Nana, fully conscious of her fleeting opportunity to escape the Prince’s 'mayhem'
by pre-emptive action, balks. The envisioned scenes, when compared to those that
correspond to certainty, charge the Sheik, acquit the Prince, advise that options
be revamped, for time has passed and much has happened in the realm of her
appears to be uncalled-for;
have been misplaced;
fight-or-flight response, in retrospect, lacks justification...
inner sanctum notwithstanding, its furnishings—lit by sunrise as the glass-domed
roof ignites—upholstered eerily with the pelts of sundry animals (most extinct),
its very walls—absorbing warmth from the early-morning rays—encased in leather,
hand-tooled swatches framing archways, edging baseboards, sheathing
panels—colors altered by the dawn's encroachment, bleached to blond,
resplendent, reminiscent of the beasts before their skins were turned to
hides... if there are birthday suits among them—meaning human scalps or
membranes (as implied by her cinematic prognostications)—The Prince is not to blame,
whereas his uncle (murky in his dealings as projected, as depicted by
her dream or prescient reverie) may be culpable, may be capable of the infamy
that his nephew has alleged, for whether she indeed has augured or intuited or
invented certain aspects of events, events have nonetheless been taking place
and of those 'verifiable' are the following:
Hadithah, having made his presentation to
Brotherhood Eye, is returning to the Palace in his private
Meerschaum and Samuel Blumenthal, having consummated their relations at the
latter’s San Francisco apartment, are exploring new positions by which
anatomies might be linked.
Falk, having intentionally trashed his father’s laboratory and accidentally set the place ablaze, is hastening home to Willeston Quay,
Suzette Nguyen in tow, her vital signs dodgy.
Falk aka Stuyvesant Fink, having witnessed, on Late-Night News, his life’s
work incinerated, inches ever closer (with his consubstantial twin) to the
threshold of insanity.
O’Rourke, having finished his assignment, packed his bags, confirmed his
flight, and reported to his employer, lifts his glass in a toast to Jeanne
Claude's / Jean Claude's health...
and the health
of "every other mother’s son or daughter" en route to inebriation, taking a shortcut, in fact, ‘a
bottle of your best’ delivered to his table, the barstool proving "too unstable
a platform" for the binge he has in mind, for the binge that has him in mind
rather, since, once begun, the drinker and the drunk take turns affixing
thus finding fault with neither nor with anybody else on this charming
upside-down island, Kiwis being a very friendly bunch, all brown ‘n’ furry
outside with green-as-shamrock centers, Irishmen down-under is a phrase that seems to
suit. How, one has to wonder, did we O’Rourkes end up in the state of Utah? What
has Jesus Christ to do with Joseph Smith?
Mormons to a Catholic are like squatters to
a landlord; don’t know who they are, where
they’ve come from, or how long they plan to
stay, but sure as God made Adam they’ll not
pass Heaven’s Gate anon. Not that the likes
of me can expect a hero’s welcome either. ’Tis the bum’s rush I’ll be getting, should I dare
to show my face. What on earth am I saying? Hell itself is too plush a place
for a hired assassin... with an urge for a little taste... of Man’s best
friend—hair of the dog that bit him... "now and at the hour"... Amen.
Leaning toward incoherence, Dad props up his head, forearm like a crutch in
support of a guilty conscience, acknowledging:
deeds undone by drink
by hangovers are reconstructed
by sobriety are reinstated
memory is accursed
for those who seek redemption.