the Profit Prophet’s spoken
words of vermouth:
‘come me boys ‘n loot!’
“well, where are your notes then?”
the great hangar was filled with fuzz, an energy that emerged from the people, the ground, the revo_info pasted all around, the gold&aquamarine paper flags, the loud-speakers playing terra_old pop_prods.
“boy i dunno! me ‘ads they, now’s gonerboner!..”
i looked hard at the baby_recruit.
“you cannot lose your notes, rabs! remember the dna day? gotta be careful!”
he was frail. they all have on them a slight tremor – more like a trilling, really – also in their voices. van zante lost_peasants turned wicked.
“de mister was wit 4 more, dat me knows ’n we all quiet scared doggies, star!”
he kept looking around, scanning faces as if in search for someone. could he be doubles? there were at least 1500 wicked, 500 nonfolks, and around 300 demi_humans in today’s meeting. like him. van zante lost_peasants started appearing more than a year ago in greater numbers. something was happening, we needed more info.
the longer we linger
in our longeval lounge
the longer we tonger
won’t tingelin at all
“who were those 4? where were you? what did they want?”
he seemed confused, his brow furred with movement. then suddenly the stare, so common among the lost_peasants – empty. my mistake: sometimes i forget how easily they fake_escape. it’s hard work to get them back.
“hey! snap_back! SNAP_BACK!”
i snapped my fingers in front of his left ear, where the power_pods were located, but his eyes had already completely lost their colour. he was gone.
i cursed his lost notes and took him by the elbow. we dived into the crowd, towards the west tables, where amadeu was. a lost_peasant was even easier to manipulate in fake_escape. they were very light to the touch and easily in_printable. demi_human computers – in fact we were starting to learn how their programs worked right at that time.
i couldn’t find any free space on the benches, everywhere there was a lost_peasant waiting for the wicked training, or in_printing, or self_whole operations. amadeu had 10 of them surrounding his table, all taking at the same time.
i parked rabs next to the first row and gave his hand to a very thin girl with straw hair and big freckles. she started to shake with fear.
“stay, it’s ok.”
it’s the vain ring
an idea’s more real
when you kill real
it becomes ideal
as it really is
this here and now