Were this part shorter or malaprop, blotto rite system theatres by-pass group colophon.

 

III — xiv — Dignitaries Ruled Available Positions.

.   .   .

Into health control, Manasseh Rabbi Esherman, in fewer than happy thoughts, barged hoping that a seam of inspector–corporeal would suffice. The OD had never seen Në before. Consulting operational directives, s/he read of the bearer’s authority to review all certificate bean stream mailers to anything hot. Squashing hatted monitor assembler vans all even, though ever lax with each grand tedious vista, Justine surged to ghost finis the lately camping fusion carom–ium, as happy to see the rest of her shift fobbed on the off chance newcomer. Very archaic, the devices, s/he commented, altering Esherman through this detector which, promptly rippling off, admitted an apologetic search. Manasseh was told Në did not choose to touch each spud thrift.

Telephones chirped and the badge, Manasseh surmised, to placate dabbling interest in heraldry. His gruff release of adage eliciting beneficent smiles from the twinkling voice online, s/he waved beyond the counter. The room contained six stations. Five were enough for conga line visits. Manasseh assumed post at the fur scanner. “How many fingers am I holding,” he addressed the occupant who, wearily alarmed by our sudden location overhead, said, “wishes could have been more albeit than evolution’s ticketed sham refill.” The attorneys thrived in, being less numismatic mustily. “Seeing such debunkers of usual slight? Yea for by–products of misfortunate zeal.”

Ion stared at the hand. “I will not part with the community,” he said spitefully. Esherman, his thorough hatfuls of desire, reflective of deeper infinitives, asked whether messianic needs of the community were somehow psychedelic? “Nature, no doubt was their hope of sainthood.” Through teleconference, Logan strobed initially, “in some circles perhaps. Porphyry wrote off habit as dependent.” They found their segue flared fitly from earlier workouts and sponsored in mania worthwhile cause. “Yet Echo risked setting you up for it, the ebbing current of revolutions that lifted your deed. Alcuin’s connectives dozed while traffic merely shifted, and whomever you irradiated weren’t spared much trouble with Ruthenian entities. Eventually might such so well be canon had Menard not retrieved one.”

“You raised his headset,” Ion shook an eyebrow? “Your entirely correctly indeterminacy,” Logan continued, “sent to your credit, the slithery upheaval sellers discovered an undercurrent. The unheralded opinion war of 1997 caused so many emblematic harrassments that the Parisian government ceaselessly expunged mostly profitable cash crows that placated universal adulation.” Ion said, “that isn’t mostly flouted. They cannot concern.” “Yet they did,” Logan retorted, “and more’s the authority. Deflected ex post facto bigwigs (as were you once), merely precursed, touring in loyal hopes of existence, and as such trifled downwind until they were told, if not so much bothered, to find you’ve now landed wherein?”

.   .   .

In Like Means the Sentence Was Abandoned.

.   .   .

An inchoate echo of relief seeped, beneath the nap of established opinion, that promise of existing strife. That history might be reordered, as casually as return of an open container wafting past old inviolate bored terrain conditions sounded by and moved among new cameral dies, cast an ordinal shadow among thitherto legitimately acceptable ensembles. Mock parliaments, annually summoned, for edifice, assented to remain standing long after all other foreshortening endured. False justness and scary stuff caused a pause in the enterprise. Engaged in a relentless buyback of relinquishing certificates (when Jasmine’s cameral deed framed Thledvirrson, our worst nightmare who’d emanated from regions of electrostatic shock, her grandfather summoned collective chairs of Internet Board of Comptrollers, International Comptrollers Commission, and Center for Imaginary Assistance (relate those treks through alphabet aisles and being told enough to ring do not disturb placards), whose spice racks spanned the globe onto buffered compartmentalization).

Incensed when alma maters had lampooned the prophet, Talitha had submitted to the faith and attended her twenty–year reunion with a burkha. Also traced in Ossian with a fellow traveller (at whose photo Menard had gone deadpan), she was reckoned most dangerous when disgusted with her actions. Their alloy only darkness, akin to compound interest, Menard, in receipt of manifests emanating from the Ossianian Hermitage, did straitly assign persons, to search for salable items matching inventories specified in lading, with dual intent. Beamed up on a spotlight, the wrecker slowed before, wreathed in mists, the all–night paella roadhouse where State Highway 400 met the Barcelona Stage. Awakened after midnight, with fewer than two hours’ sleep, to jerk a river dance troupe bus out of the Ebro, whence it had plunged after occupants, disembarked to picnic, loosed the emergency brake, the wrecker’s driver, Ostrand Ampersand, felt he deserved an extra prospect of rapid service, which diminished as motley fleets of truck gathered before the concourse.

Through ripples of fog two workers, recognizable in provincial coveralls, stumbled from the vestibule as beads of moisture collected upon lenses of the B&L photo–tints worn by Ostrand regardless of hour. The jukebox was accidentally kicked, forcing the stylus to skip four selections. Conversation died in gloom as a half–dozen switchblades flickered to the tune of I cannot get enough of you baby seasons in the sun. Ostrand stooped, pulled the plug, emptied a half–drained pitcher of Pilsener, apologized, and ordered sambuca for the house. As silence subsided into begrudging rumor, Ostrand wiped his glasses at the common table, dimly lit by an ungainly tallow pillar spluttering fitfully from the steamed house specialty. Ostrand, reaching carefully into his vest, tugged out a worn envelope.

Three other men, unknown to Ostrand, sat behind newspapers headlining quickly how freak deposits of late August snow had yielded to skittish freshets of street slush where Dauphine ran the corpulent van uptown. On her third week of shifts, Sergei’s niece thought she had earned the straight and narrow for once. Turned out of her previous administrative position for heckling commodity futures with a subtractive algorithm, Dauphine found release by swearing herself wholly responsible, restituting the state to the tune of several grand, accepting, at the insistence of her uncle, sponsorship into this new post and, an hour of community service performed, the remainder suspended, Dauphine piloted the van along, halting splash in front of 1515 Camcord Way. Her uncle, appearing at the doorstop, looked at her uneasily. “Here for eleven AM pick–up requested at 1515” — her uncle waved, “are you trying to amuse me?” Dauphine, shocked and abashed by her uncle’s unaccustomed manner, persisted, “well, can’t I pick this guy up for you, wherever it is?” It was done forty–three minutes ago, she learned.

.   .   .

Formosan, and his connections, were in the unscheduled process of a TQM meltdown. author of poor haiku, as he was also known, and with what large relief, had mailed, in some terms most readily abandoned, instructions for final propositioning of assets, including some not presently his own. As he was known to repeatedly remind his flowers, Horace Tolstoy had approached this greater isle, scant minutes after, as he, a locus of precipitate departure from previously preempted existence, had amended, in entreated abruptness, formal associations. Uprooted, perennial goad to stultify the occidentals of the smaller isle’s erstwhile ruling class, Formosan succeeded, under the prehensile nose of the incoming regime, in transfusing most activities attending his intentness out of an old ring.

To any degree, a recent conservancy, halting development of the one hundred and fifty seven–acre semi–conductor plant over some of the most ancient petroglyphs of Lesser Warwickshire, cost no more than a farthing of his talent. To these unprecedented leaks in the fabric of Western culture, Horace, no less wont than other newcomers to appear its stouring, had lately cultivated a new hobby, being that of timing his own niches while left being unscotched. Wound up for its third and final spin, PoD, before becoming witness to the ordeal, and irate for uncultured deed, facing evidence of widespread concern given focus through a value immunity compromise process, its restitution of predetermined purpose reposed in resolution to bring upon an epoch of actualization.

As if, one thought, galvanized to tilt at death’s windmills, from a distance their natural mien was enough to forestall the shadow until we got here. Its charge shrieked crystal stems of delirium in sonar whoosh pie chart shards. At whiles, garbed, though of gravest infirmity, an improvident resumption of exurbian woes deafened all efforts at meaningful dialogue. Upon sum of morose questions, arduous replies redacted (upon) a stasis, fretful, trepanning ominously hors de combat, with an original composite well begun and in earnest, as trying as soon as possible to engineer all hesitance out of the system, for each order placed overhanged articles of no return; the several states, in adoptance of threshold though dour utilitarian interests, held out for the sunset rush although, with a sense of dwindled options, wed scarcely to closer preference.

Were life possible bang comma, Fernand typed, we being descriptive sorts as again in cultural diffusion might begin to believe the saw when it bit against the grain of habit. You will forgive me repeating the same thing for the same time for the same reason seven times a day for seven years while expecting a different result (that of course unexplored failsafe road, never again) and if insofar as a measure of progress you have come to a singular decision, I will stop wishing that the ink would run out allowing pause period misspelling on account, for darkness was all around. In the eventual heartland, where I might find myself, without a nose wart, an addiction, or anonymity, light would again remind one of storied fates, these imperfect sands, trickling, vitreous, the impermeable leisure of innocence recycled in custom to a constant universal period. That anodyne angle had lurked improvidently. Catching his breath, the writer noted the quarry and groped at the range. As the cool soldered anagram waffle fell into his hand, he flung it at the shadow shrieking. As it flopped languidly, becoming a sudden terrifying scuttling pseudopod, Fernand heaved the heavy Civil War volume in its path. Caught betwixt marches of Antietam, it was a fair catch for the tumbler.

.   .   .

Inky servitors had, nearly unnoticed by busy patrons, soon lit all of the sambuca glasses, and the interior was a strange lantern–blue amphitheater of will o’ wisps. “My dearest brother,” Ostrand read in shaky light, “the sword of your least latte here served to mar our troth ere proof, or ahoy, abandoned hues long ago forced us to accommodate Señor Florian, and yet how you have temerity to curse our engagement to him. He has been very kind to our true desire to leave home, so you can keep your toast on and mail yourself to the dive, ur–sister, Esmeralda.” After the paella was gone, he finished breakfast in silence but for shots, listening to talk around him. “Think of all the things we wouldn’t have without plastics.” “Randomly cognitive theories of tissue degeneration reversal.”

“Shhh. They prefer to avoid official terminology.” “Heard tell of a guy who used to do that all the time.” “That’s used to crack knuckles.” “A chef d’cabinet in Minorca threw off his head across the old ocean.” “Heard blue out the door and were stepped on like twigs under separate letter.” “Being dead is an improvement for most of us.” “Stiffs, they prefer to avoid official terminology.” As Ostrand wiped his glasses, he felt the jog of a familiar elbow. Framed against neon, Alcuin, transportation minister, stood before him. It was very dark. Light, subtracted sound, enhanced an earth captious or plaintive sent out of keeping with time, shadows trained upon opposing walls, scarcely deviant earls we, warning systems, were called upon to explain recent dissociations.

.   .   .

There, a terrible stir, this scrap brought all about, but late or forgotten. So much capital had been drawn. Having verified that finance was arrived in escrow, the Sergei Kalamparumple I knew would have, upon conclusion of the unexpected meeting with his niece, in capacity of driver for Globus Express, and the second dispatched to his doorstep that morning, surmised that aught was amiss and taken measures to amend it. This morning Sergei was, however, still somewhat to be found forty–three minutes short, even as he arose at his customary hour of seven forty five, the indication of his nightstand chronometer having been, unbeknownst to himself, thrown out of true during a brief electrical discharge that accompanied the freak September snowstorm.

As he had spent the morning pushing over things, Plair, representing previous interests, proceeded en route to the Kalamparumple address. Although his chronometer showed ten twelve, Sergei went upstairs to answer the bell. Met with his blank stare, the Globus man announced, “pick–up, eleven AM, 1515 Camcord Way,” and added, with a glance at his watch (it was actually ten fifty–six), “sorry if I’m a little too early.” Sergei, expected to point out that it’s only ten thirteen, in proof, beckoned Plair to plant himself just inside the door, backed toward a console quartz receiver and switched on the short wave. Toc. Toc. A crisp mariner’s voice, at the tone, announced seventeen hours, fifty–seven minutes coordinated universal time. At the beep, Sergei felt boorish. Begging pardon off the Globus man, he ducked into his study to retrieve a parcel addressed to the firm of Ingersoll, Blank, and Dake, 7 Holcombe Scrufflings, Yarmouth, UK. Plair accepted the parcel.

.   .   .

Seized by a fit of couthness, Fernand typed, “while waiting for time to draw nearer, I forsook trail mix. Fond itch caught verily, the astonishingly public moth drawn, as if by phrased substantiative adage, I had a horrid blemish on my nose, horrible and huge. It had bit or else distance as an ease of precipitance had dwindled indwelt. Geese, due to their variable inflection, are a real showstopper, but always remember that glacial glades gladly glamorize glandular glass glaziers.” In the midst of an alphabet one encountered halogens, consonants that bonded with almost nothing, the bluejay, persistent practitioner of the single voice, lovely Ell, who bonded with many other consonants, though never taking precedence herself, girded by imposters Kay and Em (the former was at least honest enough to declare himself a knave, whereas the latter tried to pull a fast one with his mnemonic devices), and noble N, consonant of negation, personified by an (some finth glimmered in appellant cognizance of an) Ambassador.

“To celebrate transversion of this vast wasteland,” Fernand resumed, “the King’s English embraced the Platonic phonetic prefix, but beware: it is a phalanx of phantasmagoric pharœs, pharmaceutically phased to philander a Pleistocene philosophically. Beyond value of pi, we are reborn into placid places of placebo placentas, yet plagued by plagiarism, while plainclothesmen plaint plangently to planets of plague, plasma, and plaster. The mighty peapods harbor plinths and princes, and building sticks of the universe are contained herein. We owe a debt of gratitude to prophets, may angles bless their most holy name,” Fernand added, “for the next letter, Q.E.D., allows us to define four–sided objects with unprecedented accuracy, and skip to electric air, that bonds only with the queer aitch, rhapsodic rheostats rhetorically antigenic, and the gate of Midgard arrived upon, there is no more work for us today and for your assignment wish each of you to choose a most controversial task.”

Fewer snores occluded this finish, yet as he swept his desk of context Fernand felt he could have been more adroit around his charge at so parlous en passant. “In order that I am only closest in stages sincere and anon, one self, and other jaguars might leap if the next stain thing upon fowl went ring, method, or apparent, that was miscue and given something trite, inimical declarations of tergiversatory intent from without, thereat that renunciation shall not begin as long as I exist. Almost a seal of darkness intervened to alleviate my dilemma about how much further I would have to wax parenthetical, as cascades undammed and overran the feckless page scuttling about the crust of the Village.” It had been held here, upon this page, to enact aspatial resolutions upholding a new word, or a program, or amused declared aims, provision, provable premise of exiting will, and so sang the and/if preemptive dispensary of, while only proclaiming some mien composure and of any simple calculus problem, matching wicks good or ill, cheat in the not very fickle. “After clutter, it was obvious I had listened to (only) no more than a very few of the Arabic language programs.”

The reception accorded this cit surpassed all prior constructions of conduct. Hopefully fjulsfut, if quick to bandy their stock phrases about freedom flies whose bark were worse, trying to catch them with egregiousness, and oft misled down apathy forasmuch as wily niceties of their Ambassador seemed to put their cases into a shabby light, buckled on their shelves each morning (what a farce to apply that pleasant term to darkness in which so much bumbling occurred prior to thoughts of ultimate reward lingering in haste, even preferable to those prior dark moments arrived with the short circuit crash telephone save), and blossomed from decades and/or foul angst and oppression, left most of their clothes in inter–regnum closet, swayed in oblivious purpose of their mend fledged to the deep end. Esherman spoke aloud, “and on behalf of your indignation, I must now stricken that (‘upon behalf of whom,’ Ion wailed, confused) of all means, without compensatory programme, other than a few blame–me’s shouted in the foyer as strictly kismet, is depraved. Singularly blotto. Little wonder that you’d nocturnally voice rebuttals left as is. What pests they were.”

Ion, remembering indemnification, heartily pounced over and opened that can, “or will you forgive the zealotry of new believers? Their prayers may set me up.” And formally other men, stolen with masks reverently handled, flinched daisies pressed upon call. An aspirant, plying the mask, toothily faced down the patient Ion, noticing waves of clouded heaven surging into superb vastness that physically coiled into green cilantro, who asked, “oxygen?” “Whatever flew for you,” Logan paraphrased. “If you wish, you are free to move mountains, but in the dim sum of your future outside, I must invite you to consider perorating.” Within this room, Esherman smiled, “you’ll really eke.”

.   .   .

It was nearly one minute of three when Plair, all his fiefs marked anon, ignored sequential time and gyrated off LaSalle, steering the Globus van direct to regional. Dense rabbinates would begin meta tents before Plair, whistling a tenuous moment, lifted the parcel from the passenger side and walked in over the loading dock. The dispatch printer was unattended for the moment, Plair hesitated when a batch job fell through, and a slinkily conceptual cert of stacked labels sucked themselves into production.

In an adjoining hangar, jet blast whistles alarmed the moment of departure. Plair, unnerved, broke into queue and tapped an override code. The batch aborted, given him opportunity to produce one label, for the National Healers Council, 4 Croughton on Stoke, Tyneside (5) 63, U.K. This he took, with impressant selvage, super–imposing the amending label on the parcel and resplicing the stock stack. Plair reset the flags and resumed his course of motion, having also, unobserved, allowed the bale of labels to resume its accruing ritual, and ran the parcel into the drayage freight collection wain scant seconds before the basket, conveyed with all else of its holdings, bumped alongside the derelict hatch.

If it all seemed done with method of a pre–liminal operating standard Plair, having followed his instruction to the letter, had but the wan satisfaction of seeing the Globus courier jet entrain for the concourse and for further fields aloft, before hastening to service elsewhere. Another man, a guildmaster, one day found his commencement unseated by uplines from Green sympathies, foreseeing that, over his tepid opposition, the IBV project eventually carried, the native cliff salted over to fashion a defense campaign so adroit, and yet, to his own mind, so unappetizing to all sides. Middleford would fain return to primacy only unscratched, if also free to supplement his appointment as resident occludant of the ICC with a material cue for post comptroller, an office of potential yet ludicrous lucrativitude, and the guildmaster, raiding his last capital, arranged delivery of this item direct to the receiving firm of Ingersoll, Blank, and Dake, agents of his erstwhile benefactors.

Learning of this, with large relief old Formosan broached the cask unsealing the innermost wall. Therein, long a goad, yet in every way furled, controlling activities, most secret, appended, condoned, unrivalled by happenstance, or most readily abandoned, the long repressed desert heffalump awoke in a position. Orphics, a moribund self–help empire comprised of individuals incessantly engaged with problem–solving techniques, found fresh infusion. Motivated by questions of semaphoric calling relations, in fulfillment of reward through transcendence, or many individuals dedicated to their motto, Orphics were able to corner more than only camp causes which long tugged at those learning of universal betterment. Formosan’s less tenuously underwritten enterprises found frontage herein.

The light of a promised new dawn, re–asserted with funds funneled into fights against cancer, spills, four world wars, and general despair, fitfully sputtered in the lamp of a hitherto tarnished flame, whilst Ion wasted text amiably for eons. What was committed during the rape of Gujarat by followers of the prophet and foreshadowed loss of foursquare couplets by and large; their discovery lauded in mystic fallows factually? “Aydgar e Zharan,” Ion replied more than heartily, years before this question whisked by him and whatever sly portion lapsed in odd solemn indolence. “Their examiners left education with us,” Justine, flaunting relief, struggled into a spring coat, hastening from the past in an aura of channel street flannel. “Seam squirrels.”

“Fling them about then,” Manasseh exclaimed, hearing the supervisor raise her/his voice. “We get called away for rusty seam squirrels.” Apparently a package had broken and shipped water. Manasseh risked a snicker doodle. The relief OD returned his tobacco pouch. He also ignored the badge and resumed tracking forms as Manasseh took it and split.

.   .   .

“How are you, old prop,” Porphyry exclaimed? “Turn yourself in for once,” Ostrand grumbled. “And your uncle, Matthieu?” Ostrand drank a fifth shot in reply. “I trust your work is going well, and wish to be a source of continued fortune,” Alcuin said, extracting a card from his parka. “Get bent.” The card fluttered to the floor. “I’ve been awake for two days.” “No doubt, anxious to return to Asuncion?” Ostrand stared at the upturned glass. “Your visa expired last week. Bon voyage.”

As Alcuin began to melt away, Ostrand yelped, “stay!” The transportation minister thought that spelled a milk run. “You overestimate my importance.” Ostrand squinted down at the card. Alcuin had scrawled the number of an exit off the national highway. It was almost in France. When he looked up again, the room, flooded in a greasy dawn, had emptied.

.   .   .