RE: The Fearsome Encounter (GBS3G8) [Round 3: Ark of Hope]
11-06-2014, 04:08 AM
Meanwhile, Parliament, 8th Ditch
And on the second day, wizardkind atoned for the separation of Heaven the Architects (closer though their self-designation may have been to Purgatory) from the Hell on liminal Earth and its bastard throne (where she-Satan coiled secretarial). For the most part, because Kisa Matila missed talking to the AI, who she figured was a better witch than anypasserine up in the tower. Every devil’s handmaiden needs a coven, don’tcha reckon, chicken?
Ms. Archer, frankly, was pissed. The wizard contingent going straight to her for matters of state just didn’t jive with her delusions that her computationally capacious omniscience wasn’t a glaringly obvious power grab. Kisa was there to smooth over whatever misunderstandings her silver-neckbearded cohort caused, and after several hours of being mocked for not understanding basic digital data structuring, they had a plan shipped out to the Interior and pushed through with a comparative minimum of fuss.
And on the third day, things went all right. For a little while, at least.
The cuckolders and the corporate brood parasites, the Parliamentarians so cosmically negligible they could barely dream of taking over the world, much less destroying its very firmament. They shuffled polite and regimental out of the rabble, looking for a long-lost kind of normalcy at a conceptual/metaphysical desk job. Push papers. Dig up worms. Managerials like Bauer prowled the urbane undergrowth, tugging at blue collars, maintaining disquieting calm.
And, come the end of the shift (time as familiar(and empty!) an abstraction as employment, clung to by the swills and shills of the Ditch), these regular asshole joes and daws would gather at their local watering hole. Not that it had ever been in the official municipal plans for 8th, but these things have a way of working themselves out. “Wet Willie’s” was the name of the establishment; Guillerma the long-tailed duck brooking just the right amount of bullshit from her patrons. Word was this was some private feud between her and a mister Mixatonic, though you’d be wished luck trying to eke that off her brick wall of a personality.
“And so it goes,” drawled a self-made-man now waterfowl, looking down his bill at anyone who’d bother to make eye contact at him, “back when she didn’t have a beak sticking out of it, girl had a face on her to match!” A smatter of laughter, a crowned pigeon stumble-crashing into the space with no respect for architecture. (If you squinted, you might’ve seen more “gloomy corners” than you could count for each of the assorted anti-socialites).
“No no no no no!” bellowed Guillerma in greeting, poking more than a few eyes out as she sashayed around complaining bargoers. The pigeon, (Goodie “Goodbye” Blue) easily twice her size but not immune to her, uh, “charms”, was appreciably taken aback.
“We have a door,” she hissonked. “Is not Dross, cloudhead.”
“Um, yessee, yes, ma’am, ma’am? Ma’am. I’m from the Interior-”
“I spit on your Interior!” wailed Guillerma, collapsing dramatically into the conveniently-positioned breast of an auk. She affixed Goodie with a glare all the while. “What business of theirs in my store? Is reputable. All will agree, even the plants like Mr. Faith.”
The sebright (Monty Faith, cock of mystery) saluted the pigeon from across the room, clacking his beak in time to make it sound like a finger snap. A crowd was starting to gather, eyeing up the kori bustard affectionately (“affectionately”) known as Planks. Planks could be trusted to start a good fight. Goodie Blue glared at Monty in some futile attempt to seek support, his lacy crown of feathers wobbling dangerously.
“The Interior, you know, they could care less who you spit on.”
“Cannacare noless!” beatboxed a Mindanao lorikeet, sporting his cute little black eyemask markings. “Be tha’s ‘terrier pups chasin’ rats in tha meadow, leave tha us reallerbirders inna tha barn!!”
“Tha’s flown the coop!” cackled the Citrine fellorikeet beside him. The two high-fived; Goodie cast a nervous glance around. Most of the crowd had already stopped paying him attention, except for a few bored shit-stirrers jabbing Planks in the pinions and snickering. Goodie forgot in the moment that there was only correlation without a cause, no real commonality or kinship in this white-collar bolthole - that he gazed across a loose and shallow aggregate of everything and -body wrong with corporate society. He wished in that instant he’d sought employment down (Over? In? the only real directions in Parliament were down or out, let’s be honest) here, instead of the Interior’s deceptively smoochable ass.
“Ok, fine- fine, listen up, you lot-”
“Shutta stutter up!” suggested the Citrine.
“The Interior,” the pigeon bellowed directly into the lorikeet’s face, “wishes to report our successful preliminary alliances with the Viscount and Cepra Samedi.” He stared about the bar, chest feathers puffed with indignation.
The lull was broken with a “Yeah, so?” Someone guffawed; everyone else started laughing or arguing about something completely unrelated. Only Monty Faith heard the pigeon’s half-hearted request (spoken as it was more to the way out of the bar rather than anyone in particular) for interested parties to consult their nearest screenings, and he stood up and serenaded:
“Gooooodbye, Goodbye Blue! I’ll see you at the Ditchdigger’s meeting, yeah hun?”
“Be auto-beccino’s meeting if you don’t warn again about errand boyds,” scolded Guillerma, resting her head from behind on the bantam’s. Monty would’ve kissed her, if she wouldn’t have come down on him like a stack of bricks for trying it.
And on the second day, wizardkind atoned for the separation of Heaven the Architects (closer though their self-designation may have been to Purgatory) from the Hell on liminal Earth and its bastard throne (where she-Satan coiled secretarial). For the most part, because Kisa Matila missed talking to the AI, who she figured was a better witch than anypasserine up in the tower. Every devil’s handmaiden needs a coven, don’tcha reckon, chicken?
Ms. Archer, frankly, was pissed. The wizard contingent going straight to her for matters of state just didn’t jive with her delusions that her computationally capacious omniscience wasn’t a glaringly obvious power grab. Kisa was there to smooth over whatever misunderstandings her silver-neckbearded cohort caused, and after several hours of being mocked for not understanding basic digital data structuring, they had a plan shipped out to the Interior and pushed through with a comparative minimum of fuss.
And on the third day, things went all right. For a little while, at least.
The cuckolders and the corporate brood parasites, the Parliamentarians so cosmically negligible they could barely dream of taking over the world, much less destroying its very firmament. They shuffled polite and regimental out of the rabble, looking for a long-lost kind of normalcy at a conceptual/metaphysical desk job. Push papers. Dig up worms. Managerials like Bauer prowled the urbane undergrowth, tugging at blue collars, maintaining disquieting calm.
And, come the end of the shift (time as familiar(and empty!) an abstraction as employment, clung to by the swills and shills of the Ditch), these regular asshole joes and daws would gather at their local watering hole. Not that it had ever been in the official municipal plans for 8th, but these things have a way of working themselves out. “Wet Willie’s” was the name of the establishment; Guillerma the long-tailed duck brooking just the right amount of bullshit from her patrons. Word was this was some private feud between her and a mister Mixatonic, though you’d be wished luck trying to eke that off her brick wall of a personality.
“And so it goes,” drawled a self-made-man now waterfowl, looking down his bill at anyone who’d bother to make eye contact at him, “back when she didn’t have a beak sticking out of it, girl had a face on her to match!” A smatter of laughter, a crowned pigeon stumble-crashing into the space with no respect for architecture. (If you squinted, you might’ve seen more “gloomy corners” than you could count for each of the assorted anti-socialites).
“No no no no no!” bellowed Guillerma in greeting, poking more than a few eyes out as she sashayed around complaining bargoers. The pigeon, (Goodie “Goodbye” Blue) easily twice her size but not immune to her, uh, “charms”, was appreciably taken aback.
“We have a door,” she hissonked. “Is not Dross, cloudhead.”
“Um, yessee, yes, ma’am, ma’am? Ma’am. I’m from the Interior-”
“I spit on your Interior!” wailed Guillerma, collapsing dramatically into the conveniently-positioned breast of an auk. She affixed Goodie with a glare all the while. “What business of theirs in my store? Is reputable. All will agree, even the plants like Mr. Faith.”
The sebright (Monty Faith, cock of mystery) saluted the pigeon from across the room, clacking his beak in time to make it sound like a finger snap. A crowd was starting to gather, eyeing up the kori bustard affectionately (“affectionately”) known as Planks. Planks could be trusted to start a good fight. Goodie Blue glared at Monty in some futile attempt to seek support, his lacy crown of feathers wobbling dangerously.
“The Interior, you know, they could care less who you spit on.”
“Cannacare noless!” beatboxed a Mindanao lorikeet, sporting his cute little black eyemask markings. “Be tha’s ‘terrier pups chasin’ rats in tha meadow, leave tha us reallerbirders inna tha barn!!”
“Tha’s flown the coop!” cackled the Citrine fellorikeet beside him. The two high-fived; Goodie cast a nervous glance around. Most of the crowd had already stopped paying him attention, except for a few bored shit-stirrers jabbing Planks in the pinions and snickering. Goodie forgot in the moment that there was only correlation without a cause, no real commonality or kinship in this white-collar bolthole - that he gazed across a loose and shallow aggregate of everything and -body wrong with corporate society. He wished in that instant he’d sought employment down (Over? In? the only real directions in Parliament were down or out, let’s be honest) here, instead of the Interior’s deceptively smoochable ass.
“Ok, fine- fine, listen up, you lot-”
“Shutta stutter up!” suggested the Citrine.
“The Interior,” the pigeon bellowed directly into the lorikeet’s face, “wishes to report our successful preliminary alliances with the Viscount and Cepra Samedi.” He stared about the bar, chest feathers puffed with indignation.
The lull was broken with a “Yeah, so?” Someone guffawed; everyone else started laughing or arguing about something completely unrelated. Only Monty Faith heard the pigeon’s half-hearted request (spoken as it was more to the way out of the bar rather than anyone in particular) for interested parties to consult their nearest screenings, and he stood up and serenaded:
“Gooooodbye, Goodbye Blue! I’ll see you at the Ditchdigger’s meeting, yeah hun?”
“Be auto-beccino’s meeting if you don’t warn again about errand boyds,” scolded Guillerma, resting her head from behind on the bantam’s. Monty would’ve kissed her, if she wouldn’t have come down on him like a stack of bricks for trying it.
peace to the unsung peace to the martyrs | i'm johnny rotten appleseed
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow