339 lines
21 KiB
Plaintext
339 lines
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Plaintext
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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO oOOOO OOOO. OOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" .OOOOOO OOOOOo OOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOO oOOOOOOO OOOOOOO. OOOO oOOOO
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OOOO .OOOO OOOO OOOOOOOOo OOOO OOOO"
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OOOO oOOOO OOOO OOOO "OOOO. OOOO OOOOo .OOOO'
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OOOO .OOOO" OOOO OOOO OOOOoOOOO "OOOO. oOOOO
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OOOO oOOOOOOO..OOOO OOOO "OOOOOOO OOOOoOOOO"
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OOOO .OOOO"""OOOOOOOO OOOO OOOOOO "OOOOOOO'
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OOOO oOOOO ""OOOO OOOO "OOOO OOOOOO
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|---------------------------------------------------------------------------|
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| There Ain't No Justice |
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| #101 |
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|---------------------------------------------------------------------------|
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- A Moment of Culmination -
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by David Artman
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In that moment of seizure, Hunter's sturdy, powerful heart contracted and
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froze, drowned in chaos' thick malaise.
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Undaunted and chastised, Hunter Scales's consciousness sunk penitently
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into that unwholesome mire, the past poised in suspension through the
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dissolution of his senses. 'Curiously like the tales of life passing before
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one's eyes....' He --if enough remained of this ego to earn a gendered
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pronoun-- marvelled that introspection held any temporal sense now. Then his
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thoughts were drawn to wonder at the enormity of imaginative energy spent
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through all persons back into simian antiquity in each one's final mind's
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cinema. That he could pen but one long- pondered verse on this, his last
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moment's lucidity.
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That one phrase could have wrought more desecration on the charnel
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edifices of Modern Man than any long-fused dynamite stick he threw in his
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unfocussed youth.
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The frames of his jumpy reel fluttered forward to jeer and accuse his
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unblinking, yet myopic, mind's eye. They do not come like some burst of
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newsreel, captioned and accompanied by off- key, staccato ragtime trinklings.
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Rather, they were edited by the eternal, infernally pious director into a
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melodrama nearly as lampooning as the cartoon.
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Like a jaunty and careless Bosco had young Scales strolled onto Yale
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campus; entering class of '18, stress on 'class.' Gently cushioned from the
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suppurating carnage of Europe, while funded by his father's arm sales to the
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same Five, he was at leisure to pursue what course he would --as long as it
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was Economics. Not to be daunted by the acquisition of a mere diploma, he had
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fallen ravenously to studies of the capitalist technique, keeping always an
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eye on industrial developments throughout the Eastern Seaboard: from noble
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Boston's shipyards to flogged Charleston's reconstruction.
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In all though, the cruelly simple manipulations and machinations of the
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free market refinery interested him not one whit. Early in his education, he
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petitioned the Elders of the University to allow him, effectively, to 'test
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out' of his Economics degree, using the weight of his family, "so instrumental
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to the effort of our old friends" (as the Chancellor had remarked, referring
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either to the Unionists or Allies or both) and the logic that he was, after
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all, the third son of his father and would need little business skill to
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manage what inheritance would some day --"God forbid!"-- be his to manage.
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This rational, so weak in his father's glutted eye, washed over the Elders; he
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had enrolled, by semester's end, in a hodgepodge course he dubbed
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"Metaphysical Studies."
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The whine of surging blood filled his senses; the Old One's crushing
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vengeance had pulsed to his dissonant brain and was causing multiple strokes.
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To Hunter, there could be no more bitter scene than that last recollection:
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his vision quest for a grail beyond the bottomed Christian one-- for now not
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the least tatter of that idyll remained to furl before his darkling sight.
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There had been an instant, not an hour earlier, that the pure brilliance
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of his long-subsumed dream had pierced the leaden mantle of its perversion.
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Hunter had stood amid the clutter and piles of books in his sanctum, one book
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split open in his wide, smooth palm, and seen the text's encryption for what
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it was: an ashamed misdirection, the self-conscious warning of a guilty
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malignance. Behind the coded Arabic lurked the greatest of dynamite, a
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powderkeg unconserved and riotously neglectful of spatial bounds. He glanced
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over its instruction fleetingly, never dwelling on a particular phrase or
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incantation lest the cognition loosen the forces so tautly bound in the
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phonics... and in himself. Yes, in that instant, he had felt again, at last,
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that profound disturbance with his impending intentions that had nearly frozen
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his arm in mid-throw a cloudy eleven years ago, outside of Tanner's Pub, even
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as its hand held a sparking, pregnant stick.
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Scales's liberal but intent studies had pulled him from Yale's polished
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austerity to Middlesex's vibrant passion. There he found the right alloy of
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modernist angst and revolutionary fervor to fuel his first meritable works. He
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even shortly won a critics post on the magazine which first published his
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pastiche of Gothic and metaphysical poesy. His Americaness, it was hoped,
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would provide a needed injection of modern cosmopolitanism to the pulp. Yet
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Hunter fell quickly to Marxist disparagement of the very new order that he
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was, as Yale and entrepreneur, to propound. It was merely that, in contrast to
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the chance elitism of capital enterprise, the communal ideals of the enlivened
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radicals around the cafes struck a far more sonorous chord with his quest for
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universals; he more and more often was to be found in pub, cafe, or den,
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surrounded by like-impassioned youths and speaking with intensity of the
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ascendancy of the ubermenshen.
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It was at one such congress that Scales first met Illya Regis. Their
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attraction followed the course of frank abandon that was so popular to the
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licentious energy of the subculture. Soon, however, the fine difference in
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their drives was to begin a corrupting effect on his Glorious Evolution; her
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particular deepest bent was for destruction, pure and simple, of the entire
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social edifice, "worn and weary in its ruts;" and as for what followed: the
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strongest would decide for the best. "Feudalist retro-evolution" (as was
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argued by one pedant of their circle) meant nothing to her overmen; they were
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strong through wisdom as well as daring in the face of flaming deconstruction.
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They would slaughter the weak out of compassion, not powerlust.
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Slowly, insidiously, Illya's twist on Neitzschean 'progress' burrowed
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into the crystalline core of Hunter's vision of psychic evolution. His pure
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and disciplined method and myth of the Ancient Asians slowly was encumbered by
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Illya's rarefied and dogmatic occultism. Not content to channel her spirit,
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she would vent it: one day in furious deliberation over some Cabalist tome,
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the next in delicate alchemy in the university labs where she labored to breed
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the perfect detonator: her own fanatic quest for a higher order of magnitude.
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In time, he began to perceive more and more of the skulking dread
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entombed in the dead texts and was seduced closer to the aberrant rage that
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lurks in all who have seen the onslaught of the industrial age, that
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revolution of finance without conscience. Within months, it had taken little
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more than three pints and one rallying tirade from Scorsby --Illya's mentor--
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to bring him swaggering and pregnant with bitter power to the entrance of the
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lawyers' local, Tanner's. His wind-chilled hands did not even tremble as he
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struck a spitting match and ignited his charge.
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Yet, as he arched his back and channeled his frustration along his taunt
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arm, he had seen, even across the flurry-driven street, a relaxed and stately
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man leaning on the pub's bar and laughing. That humanity-pervading signal of
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communion and peace, upstaged by his stick's spluttering menace, called down
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to the so newly grown crystal of his dream's core and froze him on the brink
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of infamy.
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Cool waves of pain streaked down his limbs, convulsing them and forcing
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the surrender of their balance on the rocking sloop; Hunter began a
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slow-motion decent to the boat's deck. The beast of entropy, which his
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focussed utterances had drawn up from the murky depths of the ocean, moved
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around the bow to study each twitch and flail of his dragging tumble to the
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deck. It sent forth tendrils of potential, tweaking his motion an inch this
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way, an inch that; now --this very slit second-- the right foot freed from
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friction, lifting arduously away from the possession of gravity, the first
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fraction of a wind gust providing the last causal link to his impact on the
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salt-washed paneling. He finally lands, each ounce of his weight now
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transferring to his ill-positioned left arm. One of the series of gravid
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additions begins the fracture of both his radius and ulna; the point of
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searing pain is almost holy in its transcendence over the general agony of his
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apoplexy and subsequent strokes.
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He felt, through the chorus and solo of his penance, a hollow, angry
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laughter flash from the dissolute entity as it lapped a splash of brine across
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the compound fracture's torn flesh. The mirth, and Hunter's drawn scream, cued
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a gel haze from which the memory of similar amusement and agony panned and
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resolved.
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Illya had merely chuckled at Hunter's vacant boggling over her
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revelation. "It's how these times are, chuck!" she had dismissingly admonished
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him from across the lamp-lit table. The shadows of the pub closed around his
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vision, only his inspiration's becalmed, patient expression swam amid the
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taunting recollections of shared ecstacy which wrestled for his chagrined
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attention. "How could I not 'be' with Scorsby? He embodies the nihilistic
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passions which must purge this tepid world."
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"And, ergo, I do not...."
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"Embody...?" here one brow on her Hellenic front arched. "Not hardly. You
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love the middling good of the present too much."
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And she stood and strode boldly off to the last three weeks of her life.
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For a long while after her death by a dropped vial, war raged in the
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conscience and consciousness of Scales. One faction marshalled argument from
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his tenacious reason while another pumped his softened soul for emotion. He
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had given an ever- swelling part of his five years at Middlesex to her arcane
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and violent quest. But he had always held back on the rage; she was right
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about his stubborn compassion. But he had gone along with her and Scorsby's
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conspiracies, sabotages, and murders. Yet he had still wrote and published his
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concerned admonishment and behests to the yoked masses. Nevertheless, he had
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always found time to risk translation of those Middle Eastern texts which
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exceeded Illya and Scorsby's linguistic abilities.
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"Damn all that has past!" he had screamed, grimacing tear- streaked at
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the pubs smoke-darkened rafters. No one stopped the man that rose from his
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seat to ask him about the black smoulder in his eyes; all knew at their
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innocent cores that the glow was but the last light of the soul interred
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behind those orbs.
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Raindrops eased down from the moon-marbled sky to sculpt fluted red bowls
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from Hunter's pooling blood, and the ancient impatient menace which even now
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absorbed his tattered essence assumed a diffident air. The agony of this
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frustrating man could be milked no more; the genetic blessing of shock, common
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to these frail beings, had enshrouded his sparking nervous system. There
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remained now only the last bilious second or so, that insignificant summation
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of the closing life, the denouement of derangement and obsession.
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The fury of all evils reclined beside the slow-settling form of his
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severed puppet. It had shown promise of liberation, after centuries,
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millennia, aeons --no difference-- for the envoy of jealous entropy. Wound
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deliberately into impetus, it had jerked admirably along the prophesied path,
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in the beast's planned cadence. Such concentration of purpose had not been
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seen in nineteen centuries on this planet, and the destroyer had ensnared this
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one soundly, much to his Nemesis' sadness. Though a few moments of awareness
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had slowed the tool's forging, the final artful influence, in that drinking
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hall some several eternities ago, proved the last juncture for redemption.
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But no, it actually had not, and the chaos meanly parcelled out an extra
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second of quivering breath to the dying human; it raged anew and branded the
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gasping spirit with its last desperate years of degeneration.
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No arcane tome remained unlocked before the voracious appetite in Hunter
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for vengeance and validation. His first essay was to complete the fatal
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experiment that had claimed Illya Regis; it done, he coolly, dispassionately,
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utilized the compound to blast one wing of the Asylum in London. The Nazi
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party, a perverted phoenix rising ill-smelted from the injured ashes of German
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nationalism, polished the buttons of the cloak of armageddon which he had
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donned. His once-caring verse dispelled his audience with a pained yet
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vitriolic ejaculation in what became his last published editorial. He folded
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in upon his cold contempt and let it fester, mulching it occasionally with the
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vision of exploded gentlepersons or bobbies shot dead with an expensive import
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he order from his brother.
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His public identity was, unfortunately, never linked to the Bombardier,
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hated and erratic anarchist. He was nothing but a rapidly aging curiosity to
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those few who would listen in the seedier pubs of the East End as he ranted of
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final judgement, where all but the warrior-saint would drown in their own
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bile. Those lads who felt the thrill of his words quiver through the feminine
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back of their companion would cast the occasional copper his way as recompense
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for necessitating their cloistered consolation.
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It was his hungry bending for these coins which would send him home, not
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exhausted and angst-ridden, but newly fired to his study and rage, the two of
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which would toss him to and fro until dawn. The compounded humiliation,
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frustration, and obsession of his graduation into Hell's honor role set before
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him, finally, one task.
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In a text which possesses no English equivalent for a name, he stumbled
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across a reference to a ritual which would, for the truly impatient, usher in
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the era of the Old One, an era which would last but an instant, if time is at
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all to be considered, but which would release, in a cascade, every imaginative
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kernel with a jangling note of despair and failure, a note which would sound
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until Time saw fit to bother with its release and decay. In the rank mire of
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his ambition, Scales saw this as the Grail for which he searched, an Unholy
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Grail that would not deign to ally itself with one febrile morality or another
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but would merely clear the way for the cleanest, most just, most bitterly
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expedient ethic that wrest hold of the whirling oblivion. The way would be
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utterly open for the wronged to wrong the slavers, and the masters to cull the
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inefficient. The quest for this promised procedure caked the last rot on the
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smeared gem of the once proud Hunter's soul; it absorbed every waking hour and
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the last of his father's bequeathment.
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But he did not fail; he ripped the tome from the grappling clutch of a
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dying Shao Lin priest.
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At ten-forty-three p.m., as the winter solstice swept tearfully across
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Britain's dales, Hunter Scales sailed from a private pier, aboard a stolen
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sloop, a stolen apocalypse on his smooth palm. The rain was light enough that
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it did not soil the thick pages, sheets which little resembled linen stock,
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had more the texture of murdered hide. By now, the misleading text's
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communication was well interpreted by Hunter; he had not parted with his
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intellect on the same evening which he had mislaid his sanity. Their message
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seethed with potential and foreboding.
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He stood upon the pitching deck and let the wild night surround him,
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caress him imploringly, as if --rightly so-- it had a stake in his eminent
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profanation. He heard its murmured pleas, felt them echo opposite words spoken
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by Illya from across white down, and cursed their futility. He was lost, and
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no weak example of the awful might of the vital world would stay his tongue
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and psyche. He began the incantation even as his pocketwatch chimed the proper
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moment, Greenwich Mean Time.
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The words staggered off his tongue, trying desperately to twist into
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discord and fling free from the dominance granted the reader in their proper
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utterance. Hunter held fast to the building power, all the while a bit put off
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by the lack of apparent effect in the surround nature; in shouting the
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culminating chant, he expected some herald of the coming purgation.
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But Chaos waits on no ceremony.
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In front of him, where before there was only white-crowned fluid peaks,
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an amorphous form resolved and advance deferentially forward. Hunter's mind
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reeled as his eyes realized that the form, which had seemed only man-sized,
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appeared so by foreshortening; its obedient advance had covered over a mile
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and it now loomed taller than the sloop's mast. The water from which it
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vaulted seemed to abhor touching the entity, preferring to cease existence in
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an annihilating whirlpool around it. As to its composition, it was nothing
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more than the reflection of a glimmer of wan light subsumed in an inky
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appetite. It exuded a baleful anxiety subtly tempered by the patience of an
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immortal. It radiated an interrogative; with that question: not to be? -- it
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tuned all of its force into a silent cyclone of doom shrouded in its wide
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volume.
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And Hunter knew finally what that request meant, really and ultimately,
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and the pure and persistent crystal that was ever at the throne of his mind
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and spirit shattered in righteous denial. The ascendance of man could not, it
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decried, be on the laddered ribs of its starving obsolete. True ascendance of
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the son does not come with the death of the father, but with pitied solace
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beside his deathbed. These again proud and passionate --not just furious--
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exhortations pummelled the waiting swarm of chaos; it reared and drew its
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warhorn from its swollen, cracked lips to let it sink back to the sea.
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And the Ancient One, master of all save one force in the universes,
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reached out with a quivering claw to encompass Hunter's freed heart and
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vengefully crushed it into a messy clod, even as the collapsing muscle shook
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loose the sole virtue it interred.
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Blood rushed from Hunter's seizing heart, causing multiple strokes which
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killed him in the space of three seconds.
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20> <20> TANJ Mailing Address <20> <20> <20> <20>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20> 08751 <20> <20> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20> <20> tanj@pms.metronj.org <20> <20> <20> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
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