with simply this question—
What is the difference between Socialism and communism?
(...)
The correct answer is "nothing," because neither of them exist. Both are just labels for unique combinations of power-
brokers in a given space, at a given time.
Or,
'Communism' is the idealized classless state; between it and capitalism is 'Socialism', an "intermediary" stage through which centralized planning handles the careful distribution of its resources as citizens grow and wean from their depend--
Do you see the fantasy behind this arrangement?
But that is the failure of all the so-called liberal states, to the credit of their effective labels, which serve merely
as vehicles of convenience for those that want power, or those that want to remain in power.*
The concept of class is fluid and, practically speaking, will always exist; power doesn't disappear, it merely reshuffles. I'm
sure there's an Aesop fable somewhere that illustrates this using mice or wolves but the point is, real Socialism is
about as realizable in practice as Swiss cheese without holes.
Revolutions harness mass discontent to make the best of worst case scenarios—and they happen on their own accord.
Revolutionary concepts, however, serve merely as romantic aids to their users.
It's not a matter of being unsympathetic to the harms caused by insidious advantages of big business, military, lobbying,
and media in politics: it's that I think—to a certain extent—such a minority will always exist, in some form or another. I'm
uncertain if power can ever be equalized.
However.
Class is "erased"—at least, in its' own spheres—when we extend our humanity beyond the boundaries of label, through
the individual. This is, unfortunately, an unnatural concept to those that don't believe in implicit social contracts to the
whole.
But I remain optimistic. And I hope, one day live to see change effected not just by definition, but by abilities of remove
and extensive citizenry that render them obsolete, beyond rhetoric, through the dignity of our stations.
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*
The French Revolution marked a so-called upheaval to traditional European social structures: a shift in power from paternal
authority to fraternal solidarity. The radicals' hoped that the king's execution would desacralize power itself and thus make it more
accessible to the people. In legal terms, they leveled inheritance; they provided for universal education—
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...and in no time at all, found themselves faced with competition, conflict, then violence, as brothers vied against one another
in the market, and in hands for marriage.
-
-Madison James, Audience of One
Aphorism #???
By inventing a geometrically, psychologically, and
theologically perfect script of thirty-six characters,
Washington recreated the 700,000 lost scrolls of Alexandria.
Stranger with an Interview
--Interview with a Stranger--
Q. You sound as if you felt quite detached and superior to this process of corruption in society.
A. I have never written about any kind of vice which I can't observe in myself.
Q. But you accuse society, as a whole, of succumbing to a deliberate mendacity,
and you appear to find yourself separate from it as a writer.
A. As a writer, yes, but not as a person.
--Tennessee Williams, interviewing himself.
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Welcome to the application process, the hallmark of modern civilization. Whether you are considering our services for your college, Master's, or vocational degree, or are simply seeking an answer to the age-old question: "formula," or "creativity," we are pleased to announce the following guidelines that is certain to provide a suitable solution for all your needs.
Ah, the application process. The hallmark of modern meritocracy. The bane of sleeping nights. Whether you are seeking our services to write the perfect essay - creative yet solid, humble yet soaring - rest assured, we have taken care to provide for all your
First things, first. The story already exists. It just needs someone to write it. So let's sit us down then, you and I, because it takes two to write a story: a knower, and a perceiver. For a story needs motion, and motion requires two points on a continuum to exist.
Of course, motion
A sentence is a line, and a line is just a flowing point. We must trace our journey back to the origin, the silence between the stars, the meaning between the words, the space beyond the atom - the black-hole, the ant, the brief yet utter declamation of all which has begun but also all that must inevitably end: the period.
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Aphorism #17
Every man is the physical manifestation of a few simple truths, whose
depth of self-realization to its function can be seen from its every action.
Death by the Door
--a puzzle--
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Three doors lie in front of them. One led to freedom.
"You are allowed one question," Death explains.
"And I must answer, truthfully—
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"But only with Yes or No."
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One steps forward.
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He passes through the Veil of Silence,
—for freedom is found alone—
and walks toward the middle door. He asks—
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"If the door on the right kills me, is 'freedom' behind this door?"
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Death does not respond.
So he walks to the door on the right, opens it, and leaves.
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Another steps forth.
He passes through the Veil. He asks—
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"Assuming the door on the left is Yes,
—and the middle door, No, —which door leads to freedom?"
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Death does not respond.
So he too walks to the door on the right, opens it, and leaves.
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A girl this time.
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She smiles. She points boldly. She asks—
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"Is it this one?"
"No."
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"Is it this one?"
"Young lady..."
"You said one question. It's the same question."
—"But the subject is different," Death protests.
"Make that clearer. Is it this one?"
Death sighs. "Yes."
She enters, leaves.
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Then the last of them enters, with iPhone in hand—
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" Is there no WIFI down here—!? "
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Aphorism #498
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The order of changes
in the form of the embryo
in the egg from day to day,
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anticipates,
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the fossil remains of species
that occupy the surface
of the globe for geologic ages.
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The Jolly Ranchers of Central Park
--The Politician, Part III --Idol of the Tribe--
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Once, everyone downloaded a game on their iPhones and it compelled them that their lives outside the game
was nothing but a virtual reality, a simulation where gods and superheroes didn't exist but merely as myths—
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—Lord Alfred Tennyson, probably.
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Starring...
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Just Fastest Saint Forest
Idolless Blind Blues Lee ...and the Politician!
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It was an age of magic and adventure, chivalry and intrigue. A world torn between the Good, and those who sought to abuse it for themselves. Good men were driven as outcasts into Central Park stripped of their land and power, while thieves and tyrants imposed their wills unto an unsuspecting public, in the name of law. Aye, it wasn't always like this—not under the wise and benign rule of King Washington the Lionhearted. But when scientists in Leipzig invented a new form of cyber-currency in their labs—tameable, adorable, and delicious to eat—the Good King was forced to take up arms to defend against invading trainers and to conquer foreign gyms. Alas, that was many years ago...
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"Please, sir! have mercy!" cries Mott, reaching for his iPhone.
"This is his second offense. Break the screen!" orders the Politician.
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A group of well-slicked white collars surround poor Mott with their ropes and chains—
"Thought you'd go hunting in the King's forests without paying due taxes, did ya?" one of them snarls.
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"Sirs, please! I am a simple man—a simple man with children to feed. How can we live
but off what meager ideas—ever since you chopped up my charger for the first offense!"
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The crowds begin to murmur.
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"Silence!" shouts the Politician—
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" Need I remind you all aspects of 'trading' and 'ideas' fall under the umbrella jurisdiction of our
patents and copyrights? You will fatten yourself on private property no longer. Guards, take him away! "
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"Noo—!" sobs Mott as the lawyers drag him away.
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Nice, thinks the Politician—a photo-op. He flashes a smile. "Next!" he shouts.
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The lawyers prod the next captive with their index fingers.
"On your knees!"—"Down you go!"
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The Politician smiles. He'd been waiting for this.
"Well, well," he coos. "Saint Forest, is it?"
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The man Saint Forest looks up—
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"Please, sir. I think you got the wrong guy. I'm a simple monk—the folks around here know me as Honest and Chaste.
I make a simple living cleaning screens—pacifying the spirits inside iPhones when the machines are slow or faulty."
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The people around stir. There seem to be murmurs of agreement.
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"Ah, screen-exorcism for the people," repeats the Politician. "How noble."
He looks down on his very official-looking document—
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"So tell me, 'Honest and Chaste.' How do you explain—"
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"Uh-oh," says Saint Forest.
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"—your multiple OkCupid accounts!?
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Triggarsaurus_F
Dandy_Lion69
Big_Black_Trucks and
Benedict_Cumberbatch. "
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Gasps.
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"Not to mention," the Politician continues—but suddenly,
the bird-drones patrolling the park overhead start flashing red—
"Code red! Code red!" the drones scream. "The Jolly-Ranchers are here!"
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"—Ah!" screams a lawyer, with a fresh patch of scarlet over his heart—
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"Ketchup-packet grenades!"
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The lawyers express unanimous distress over the sudden stains on their tailored coats and imported silks, when—
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"Stay back!" approaches a girl, followed by her tall, stern-looking companion.—
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—"Look, it's Lady Blind, the spunkiest defender of Central Park!"—
— "Aye, and the most honest man in Central Park, Blues Lee!"—
—"Oh Lady Blind, she's so wonderful!" —
—"Oh fair lady, thank you for leaking those college textbook PDFs!"—
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"I got a hairspray flamethrower and I'm not afraid to use it!"
The Lady holds a lighter in front of her spray-can to make due her threat.
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"Easy, saucy," says the Politician coolly. "Dare you obstruct the will of King Washington?"
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"Washington?" sneers the Lady. "Please. Enough with your charades."
She continues handing out chargers and free iPhone protective cases.
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"You call yourselves leaders and lawyers, champions of the people's rights. But you spread your nets of
legal jargon over the talents and creativity of hardworking people, to steal under the name of infringement!
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The Politician's face is plastic with fake indignation.
"You slander me, Idolless Blind. But what do you have to say on behalf of the actions of your associate,
deluding unsuspecting women through a host of user-accounts on various dating websites? not to mention"
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—he smirks—
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"downloading photos and videos illegally off users' phones onto his personal server !? "
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More gasps.
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"How could you!?" spat Blind.
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"For research purposes!" insists Forest.
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"Guys, guys," cheeses the Politician. "Shall we attempt
some smiles for the cameras? Guards—take him away!"
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The lawyers draw closer—
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"Wait," says Blues, stepping forward.
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The lawyers stagger.
The weight of Blues' character—and the confidence felt in his reputation—is overwhelming.
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"Save him. Save yourself. I shall take his place."
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"What are you talking about !?" argues Blind.
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"Forest's services are indispensable to the sanity of these people."
Blues sweeps his arms indicating the surrounding crowd—
"We cannot afford to lose him. Take him back to Just. He'll know what to do."
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"Don't worry," he adds. "They cannot harm me. Go."
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"Booger-farts!" Blind grits her teeth.
She reaches into her utility-belt and unhooks a secret compartment into her hands—
"Catch!" —in an arc over the lake it goes, splitting into multiple pills before striking the surface—
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pffffzztttt! pffffffzzzttt!
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skipping, fizzing, exploding—splashing the filthy water all over the nice suits the
lawyers had just minutes before desperately struggled scrubbing. "Fffffffffff," they say.
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"What are you waiting for!?" Blind shouts. She grabs Forests' hand. "Let's go!"
They vanish beneath the sheets of cascading greenwater mist and quacking ducks.
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"Sodium tablets," mutters the Politician. "Nice touch."
"Shall we give chase!?" cries a lawyer, —vainly, hopelessly scrubbing.
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"Don't bother," responds the Politician. "If the rumors are true, there's no way we'll catch her
once they hit the subways—what, with her familiarity of its secret passageways. But don't worry—"
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He looks at Blues, now handcuffed, with satisfaction... with an agenda.
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"Gentlemen, the problem at hand is not the Politician or his cronies."
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There are murmurs through the Great Halls—
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"It is not the cyber-creatures, —or even the fact that they're ridiculous.
It is our reliance on our phones—to see and experience our
world through them, at the expense of our relationship to ourselves. "
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There is uncomfortable shuffling.
The whispering grows louder.
Someone from the assembly raises his hand—
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"But the creatures are technologically proven the stablest currency since gold!
Plus, they're releasing new updates every two weeks. We gotta catch them all!"
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Just sighs—but before he could continue, the Lady Blind and Saint Forest
burst through the secret entrance through the groves and address the men—
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"Blues has been captured!"
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The Lady explains the capture to the Jolly Ranchers.
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"I do have a plan." Just strokes his chin.
"Some of us—many of us won't like it.
But perhaps it is what should've been done all along."
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—"What about Blues!?"— "Hang the traitor!"—"Ten points to Gryffindor!"
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"It's true, we can no longer turn a blind eye to Forest's misconduct—
but he too has worked hard for the return of our Good
King Washington, Protector of Lordly Behavior.
Need I remind you all he has raised the most money of
all of us, through his web ventures and crowd fundraising?"
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"You mean his online poker rings?" Blind rolls her eyes.
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"Technically it's freemium," Forest points out.
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Just continues:
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"We'll save Blues. No doubt about it.
But don't worry about him. Blues is—"
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"—the most honest man in Central Park!" says the Politician, strategically.
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"But sir," says a lawyer. "Are you not afraid? They say, in the field of his
perfect stillness of mind, he can sense the presence of foreign thoughts!"
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Few of the guards shiver.
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Even with his hands cuffed behind a cell, it is apparent that the
prisoner's presence is causing inexplicable tension among the guards.
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His sad noble eyes seems to read the secret thoughts in their
souls, and with a glance uncover all their hidden intentions—
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"Which is precisely why we're keeping him. Think of the blow to Just's company!
Without his ability to read into the feelings and expectations of other men—"
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"But the people will be furious!"
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"We have just cause in detaining him," lies the Politician smoothly.
"We just need to wait. Without their 'Human Lie-Detector'—"
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he looks at Blues—
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"how else will they sympathize with the people, and galvanize them into action?"
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The Politician's face curls into a genuine smile, crooked
beneath the folds of deceit and desperate ambition.
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"Ready?"
"Yes."
"Fire in the hole!"
Two bottle rockets soar through the skies before descending in an arc directly onto the
heads of the two lawyers guarding the vault to the Politician's lair—plunk—and break open.
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"Hey, what's the big idea!?"
"Oh no, my hair!"
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Slime oozes down their heads as little green frogs hop out from inside the soda bottles—
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"Eat slime, vermin!" snickers Idolless Blind.
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"Woman, you again!?" cries one of the lawyers—
"ketchup, muckwater, now frog goop, —what are you, a Ninja Turtle!?"
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"I can't take it anymore!" whimpers the other.
He runs down 8th avenue to his Korean dry-cleaner.
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"Luckily I use shampoo," growls the first, who had taken less damage.
He screams, pulls at his head, and starts chasing after Lady Blind.
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"Now's our chance." Just and Forest sneak in.—
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A glass and steel tower. A sterilized waiting-room entrance. Then,
a modern beehive of institutional torture—corporate grease and
leather to coax and capture the elusive cyber-creatures, glass and
alcohol and ink to track, dissect, and preserve their lifeless forms—
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"But which way do we go?"
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"Pssst," whispers a guard. He points down a direction and scampers away.
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"Um, okay."
​
The tip is good—for following it through a series of departments,
boardroom meetings and conference calls,
​
they see Blues in his cell, cuffs unshackled.
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A crowd of onlooking guards is gathered about him, enchanted by his bluesy wisdom.
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"—and so I told him... yes, sir, it was me. I took the last doughnut."
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Few of the guards start crying.
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Here sitting before them was a beautiful man who couldn't lie even in his sleep.
A man who gave gold when even from their own friends they expected copper.
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"Blues! Blues! we've come to save you."
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Blues looks up, sees his friends—
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"Ah," says he. "You've come."
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"Blues!" sobs Forest. "I'm so sorry. I feel awful about letting you take the fall."
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"Don't mention it."
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"Did you miss me?"
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"No, bro."
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"But Blues, if we don't leave now, we'll all be captured—"
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"No, I won't leave. Not until I've ensured the safety of these men to whose charge I am responsible."
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"But Blues," says Forest. "If we don't go now, we might end up sharing a cell together."
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"Aw hell no." says Blues. "Let's go—"
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"Too late!" enters the Politician.
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In he comes with his band of copyright lawyers—
"Won't need cameras in here," he chuckles,
pointing then switching off the security-cameras.
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"Guys!"
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It is Blind.
She'd been capture as well. Cuffed by the guards,
they push her toward the surrounded Jolly Ranchers—
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"So you came to save your friend," says the Politician.
"Just as I'd expected. But to cheat the common folk"
—he points to Forest—
"to disrupt my institution"
—he points to Blind—
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"I assure you... the punishment will be severe."
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Forest holds Blues closer.
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"But I'm a reasonable man," the Politician continues. "You're utterly surrounded.
And it's true that your reputation is beyond saving. But, if you beg for forgiveness
and admit publicly to the unlawful jail-breaking you have committed—
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"...I will let you all go freely. "
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"It's true," says Just, "I've come to rescue my friend—
but I never intended to break them out unlawfully.
"I came to make a trade for their release."
He holds out his iPhone, switches on the screen—
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"You let my friends go, and I will give you what you most desire—
my most valuable cyber-creature, the source of all my power."
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The Politician is suspicious.
Just is not one to lie, but what is he playing at?
"Show it to me first," he says.
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Just shows them his screen—
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...and he chooses leaf!
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"Are you joking!?"
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The lawyers start howling with laughter.
"That's like the magikarp of cyber-currencies, dude."
​
"True, this is just a leaf, one of the lowest-level cyber-currencies.
But few people know that the leaf is known as the "Maker's Patent,"
—the fundamental hieroglyph of all other cyber-currencies.
I've trained mine for years.
​
It is the leaf of feathers and wings,
and the lobe of livers and lungs.
​
It is the unfolding of spine, embryo cell blooming,
the radiating pattern of all—
​
from the lightening-tusked boar of Georgia to the sand-surfing dolphins of Arizona,
the microscopic whale of Maine to Alaska's snow buffalo, gentlest of all buffaloes—
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It is the single leaf of a single tree that blossoms into a forest, into one great tree—"
​
At this, Jeff throws his iPhone against the ground, shattering
the screen and the Idol of the Marketplace dwelling inside it.
Out of the broken screen a magnificent tree begins sprouting in place—
it grows and grows, filling up the nooks and crannies of the chamber
with shining olive leaves and thick, powerful branches until finally, like
an oversized mushroom, it breaks through the glass ceiling—
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The legendary Tree of Origin.
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The lawyers and the Jolly Ranchers are mesmerized.
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"Who would've thought—"
"—a level 99 magikarp."
"Ten points to Gryffindor!"—
​
Only the Politician was calculating.
He was thinking about patent, serial, intellectual, audio,
foreign, video, movie, syndication, licensing and publishing rights—
​
So of course he betrays his word.
"If you think I'm going to let you out here alive and take credit
for this monstrosity, you've got another thing coming. Guards!"
​
But this time it was Blues who spoke—
​
"Humble yourself, son. You have lost. Your men have lost the will to bind us.
For that is what happens, when you attempt to win respect through shackles,
and power with money."
​
Incensed, the Politician was furious. He knew he couldn't entirely trust his men,
but which of them would disobey a direct order? And, in a moment of weakness,
he indulges his doubt, checks the faces of his men for their reactions, looks for the weakest links—
​
And not a moment to spare, the Jolly Ranchers clamber their way onto the Great Tree,
on the branches through the broken glass ceiling and into the view of the crowds below.
​
—"Hey look!" they shout.
—"It's Blues, the most honest man in Central Park!"
—"And Lady Blind!"
—"Aye, Lady Blind. We have not forgotten—ye fill pillows full of
Twizzlers and throw them yonder bridge for the homeless...
​
The others nod in approval.
​
One by one the Jolly Ranchers jump off the lowest ledge
and into the crowd, Just last, with a fresh leaf he in his hand—
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"Well!?" boils the Politician. "GO! After them!"
​
But the men hesitate.
​
These imbeciles, he thinks to himself.
​
Fine! I'll go! who's coming with me!? The politician, followed by a few of his men,
jump also into the throngs of people.
​
How strange, that the crowds offered no resistance as they struggled through, slow and sluggish
while the Jolly Ranchers slipped effortlessly by, a curious melody from Just's leaf trailing behind them.
​
When the Politician and his lawyers finally pass through,
the Jolly Ranchers were already gone.
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If you wish to have real power and res
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strategically, plotting.
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A modern, minimalist building, like stepping into a sterile waiting room.
A modern architectural monstrosity,
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He screams, pulls at his head, and rush down 8th ave to their dry-cleaners.
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It was an age of magic and adventure, chivalry and intrigue. A world torn between the Good, and those who sought to abuse it for themselves. Good men were driven as outcasts into Central Park, stripped of their land and power, while thieves and tyrants imposed their wills unto an unsuspecting public, in the name of law. Aye, it wasn't always like this—not under the wise and benign rule of King Washington the Lionhearted. But when scientists in Leipzig invented a new type of cyber-creatures in their labs - tameable, adorable, and delicious to eat - a most stable new currency was formed. And so, the Good King Washington was forced to take up arms to defend against invading trainers, and to lead his troops west to conquer foreign gyms. But this was many years ago...
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They call themselves The League, only one of many paramillitary groups seeking dominion over the kingdom of King Lionheart of Washington, the good king who is captured and held in captivity from his rightful duty over quarreling parties of those who would uphold his law, and those who seek to abuse it. —
"Please, please!" cries the man, reaching for his iPhone.
"This is his second offense. Break the screen!" orders the Politician.
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"Please sir, have mercy! I have children to feed! And I would not have broken the law a second time, had you not cut my charger from the first!"
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The screen cracks under the feet of a
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"I will but stay and live my life in honest and chaste."
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"We've found and traced four separate online profiles linking to your IP Address:
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BuckwithTruck, French Edwards, BigPocketDaddy66, and-- JustFastest001
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"You used my name!?" screams Just.
"Only nominally!" argues the Friar.
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"Aye, we've heard of ye noble deeds. Ye fill pillowcases full of toothbrush and Twizzlers, and throw them yonder bridge for the homeless."
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The crowds of Central Park,
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The Politican looks at the crowd, then at the Jolly Rachers. He smirks.
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"Gentlemen and Gentlewomen. I do not believe in equality; nor do I believe in popular sovereignty. I shall address the latter, first."
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"Politics, politics?" laughs Idolless Blind. "You mean that event where we talk about, and actually do nothing?"
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The propagation of an idea is perhaps man's greatest evolutionary achievement. We have devised countless ways to build, share, and challenge pre-existing systems of thought. But anyone who's ever spent any time at all in a schoolyard, at the docks, or in the lumber-mill will concede that more often than naught, the ideas themselves are communicated even before they are shared—through our carriage, our dignity, and even the very fabric of our being. For any truth worth sharing, ever, must be lived before they can be communicated. Otherwise, your sweet words will taste bitter in our ears, your promises will leave us shivering, and your wines of property will burn our mouths.
The soul will wilt and choke.
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Under the waterfalls they sat, cross-legged, listening to the words of their Master:--
"So you've learned the method of the technical arts, --laws of conservation, laws of dynamic equilibrium,
of homeostasis, of displacement and replacement of lost harmony, celestial action and reaction..."
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