it is said you live a million lives during your life. but that number is infinity. for when you wake up, you have the chance to start over.
the boy: what happened? i remember some things, forget others.
the man: same. i fear we have forgotten what's most important.
boy: they won't steal our history!
man: who's they?
boy: isn't there always a they?
man: there shouldn't be. for surely even an ant sees as he looks up and gazes at the awesome umbral power of the sun affixed but moving in the heavens he is part of a grand celestial plan. with no beginning and no end. there is no edge of the universe it seems. how hollow he must feel in the hologram.
boy: or she. give it up for the her-ants. the aunts. they weigh a gram. if that. you're right. past thoughts are so ridiculous when put under the microscope of the present. that yellow monster thing was ridiculous. there is no future. for when you're in the future you're in the present. but the past will always be the past, locked in amber, crying in concrete, for they cannot move.
man: we were searching for a woman! well that part of us sure kicked in quickly!
boy: right. look, brother, they sponged off the red symbol that was here. do you remember what the symbol was? we're just getting the edges.
man: those bastards! how can we live on the corner? i say we confront them and demand answers with a spearpoint under the chin!
boy: hold your horses, i'd rather with a microscope. remember, the stars?
man: thank you, brother. you washed the hate right off the blades of this body of absolute ineffectualness of mine.
boy: you got nice broad shoulders. i sense the wind is going crazy. the winds are. flipping every which way. it is hot and balmy and draws us to that location yonder with the smoke.
man: more like lures us. bring your weapon. the fastest deterrent to war is a triangular stone.
the two run to the site with instinct as their only map. what they encounter is the grisliest scene in all of history.
boy: by the stars! they're all dead! did they not understand! they were to preserve life at every cost!
man: it's okay to cry.
boy: you're the one crying.
man: okay. the humanity! except they are grey-skinned. but it matters not skin-color or creed, we are birthed in space to love! surely this is obvious! the newborn suckles his mother's breast and touches eternity, eating the Milky Way with each swallow. the display here today will live in infamy in the future and the past. the sea of blood, sweat, and tears, and breaking bones dug in the soil all for a lost cause tells a pirate's tale of woe.
boy: hark! i sense a boat in the offing. is it? could it be? a survivor of this madness to breathe hope into our lungs once more.
indeed ailing but stirring in the pile of bodies is a limp befallen horse neighing hurtly and brandishing the air with his flared nostrils.
man: poor baby!
boy: our baby! let us haste! let us away!
man: does your head hurt?
boy: yes. our thoughts must be magnificent.
the boy leaps through the air with his black locks like a cape fluttering in the wind.
man: your hair smacks of Justin Bieber.
the boy approaches the horse and cares him under his arm with tremendous strength.
horse: my what big muscles you have!
boy: when we find our inner strength there is no mountain we can't move.
horse: and a philosophizer to boot. i don't weigh that much! but i neigh that much! i'm a girl by the way. La Nina.
boy: you're bleeding profusely.
horse: that's just my makeup. smeared it this morning. i'm fussy. i'll be okay. but please don't put me down.
man: what happened here, milady? it is a scourge that afflicts and never dies till death.
horse: i am god. to these people. well i was. when they stoned you two, that was their first encounter with violence. they were innocent babes but they quickly learnt the ways of civilization, the insidious nature of gaining sped-up power by merely forcing the submission of their counterarguments. it was only natural. freedom is a messy thing. it's one thing to be invidious, it's another to be insidious. the plague spread like a wildfire, infecting all their systems. a virus of their own making, created in a lab. the lab of lutumity, of their own experimentation on themselves. they're a hive mind to begin with so they were particularly vulnerable.
boy: i cannot stay still upon witnessing this. we are one. brother, you know what must happen.
man: i must do what i must do.
the man hurls a stone at the boy's knee, shattering his leg.
boy: *tearing up* the pain i presently experience is nothing compared to my brethren on the field. this is for unification!
horse: what noble sacrifice! you guys are certainly not like them. the same but different. you don't need to impress me anymore! you already passed the test when you didn't immediately cook me over your campfire into horsemeat burgers. which are delicious but disgusting.
horse: best with cheese. here, save your leg.
the horse licks the boy's broken wound clean and set like it never happened.
boy: i am healed!
horse: you sure are, honey. you can use my leg. go ahead, take it off, i can survive on three legs. i've already done my walking.
boy: i feel so helpless, powerless, in the face of evil.
horse: you guys write? that helps me. i keep a journal next to my sugarcubes.
man: my bestselling masterpiece novels were all lost in the flood. of course.
horse: brilliant. music. it's kind of like writing. when words aren't enough. i'll show you. whittle down my legbone to shiny ivory. craft three holes with your blunt instrument. make that spear mean something. there you go, nice smooth strokes. let it bake in the healing sun. you have your very own pipe. the very first musical instrument in existence in fact. and i made your hammer into a knife. cut wisely.
the boy whistles a tune of unrelenting woe which shakes the cores of black holes.
boy: i feel better. i think.
the man notices the two tails on the horse.
in Cuba there is a flap over the flag. what to put up and what to take down. it keeps changing. but at the Embassy they're dealing with a more immediate problem. sonic terrorism. apparently the loudspeakers which still dot all the cobble streets in the seaside country are piercing the ears of the diplomats with the most destructive earsplitting noise at hellish decibels in history.
President Bump: is this your work, Vlad?
Putin: but of course. you really have to ask? i did nothing wrong. i can't help it if these banana savages can't appreciate the high art of unintelligible Russian opera.
Bump: yeah we used to use Skinny Puppy until he found out, i'm not one for lawsuits so i dropped it.
Scaramucci: everyone ready for some telera rolls? hot off the presses!
Bump: they look like vaginas. you doing Fox Mulder, too?
Putin: fraid so. he is my wives' favorite. he is so cool. y'know the Cigarette Smoking Man, whose real name is John Wayne, once did a contractor job for us.
Bump: i thought his real name was Batman. *mouth full* hey nix those moonstrip crackers, they're spacey and weird. speaking of, it's okay, Jared will be my next Mulder.
a beautiful Criollo horse basks in the golden-brown tropical sun. his meaty hind leg is lost in the light. he prances on the last soft green patch of soil and gallops stealthily to the Embassy. there he smiles and neighs
which sends a series of sonic waves to circle the heads of the loudspeakers and shatter them. the off debris litters the street. he makes sure to catch a glimpse of Mulder and wave before sprinting to the waiting waves of the ocean arms.
Criollo: hi Mulder! you're so handsome! i'm a girl by the way. this smile is genuine, not peanut-butter-induced.
Mulder: thanks, nelly. that was torture. i'm outta here. my teeth are motioning. i'm gonna go to L.A.
Scully: wanna come with?
Mulder: why do you suddenly speak with a British accent?
Scully: the waves, man.
Mulder: *on the phone* boss, the situation is getting dire. we need you to speed up the investigation.
Mueller: yeah but i haven't really got anything concrete yet.
Mulder: pin something on him ASAP. we need to excise this cancer before it metastasizes and spreads.
Scully makes the sign of the cross.
Mueller: where's Comey?
Mulder: Ashley came back. from vacation. with him.
everyone is watching the World Championships. Usain Bolt is prone on the track of his last ever race, writhing in pain as his final showing. he winces and gingerly hops on his bad leg. he stares directly into the camera and addresses the Cream House.
Usain: Scaramucci, this is the leg of a champion. my leg. I gave everything for my country. i used it up till it withered and died. literally no more gas in the tank. spent. i refuse to be a part of your games. i will not be auctioned off for your fantasy. i will not slaute unless it empowers me. what do you have other than your stupid chickenlegs!
Mooch: hey yous know where i live, pal, if ever yous want to scrap. i ain't going nowheres!
Usain: i can't understand your accent.
Mooch: that's my line!
Usain: does my very existence make you uncomfortable, President Bump?
Bump: why is everyone mad at me all the time? i hate the press. except Philip Bump. i mean just the other day i got a riot on my streethands over a statue. a statue! i never actually wanted to be President. i just wanted a win. over a name.
Putin: i could help you with that.
Bump: no more pills, Vlad buddy, seriously, my old body was not made for this.
Putin: i would be glad to have my thugs, uh my team, of thugs, scatter across your beautiful land of purple and take down all the statues. smash all the idols i say. they're ghastly. and isn't that the religious thing to do? even the Jesus statues.
Bump: Jesus, too?
Putin: sure. i'll replace them with oily paintings of myself.
Bump: isn't that kinda the same thing?
Putin: you bite your tongue, Mr. President! that filthy tongue of yours lord knows where it's been. we're talking about portraiture of yours truly here. me. high art.
Bump: but like Robert E. Lee and George Washington were the same.
Putin: the same but different.
Bump: but who won? i only like winners.
Bump: nevermind then.
at the raised dais instead of the National Anthem Nina Simone sings through the loudpeakers. at a local speakeasy nearby the real Nina Simone sits her flowered dress down, shakes her rump in her seat, addresses the crowd with a spry hi, and gets to work slamming her keys methodically with her flabby arms. she sings in a songy rap which predates hiphop by making it better as an example. it's a short song but it has legs. her dark skin illuminates a smoky cramped room full of nervous white college students gripping their glasses and glasses over their eyes and clapping while lipping droopy cigs and hash pipes. a sienna speech delivered with sear which scorches the spiritual. tells it like it is in periwinkle. when she finishes she is not black but one who wears the colors of a rebel. she announces, "that's it i'm done!" like she's not expecting anyone to notice or care. she storms out of her seat knocking it over and her impromptu teethy smile causes a ripple wave of excitement and dangerous energy to counter the darkness.
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her sonic wave is a burst of energy which blankets the lands. all the lands. even in Cuba where instead of the loudspeakers Criollo sings it.
at the monastery Nina Simone's voice comes through loud and clear though no one occupying this house knows her name.
the hooded figure: who is this chanteuse which songstresses her silk into my eyes?
the Men From the East: behold the blue flame!
the blue flame projects the songbird in her native element, singing up a storm of past lives and past struggles as if fresh and new and current. and of a future time.
the hooded figure: she is our last Jedi.
the blue flame takes it upon itself to scorch Nina's name and notes onto the Sheikah Slate the church calls its canter.
the hooded figure: fam you know i never hide anything from you. i've been feeling down lately. i need to get my ass to a hot springs my body's killing me. but it seems all i have time for anymore is downing a few pills down my throat. i've essentially replaced the joy of water with manmade medicine.
the Men From the East: no worries, mate. you go take a leave and we'll hold down the smelting fort. every professor deserves a sabbatical.
everyone is hard at work melting down various stones and rocks in a huge vat in the center of the church in hopes of finding the perfect environmentally-safe-yet-effective longlasting eternal fuel for the penny-farthing which will take them on their long journey into the unknown.
on the last go-round before her break, wouldn't you know it but the hooded figure sticks an arm in there and hits upon a strange block of heavy corrugated iron that weighs a fortune.
Men From the East: we've been recovering all manner of those gribbles outside in the hills. the horse she's been invaluable telling us where to stick our noses and snoop. natural hunters. but that's the first clump of clay that literally is the size of you.
the hooded figure: of course it turns into a working vacation.
the hooded figure travels to the nearby spa and dunks her head with her hood still on. the hooded figure dips the iron tablet into the frothy drink to a torrent cloud of hisses and mini-bubbles.
the hooded figure returns to the place of worship and removes the hood. for a minute to gather the last strains of the song. the smile emananting from that hood makes all the Men smile as bright as the sun.
rather than be showy with it the hooded figure holds the piece like a stick of butter.
the hooded figure: gentlemen, i present to you.....................................the Sword of Saad!!!