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Nomia
Contributed by
skyhawk432
on
Wednesday, 16th May 2007 @ 08:22:12 AM in AEST
Topic:
StoryPoetry
|
Cordavius: Sleeping inside a Chess-pot terrace
marked with trees, the bees draw nigh
their swords in stronghold scaffle, swift
presume battle against my throatful sigh.
While I, Cordavius, look over; intact,
I see Feng Shui, the arrogant traps
holding their infant M16s with
deadpanned masks that can’t even clasp
my presence on the cinderblock floor.
“These gritters don’t know what’s in store.”
Rubbish, filthy rain-drenched clothes
with batches of patches: The Hobo code.
For days, I’ve bathed in their alleyway heavens
and traveled with carts, yet lo and behold!
I am not born of trash nor poor expectations.
Instead, I am a man of infinite jests:
An actor, a pauper, a protesting parrot
and scout against these mock-human pests.
Under these glazed and undreamt eyes
lies dormant a secret silhouette;
passwords, people, much information
for these persistent evil gents.
Marked with trouble and intimate gray,
a sliding banner reveals dissent
among the cousin-land fills with machines
who offer service to the penitent.
These gents are hustling technology freaks
who work to fix the human genome:
To assimilate human evolution
and make whole, like the arenas of Rome
emotional, physical, mental designs,
cognitive, spatial, vocal, social
intricacies of the sapient mind.
For Christ-to them-christened belief
among his people; that was his flaw
compared to molding and making true
all rights, all thoughts, all preset laws
with scientific revolutions:
“Made whole for us and united for all.”
The choice, with us, to them is imperfect
insoluble acts of mistakenly kind.
For man with two is worse than one
while wrong will be made, whether thee or thine.
Now I, Cordavius, agile and free
shall take to Fate’s windy hands
and scanter fast in quiet approach;
to make solutions. These evil men
will not grasp nor comprehend!
Narr: Gustling autumn’s auburn breeze
shown light in light upon night’s wake.
Cordavius, who Hamlet knew well,
in his patch-quilt rags smelling
of bourbon beauty, raw-dawed dimly
with no crunch from his heels
to Doorville; gun population exceeding 50
to 5 ration, a dangerous place to be.
He entered non-amishly, yet
a rock lay in his way; an eye scanner
glaring its red searchlights in his own.
Cordavius: A copier of sight? Alas I’m not afraid
of such forward tactics on my resolve.
A clip, snap, snip in wire cutter sense
will make this boulder kindly revolve.
Narr: With professional articulence,
all wires were severed and cords were tied
while a birth rang free from the audio;
alerting all who remained in silent concentration
with their carbine babies resting on safety.
They sprang to life, their Sept. issues
included, clicked to semi-auto while
ending on auto: A spray of cries.
These fathers were ready to defend their
suburbia with justified force.
Fractional golden moons laid in pillow clouds
while Cordavius, a fine jester, crawled
deeply inside the building’s ventilated
nostrils, checking each opening for an opening.
Cordavius: The greatest ways to infiltrate
are not brute force nor persuasion,
but, instead, to vanish among all quarrels
and reach their base; a true evasion.
It only takes a luring bait
to cast these fish out from end
so when a menacing shark sneaks
around, the won’t be there to defend
their poison-ers, their prisoners;
all that are prototype made
so, easy and pleasy, I can
dismantle all and avenge the betrayed.
Yet, before such intrusive quibbles
be brought to a sickly airy life,
hastings are due for the next path round
so, off now I go to reach new strife!
Narr: Away Cordavius went: a thump,
thump, thump of his knees getting faster
and yet even faster, while his
rain boots leaked yester-waters and
denim pants caressed all steel underneath.
Groundwork was easy: a fork 4 meters
away will dip into the Office suites
at the right and into the bio chemical
labs at left. First, a little obstacle.
Cordavius: Easily, these blades turn lifeless,
yet, by my time, they will stop,
only for those who know clearance
and have all basic training from Ops.
Narr: After a long minute, the air conditioning
stopped while the vent fan slowly
came to a halt, ending in mite dung.
When a protest becomes an insane
obsession, even these times for air
become valuable. It was smooth for
Cordavius; his hands reached between
two of the fan blades and applied
pressure that forced his body though
this way made opening. After a
little struggle in dust mite central,
he moved on to the upcoming fork.
-----------------------------------------
An actor can always make an emotion
or trick you into believing the
opposite sides of a quarter.
Just a week before the day, Cordavius
played as the grinning repairman.
It was all technical; sliding barricades
inserted themselves into the building’s column-work,
a coin fountain stole a person’s pocket
change as they walked by, the low
clicks of the receptionist’s typing (at least
70 RPM), the announcements giving a heads
up on new products and research development;
yes =, all technical and no flaws in the structure.
No pinpricks of any kind to use
in court as liable evidence for changes
under: “Crimes against humanity.”
It was 2020 and, boy, was it
bright and sunny in this land of milk
and honey. No one wore glasses here since
eye problems were solved. It was easy
for UTEC, the most leading operator in
progressive homespun evolution; an inexpensive
operation that involved not going under the knife
but undertaking scans from AI coordinated
machines that then determined a dosage
of Hydromoxolene for the treated persons.
Hydromoxolene, a cell regenerative, causes
replenishment in a specific part of the body,
obviously, it was the eyes. Anyone
can notice in the bright whites of the
receptionist’s eyes and her stainless tooth
smile while asking: “How may I help you?”
Cordavius: “’ello there’ ! I needs to gits meh’
knickers up to the’ air duct stations. They called in on eh’ problem wit’ the heater?
Narr: As usual, like the snake-in-the-grass
he pertained to, Cordavius strolled
in drunkard fashion. This time, an
Irish repairman from the lower sector:
One would guess Cloverbrook due to its
high crime rate, lenient drinking laws
and its high population of Europeans, specifically
Western Europeans. Of course, Cordavius
might have been a Scott o-Brien or a Conan
o’ Connor, it didn’t matter as long as
the actor played his part accordingly.
He was, of course, a chameleon among
races or cultures, since no two of his
getups looked alike. Now as he lumbered
on with his equipment in hand, non would
come to mind. In the 10s of 2000,
horrible things went to mind. About
everyone agreed with UTCE’s research
yet some formed groups against their
experiments. In Vladmir’s hospital center,
there were reported cases of troubles
ranging form bad to extremely grim.
A lady from Middle suffering form
an extreme case of cataracts to the point
where she drove blindly into an EV or
electrical unit; a man who has permanent
UV scars on his corneas, making it
impossible to define things clearly and
off-helter his spatial processes, making
him commit accidental suicide while
believing he was looking down from
a bridge; two cases of people’s eyes
bursting from their sockets; yes, many
cases like these spread rumors
of possible medical terrorism taking place.
Of course, these cases were overlooked by
all sheep in the sheperd’s flock, except
for the black one and the snakes near
the end of the pasture. The black sheep
was Dick Truman, a once known researcher
in UTEC who changed his name to
Samuel Davis after becoming the leader of
H.E.R.E.S.Y., an anti-homo-sapien development
group who used radical acts as their main ploy.
All of the snakes were afraid of this black
sheep, he was once one of the but turned
against after much desocialization
going on within the labs. He was
not only smart but revealed much information
regarding UTEC’s development and had
insight to their “crimes against humanity”
yet these people knew it wouldn’t be enough
evidence to take down the whole facility.
Cordavius arrived at an elevator after
walking for approx. 3 minutes down
hallway after hallway of offices.
His job was nowhere near this
place, he was to go underground into
the basement floors in order to find
the vent station. But first things
first, he clicked the most bottom
floor. Slowly, the number went down from one
to B1, there was no other persons
in here besides Cordavius but he kept his
stance; knowing that there were secret
cameras watching from the elevator button.
The elevator doors were thick, hard steel.
The floor, like the hallway, was blue
marble. For a research center so big
and constructed carefully, it sure had
a slow elevator. By the time Cordavius
got down to B4, it was 5 past 10:00 am,
the opposide can be said about his vent
travels, his watch read 20:05 and he was
closing in on the labs.
Cordavius: As I think how in my allegoral
thoughts, I am the bug crawling in
the nostrils of their body. It won’t
take but a few more crawls
through mucus and hard boogers
before I find the brain, and from there
I will poison it. It won’t be
slow, but it will not be triggered
until I am gone, the poison will
spread rapidly and kill the entire
body. This is my mission and failure
to cease their bodily functions
is not an option.
Narr: Cordavius crawled past the first
security clearance, then the second,
the third and finally the last.
The floor changed from blue
marble to white tiles, just like
the floor when he left the elevator
at ten o’ five AM.
-----------------------------------------
At this early interval,
he walked past two storage skies leading
to the janitor’s supplies and ended
his trot about 14 meters away
in front of a vending machine.
He snickered at the selections,
with most being supplemental stimulants
depending upon the overuse of the endocrine system.
Cordavius: Aye, for such eh fancy place
they have such novelty drinks, not like
at home.
Narr: As he inspected closer on this particular
vendor, a man wearing a yellow lab coat
passed by until he paused and turned
back saying:
Scientist: Those stone cold concentrations
can turn a man flat-brook.
Cordavius: Aye, flat brook indeed. Not only
in the lousy of drink but lousy in
face, in thought and in pants.
Narr: He turned back and walked up to the front;
whistling an old tune from the transitional
century.
Cordavius, the king’s joker, ambled
ever so slightly through the somber halls;
white laced with crumble wall-ways
above a black-marbled floor
buffed for maximum luster.
At the end of the Sec. C hallway,
he turned right down a long chamber
with a service elevator down the latter path.
Inside this chamber contained
eleven doors, with five juxtaposed
on either side of the east and west
walls with the last situated to the front.
This fine jester took the third
door left. On its front, a plague
shined brilliantly dry with the message
(Ventilation Assembly)
At this point, in the dwellings
of the future, his poor self fell
from the ceiling onto the steel grating
of the chamber with 11 doors.
He grunted as sharp pain crawled
up his back into his neck.
He caressed forcefully on his left
side while he stared at his next
objective; the eleventh door; it would lead
to the research labs but stop first
at a security desk, possibly
protected by three or four guards
with m16 maturation.
He rummaged through his poverty stricken coat
until he came upon love in three ears:
A doctor’s headset, as Cordavius would name it,
shined a small metallic glare in his face from
the chamber’s giant light panel. He put the
left plug in his corresponding ear as did
the same with the other and checked if
it work by lightly tapping the third
ear; on which he did, made a loud
boom audible though them causing Cordavius
to shun.
Cordavius: Eh, to use not your own ears
but artificial incentives
makes our bearings their black
to our white-knuckled clenches;
Yes, for such set problems,
they spring alive in dark;
testing supplies, mutations
compared to organic love form the heart.
Narr: Cordavius, after shaking his head in grimace
set aside his disgusted feelings and
placed the new ear on the eleventh door
of the odd chamber, while his past self
trudged and nic-nacked down the VA
corridors. Instead of being a beauty with marble
floors, this was a barren almost-cramped
path with a carpeted floor, the first
of its kind in this building according
to his shining hazel eyes.
Cordavius: My, my they must ave’
run out of Emerald’s Shire when building
this mite-mat. Reminds me of Seamus
and his bargain bin, always full of junk
and mites. Them isn’t anything pre-
Narr: He stopped in mid sentence when
his emerald gaze reflected from
the light of the room the machine
he was to manipulate under the knife.
It was massive: Its computer terminal
sat in idle at a hard oak desk in the center,
behind it were giant vent tubes bending
into a pivot and exiting into the main lines
(The mainlines started from this room and
connect to first the labs then the offices, then
reception room, etc. ) Wind turrets were
stationed opposite on the first half of
the VA, blowing air at least 40 miles an
hour. This air, mixed with the free-on,
would exit out the vents and make the
temperature just right for all the
specific rooms, whether it be room
temperature, 35 degrees Fahrenheit for food and
in the negatives for the incubators and
studies; very structured indeed.
Cordavius rim-dimmed to the terminal; a
quick yet walking pace. He pulled a
keycard from his left inside pocked of his
beer drenched uniform and sliced it through
the terminal’s card slot. He sneezed from
the ethanol stench covering his self.
Cordavius: As I say, in tempest tongue,
the septum sanity of my end-clauses
can equally display sacrifice.
For liquid abrasions are knives to my
senses yet to make salvation I must
be complete, to fire a dire affiliation to
their wounds. Yet such kind blood
cannot be spilt without love. For the
price of fair machines or wively strikes cannot
denote, incisively, their wisdom and with
such archaic terms like love and
emotion can only be seen through elder’s
eyes,; through children’s’ play; through the
Dark ages and jousts with Mahomet.
Let it be shown to incubators,
medicines, supplements, mutations and
side-effects their ugly love: To be
made as a care but to make
grotesque as a weapon among the natural.
Narr: Cordavius quickened his pace
on the terminal’s keyboard, entering
his specially made password with
username encryption: his username
“thaed” while his password, “evila”.
While he worked, 265 pounds of
pressure exerted per minute through
53 different ventilation connects
excluding the Scalar basement level.
(B5, only Upper personal have access down there.)
He was now in the ventilation
commands, while his future self
heard trudging footsteps fading off
with a door closing with a low impact
slam. Quickly, he scarabed the door
open, making no sound whatsoever,
and entered on silent feels.
The new room revealed suspicion right
from Cordavius’s glance to the left.
The security room had tight turrets
on all four corners while on
the left, hung a door wide open and
within the room beyond, an incubator
storage unit.
Cordavius: Ah, for a sin so foul,
the sloth comes to free
me from my difficulties
of enmassing a shooting spree.
Narr: He swiftly crossed the room,
past its polished furniture, the water
hamper and the Visor screens,
entering into the fray of
bottled eggs from surrogate
mothers, marked labels showing different
graded algorithms based on the number
of chromosomes, molecules and
secretion. They were all wrapped
in cellophane with strong caps
placed on top. Serial numbers with
case and type embroidered their
marks; these were, of course, not
infants anymore but wholesome
fetuses to be used for extreme
molecular testing. From Cordavius’s
files, these babies, who were donated
voluntarily were being used not for
medical research but manipulative
gene exploration: To search for controlling
agents inside the DNA in order to
create massive control over citizens
of the future. Cordavius could only
imagine horrible outcomes from it:
People arguing not with their minds
but their genetic makeup, making
decisions based upon scientific
manipulation, it disgusted him
so, to the point of nauseam.
Cordavius: To God‘s vast hands
be sewed upon the earth
punishment to wicked vice
among his flocks of sheep.
He removed from his inside poor pocket
a round religious relic of wrath, a mechanical
device with a blinking red light,
and stuck it to the center of
the incubation racks, arming it by
pressing the red blinking button,
setting it to green; ready for the switch.
He inspected in the dark dim room a door
straight ahead. Using his doctoral ears,
he heard no footsteps on the other side; no
sounds, only the steady low
hum of the air conditioning and the
swill of sterilization: lemon with ammonia.
All was quiet, a good sign for Cordavius
who wanted a quick and painless accomplishment.
He joggled the door handle with his hobo
hands, discovering it locked.
Cordavius: To make clicks in internal thought,
not such doors can stop such a
man. For, this lock was made to protect
and this still pick, in lustful vigilance,
will combine to form a love in love, to
love only with the want to open.
Narr: Cordavius worked on this lock in utter
concentration, being quick, skilled and elite.
It opened easily after the
third try. As he started through his
new path, his past self was accessing
the air conditioning start-up sequence times. He
changed the schedule time for the east
sector to 20:01. The first part was ready.
He then took out from his uniform
a different wrathful relic. It was
silver with a small screen, square shape
with small buttons on the sides,
almost like an old child’s game controller.
Except, this controller was used not
for games, accessing inner programs, to
modify the more secure and intimate
pathway, and wham holds in the
system. Cordavius connected this
device to the inner slot on the
terminal’s right, once entered,
the screen changed. Different programs
were being run. One was used to
make the security system ignore the incoming
programs so none of UTEC would know
about the scheduled break-in, another
was run to intercept programs that
would go against the modified inner
processors and another made the terminal
hid the changed processes upon login.
Cordavius was prepared alight, no one from
HQ would let him get by without the
standard issue of infiltration. Finally,
on the big screen, he accessed the
inner programs. Door locks, clocks,
alarms, he could change the times of all,
reprogram the gun turrets outside to
shoot at only UTEC workers at a
certain time by entering in the commands.
He could make the alarm blare off at
lunchtime, a false alarm for those
gritters when they’re eating away at
their nutrients, only concerned with
making all God instead of helping
the sick. Yes, he could do many
things like this and they wouldn’t
know at all. He first opened
the schedule for door locks and waited
while it loaded the whole area schematics.
Cordavius: Aye, such a simple oddjob
requires so much to make live, to
shine in the powerful greenlands of
the pastures and stare into the face
of Almighty and make confusion
to sin. Like sin dug deep in potato
fields an’ ridin’ the carts to the
markets for whole; a joy within
job with job. Yet, to fight
worthy for the grudie pools
and helpless damsel angels beyond
the grasslands, is in eyes to
the earth Mother. So, now let
doors unopened be made opened, locks
which are powerful be unlocked
and screams of alert be
cast when Father Time ticks
his way towards the right
moments. He will stay, as
all who say among his
quarrels, among eroding
rocks; to swallow our world whole.
Narr: After waiting for the estimated
time of three minutes thirty four seconds,
Cordavius made a schedule time
for lab office 3ab at the late shift
time to be unlocked for a routine
maintenance check and cleaning.
He then mixed on to the
security cameras which his future
self closed in on the lab offices.
He snuck, like a busy crawling, to
the final door that would reach where
development was taking place. He
knew what he would see, testtubes,
medicines, doctor’s tables, the Grand
Wazoo and with the ancient relic
he had in his coat, he would
destroy it and everything else in this
carnival of calamity. He was
ready to face anything that tried
to come out of the synthetic
office ways and try to switch
the alarm on, he would use another
archaic weapon, a weapon that
was killed off after the 2011 Gun Banishment
Law, he had one with him. It was
an old Glock 9mm handgun with
a modified barrel for piercing
rounds for better kills. Compared
to the M16s, it was more powerful.
He readied it in his left hand, preparing
himself to kick the door down.
Cordavius: If I were to die
and make myself a martyr,
I would go happy.
Narr: WHAM! The door collided with
a 12 inch steel tipped boot
and broke open, almost falling
off its hinges. Inside was
a reception desk with no one in it,
a whole rove of lab cubicles with
people looking from them in surprise
and no guards. Perfect, casualties
were always so perfect in the evening.
A man named Trevor stared at
the pistol in Cordavius’s grip, knowing
that the beast would feast on the-
a bullet went through Trevor’s left
hemisphere and out the back creating
an exit wound the size of an
orange. Gore plastered on his office
cubicle window, mixed of a medly
of pale purple sponge, skull and
blood. His body fell limp onto
the ground, which the other worker drones
screamed, many, it was the first time
they saw a corpse, let alone an
ancient handgun. The past would begin
battle with the present now.
Cordavius: You all, the unspoken,
are too old for conceptual sequence.
I’m here now, the modern angel
to vanquish all to where hence
they came to be created,
deflated and abated
and ravished their thoughts,
now be gone, tainted fools!
Narr: He shot his time-rusted piece,
this time, a man named Tom,
a Frenchie with a Beatle’s crush,
became the next victim for change.
He stood upright to a vending machine
near the alarm to Cordavius’s left,
except the man didn’t seem to be
a worry-wart, even when being
kissed by the sweet lips of mortem.
He wore a different old relic that
wasn’t dangerous but annoying
to the other lab worker bees in
here, a headset and CD player.
That old age technology, of course,
was discontinued after newer improved
methods of listening to music were
made, even for the deaf.
But, this man named Tom still
listened with the past;
right now he was stuck on
O-Bla-Di O-Bla-Da.
As they say, according to Tom,
La-la-la life goes on.
Tom fell to the floor in a slumped fashion,
his back opened up like a rose bud
which made a smear on the vending
machine when he fell into his death
seat. It hit circled near his heart enough
to blow it and possibly a lung out of
his body with the force of a
100 MPH speeding car.
The next victim was more refined
yet still an unwanted woman.
She was an abused and strayed
out on the porch. He nails were
cut down to the point of bleeding
and her face still engraved the spitting
mark of a hand. Yes, she was pained
alright, pained by the violence of men
and hated them so, for she, herself
experienced such lethal and vile
pain when her husband was still around.
That, of course, changed when she
slaughtered the pig stomach to stomach
while a carton of milk still dripped its
white heaven down her kitchen table.
She was the incomplete angel of what
was to survive and what was guilty
to live; made to love the pain of others
by the Oriacon. But, she was now no
longer dead by the nail clippers of here
abused years nor was she walking
on the silver coated hills of emergence
any longer. Instead, a bullet battered her
brief right in the guts, gutting her good
with her back vomiting chunks of intestine
at the back wall near here lab where she was
once working quietly on a way to
sterilize a man without having him know…
She screamed in pain while others fell around
her. A once promising doctor who turned to
science after being fired for attempted rape
from his dispassionate love with the secretary
in the front office. Instead of tracing hearts
with Cupid’s arrow, the arrow went back into
him, right into the heart; turning it into
stew and exiting out the back where his
product patient lay silently.
An old man who once spoke
of the Thorn Beauties and
An Frontagé, became sourpussed
by a bullet to his cranium, splitting
his once full head of language and
acts into an empty, alien like image
of eyes folding on themselves and
a head collapsing into the wall near
the water bowl. A man who was
once in a car accident, who made
dribble about his upholstery growing
old and being ripped apart, received a
bullet to the kidneys with the exit wound
blowing chunks of gut fat through his
backside; he died slowly and painfully,
like the car accident. Another car accident
victim was hit in his stomach, except he
had no guts to spew, instead, he fell
and bled, bled, bled the flowing
rivers down the blue carpeting
which turned to royal purple.
He lost his girlfriend to his
sexually influenced fun. Now,
there was no more fun, especially
when lying in a cold wide tomb bleeding
sweet fruit punch down the line.
Another man, who once walked the
night with insomnia on the mind, now
slept quietly and soundlessly in sleep,
this, to him, was a relief like
not other. All of these people
had little in common but
were all connected to the
present from the past, with
the same hand that wrote
down their names and descriptions,
another hand would right down
their names and descriptions
on a post-mortem sheet.
The flurry of bullets from
Cordavius went on, with him
sometimes stopping his onslaught
to load another round of death-
metal. People, left and right,
fell or slumped to the ground,
some had their arms blown off
and others were live bait that
caught the bullet right between
the teeth. Of course, their face wouldn’t
show their surprise since they didn’t
have faces after that.
It took Cordavius approx. four minutes
to kill all of those lab workers,
with the final one standing in the corner.
It was the only worker that tried to
beg for mercy. He was a pleasantly
plump man wearing jeans, a logo-less
T-shirt and an old beat-up denim jacket.
He wore crooked glasses on his
scared-to-death face, which still
looked young when compared to
all these other gritters. He looked
scared and possibly ***** his pants
from the shock. But, Cordavius didn’t
show mercy, he aimed his ancient
beast that wants to feast on that kid’s
temple and blew him straight to
a new idea, being fully dead with
no head to back it up. Cordavius
smirked a little and starting setting
up the fireworks display, making sure
that all walls were covered with
sprinklers and roman candle delight.
Cordavius moved through a door
to the upper most left of the room,
where the biggest lab center was.
No one was in here, good to him, of
course. He mounted several prize winning
trophies on the walls, all of them were
blinking green, ready and armed to
explode the winners with excitement.
After getting finished with the décor,
Cordavius went back through the funhouse,
past the lab offices, past the blood stained
walls and past the chamber of eleven doors.
Now, he went backwards to where the elevator
was while his past self became finished at the
driver’s seat of fate.
-----------------------------------------
Past Cordavius put the terminal back on
idle and headed back to the elevator at the slow
pace, keeping his act all intact.
Cordavius: Aye, now that heater’s will be fixéd
and none of these scab’lls complain about
the inner works.
Narr: He went back past the concentration
vendor to the elevators where the elevator
was. While dragging his equipment inside,
he pressed the button for the first floor,
as did his future self. He went past the blue
marble hallway, the water tubs and back to
where the reception desk once lay and
found himself greeted by guards, guards
and more guards, holding their babies
in had to shoot out their lethal acid at
Cordavius’s body. One screamed to him:
“Stop, criminal, your days of dismantling
revolution are long gone!”
Cordavius: Aye, that’s what you think, laddie!
Narr: The gun turrets, instead of aiming at
Cordavius, shot at the guards, all of them
fleeing from the bullets. Some
were launched from the building into the
glass entrance and others were pounded
into the windows. While they were being shot,
Cordavius, took a secret way behind the receptionist
desk out to the front of the building.
He ran, with his mission done, to a vehicle parked
near some bushes at the back end of the road near
the UTEC building.
He was done, finished, finito and he was happy.
As he started up the car, he took a pack
of chewing gum out of the dashboard
and took a piece out for chewing.
Cordavius: Those gritters don’t know what in store
for them, for now I control their fate with just
a press from a button, and with this button, they’ll
experience the greatest limbo on the face of the earth,
to die without frailty and wings singed beneath their
beating hearts, like a poet sacrificed to the Gods of
Diction, Rhyme, Meter and Emotional Setback.
Narr: What those guards didn’t know about was the
final touches his past self gave, who programmed the
gun turrets to become active to all UTEC employees
at that night. Now, his past self, the Irish repairman,
walked out of the building with his equipment ready
to be taken back to HQ and his future self, the
hobo and Jester, Yorwick, drove into the moonlight’s
horizon, while holding a detonator in his hand,
which he pressed. And, in that glorious moment,
UTEC became a nominal identity, only known
by name and not by reality. The age of living
under dependent rule would soon end and
the age of independence would come back
around, to make whole of the world and of all
who roamed free in its binding contracting grasp.
THE END
Copyright ©
skyhawk432
... [
2007-05-16 08:22:12]
(Date/Time posted on
site)
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