The Demiurge Confederacy : Machinist Privateerism (Heavy RP)

**Eleutherophobia**

    A tall slit in the hovercraft’s bantam stomach jerked open at the crank of a frozen metal toggle. The one-armed woman ducked fluidly through the opening, the tumor of Ooidal’s form squeezing through in tow. At the rear was the tired leader, disallowing the girl unchecked reign of his colony. Comparative warmth burned at the girl’s cheeks as a disguised hand pulled the itchy mask from her face, impish features stretching upward for a moment. Noone hesitated, dumbfounded and nearly awestruck by the intruder’s youth – then more than curious as to the odd scars along her face. Shaking the thoughts, he willed the door shut, and the one-armed woman complied, a vacant distance in her big azure eyes. The woman politely asked Ooidal to move, and he collapsed onto an overturned crate, pushing at either side of his swollen nose, knocking a homemade deck of cards to the mesh floor.

    An aged groan placed Noone slumped onto a weathered chair, his wise boots landing loudly next to a keyboard whose characters had faded and been redrawn, crossing. “You’re just a kid,” he declared after several pensive breaths.

    “Sorry?” the girl furrowed her thawing brow, offended by the statement.

    “I expected the harbinger of our demise to be some brute from the syndicates, or maybe a pile of Neonite terrorists; I would’ve guessed a hun’red things before some brat an’ her father,” he motioned to Ooidal, whose head was leaned against a precarious shelf of discs.

    “Harbinger ‘huff-“

    “I’ll ‘ave y’know that I’m not some brat,” her voice was a raspy, childish whine, “and that man is th’most talented operator this sie’duv th’Euphrates dih’vide.”

    The man chuckled omnisciently, “I’ve no doubt.”

    “Eih wuddn’t call us th’harbingers ‘huff y’er demise,” gurgled Ooidal, spitting a wad of dark brown jelly to the ground, “We’re jus’ here f’er th’sightseeing.”

    “Did you start the fire?” queried the one-armed woman, her voice a constant C-sharp with no discernable origin. Ooidal stopped wheezing, and the girl studied the stitching pattern of her gloves. The woman climbed through a cluttered gangway, disappearing from conversation.

    “Why did you start my camp on fire?”

    “We needed t’distract y’while we borrowed supplies.”

    “Borrow?”

    “Take.”

    “Why did you take my supplies?”

    “We were running out.”

    “Why did you not simply ask for supplies?”

    "There was a fire, nobody was free t’speak with.”

    “That’s not what I meant,” he uttered, his voice painted with peeved resignation. Through a hole only visible when pointed out and squinted at came a short man with unfortunate eyebrows. Unfortunate because an odd stripe through the middle had grown in blonde, contrasting his black hair, and giving him the appearance of having four eyebrows. He mourned the corruption of a databank, eliciting an irate roar and a slammed fist, sliding a small tucked drawer slightly open. “This is your fault,” a long finger accused the girl, “This is your fauh-“

    “An’ we’ve every intention t’repay you ah’soon as we can. However, that can, being our ability to repay you, hinges only and entirely upon y’er willingness t’supply us with a steersman – which, in prospect – will require a larger reimbursement in th’pile we’re creating,” she paused for a moment, head spinning in her own doubletalk, “Whereby upon said reimbursement, folluh’wing the pivotal can on y’er behalf, aforementioned steersman will remain in our employ. Call it a finder’s fee f’er th’compensation it is you’ll, in all graciousness, ‘ave us find, bring t’you, and lose. Yes?” One jittery eye scanned the blank expressions surrounding it.

    “You’re asking for a favor?”

    “An investment.”

    “You broke into my community. You started my homes on fire. You stole my food.”

    “Creative negotiation. Moreover, I hold severe doubt that th’food stockpiled in this loveliest of communes was originally yours, and that ih’t’was in fact stolen. Ergo, our theft ‘huv that very same food is not your crime t’prosecute or punish.”

    “You overestimate your leverage.”

    “Y’underestimate my resolve.” The one-armed woman returned, slightly thicker from a bald sweater, its left sleeve hanging limply at the shoulder, an erupting rucksack slung tightly over the right. She wore an unpleasant look stretched across her face, like some terrible taste refused to leave her mouth. The vibrant canary of the woman’s tensely ponytailed hair showed thin traces of lost colour, age. Her faded black pants bunched at the top of her ankle-high boots with broken clasps. Thick twine laced one taut to her leg.

    “I’m not sorry,” she stared blankly through Noone’s dark, judicious eyes, no inflection, no emotion. He nodded and the man with unfortunate eyebrows grasped the girl’s wrists, holding them tightly in the small of her back.

    The comment invoked no manifest response, the chieftain’s jaw still set. “Domino will pilot your ship; she’s more than competent.” He frowned deeply for a moment, his eyes crawling to the toes of his boots, and took his leave by means of a fold-down ladder, climbing to an unseen tomb above. Domino reopened the wall, allowing a pitiful Ooidal to step out before her. The girl was shoved forward into the console Noone had been sitting at, an opened shelf shoveling into her abdomen, before being commanded to get back up, and promptly shoved stumbling through the craft’s frigid jaw.

    The wind slapped coldly at their faces, a large portion of the canvas enclosure having been taken by fire. It was the kind of angry wind that stampeded through a fractured nostril, cushioning a resocialized brain with a frigid halo of stinging air, and tearing the thin twine from loose boots that left cold feet exposed to the icy abuse. The long walk back was frighteningly reminiscent of the silence that had brought two to New Antigone; the only difference now, a light gasping noise from Ooidal’s nose, and a third pair of footsteps on the cracked ground.

**Eleutherophobia** · 10/07/2007 07:48:29

There is no conspiracy.

**Eleutherophobia**

### Validating Screened Signal ###

...Complete ; )

/Key…………
/Filter…………
/Recompile………
>Sys: [Warning: Security failure at 34.11.02]

Exchange: operator@ equinox.1879.nAntigone/secureSSH.socket
With: operator@[private].[private].[private]/secureSSH.socket

> I just want to know what we are up against before she tries to kill us again.
> I told you, two of them have stopped broadcasting. My guess is that both will be around somewhere; just keep an eye on your *CENSORED*.
> Yeah, thanks.
> Sys: [Message: Channel Frozen]

    The monitor danced in snowy, amorphous white for a moment, bathing a bandaged nose in temperamental light, and fell to inactive black. Ooidal grasped a small, complicated object in his giant paw, absently attempting to again fix what he failed to recognize as broken. It seemed a drug enough to shield him from aloneness with his own mind.

    Domino was far from sleep; the cramped, unprivate bunk coughed with every fidget. There was a woman with sympathetic eyes and tanned skin who had politely neglected to introduce herself laying on the bed above. It was difficult to discern whether or not she was asleep, as no sound, no movement radiated from the bed. It was as if the woman willed her body to die for a few hours occasionally in order to maximize the output of her sleep cycle. With a tired heave, the thin pilot leaned out of bed, padded lightly to the heavy turn-crank of a door, stepped into a claustrophobic steel-grate hallway with a ladder at one end. Climbing down silently, she nearly gave Ooidal a heart attack.

    “Y’uh nearly gave m’uh heart attack!” he yelped, dropping the useless, intricate mechanism to the cold ground. Worn joints and suspenders groaned as he slowly bent to retrieve it.

    “Sorry. I did not expect anyone to still be awake,” she declared, staring ashen-faced at the bank of dancing screensavers of poly-patterned light updating in rectangular flashes. There were old pieces of haphazard tape half-peeled under some of the screens. “What do the rats eat?” queried one, “Where to nowhere?” another. Both sent uneasy chills down the woman’s back, making the hairs at the small of her neck stand attentive. “Is the captain crazy?” she appealed, her face showing no real concern of interest, plain, blue eyes still squinting at the trickles of emerald nonsense.

    Ooidal hesitated, faced with a question he was not ready to answer. He pushed at his nose for a moment, and with a grunt, fell into a swiveling chair. “I’d hate t’uh have t’see th’uh world through h’urr eyes,” he finally remarked, after a silent, uncomfortable void.

    Domino blinked slowly and stared into another time. “Who is she?” Ooidal stared at her thin lips, confused. “She looks young.”

    “She’s’uh brat,” he glanced backward, half-expecting to see the short girl bounce down a ladder and disagree. She was instead stretched across the floor of the ship’s communal dormitory, aggressively asleep. Domino’s unchanged expression implied that this was more than appropriate an answer. No doubt she was withholding any intense questions so as not to warrant any in return.

    Somewhere far away there was a war going on.

**Eleutherophobia**

    “Where do we go from here?”

    “I don’ think that’s up to me.”

    “If there was a way…a way to take it all back. You know, start fresh from the beginning-“

    “I wouldn’t.”

    “No, I didn’t think so. But, it never hurts to ask.”

    “Would’ju?”

    “No, sir.”

    “Hey, you keep calling me sir ‘round here and we’ll both end up with an extra mouth in the back of our heads.”

    “Sorry, sir.”

    “I wonder if they still have my earring. It was lucky you know – the only reason I made it out alive.”

    “What happened to it?”

    “Some no one ripped it clean through my ear.”

    “Why?”

    “’Cause he was sick of being some no one. Y’ever get a pin ripped through your ear, kid?”

    “Uhm…no. No, sir.”

    “Stop callin’ me sir, or I’ll rip that earring straight through your ear.”

    “Sorry.”

    “Sorry, what?”

    “Sorry, sir.”

    “You bet you’re sorry. If you keep callin’ me sir like that we’ll both end up with an extra mouth in the back of our heads. And call me sir when you’re sorry, or I’ll rip that earring straight through your ear.”

    “Right, sir. Sorry, sir.”

    “And stop apologizin’. You know what’ll happen if they hear you apologizin’ to me?”

    “Sir?”

    “We’ll both end up with an extra mouth in the back of our heads.”

    “Sorry.”

    “Didn’t you hear me? Don’ apologize, and say sir when you don’t.”

    “They’re here, sir.”

    “Took ‘em long enough. Nobody’s on time anymore, it’s all about bein’ fashionable. Not me, as long as my feet stay dry, I’m happy.”

    “Dante, it’s been too long.”

**Eleutherophobia**

anyone lived in a pretty how town

(with up so floating many bells down)

spring summer autumn winter

he sang his didn't he danced his did



Women and men(both little and small)

cared for anyone not at all

they sowed their isn't they reaped their same

sun moon stars rain



children guessed(but only a few

and down they forgot as up they grew

autumn winter spring summer)

that noone loved him more by more



when by now and tree by leaf

she laughed his joy she cried his grief

bird by snow and stir by still

anyone's any was all to her



someones married their everyones

laughed their cryings and did their dance

(sleep wake hope and then)they

said their nevers they slept their dream



stars rain sun moon

(and only the snow can begin to explain

how children are apt to forget to remember

with up so floating many bells down)



one day anyone died i guess

(and noone stooped to kiss his face)

busy folk buried them side by side

little by little and was by was



all by all and deep by deep

and more by more they dream their sleep

noone and anyone earth by april

wish by spirit and if by yes.



Women and men(both dong and ding)

summer autumn winter spring

reaped their sowing and went their came

sun moon stars rain

"Anyone Lived in a Pretty How Town" - E. E. Cummings

**Eleutherophobia**

Tread lightly. They have ears everywhere.

**Eleutherophobia** · 10/20/2007 22:54:22

    It was supposed to look like a complicated goldfish, or maybe a koi – the length of a car key, and spotted with pretty white blotches where the paint had fatigued. The frame was a complex maze of twisted golden wire clutching shards of verdant brass. If she held it by the mouth, each interlocking piece to the tail would twist and fall according to that position of its predecessor. A flexed pin jutted from a loop at the top, as if the fish had swallowed a fishing pole, but was smart enough to leave the hook. Its two scarlet, faded eyes cried, mourned. After a period of quiet deliberation, she decided that an ear piercing could not hurt very badly, and would, in fact, be pretty.

    A quivering yelp reached Ooidal’s ears, and he assumed that the brat had tried sleeping on the top bunk again. She pulled a small, shaking, terrified, leather hand from her ear, brown-red blood dripping between its fingers. Her brow tightened and her skin paled, and she fell out of time.

    Twin trails of mascara paved Fara’s pale cheeks; there was something heavy in her hand. Her finger traced backward along “oh-five-point,” and she pulled tightly at the cold metal trigger. Each shot dug something painfully into her wrists, bent her arms another way, the recoil overbearing for her delicate arms. A round climbed excitedly from the barrel, ripped through the silk of his tie, shattered a plastic button and cleaved through cross-stitched cotton. Hair, sweat, skin, fat, muscle, bone fissured. The boy gasped shallowly, eyes tearing at the powerful warmth spreading through his abdomen.

    Time was unclear, and she spun around slowly at the soft, wet thud. Robert fell into a pool of his own blood, moaning frivolously, staring in vacant disbelief at the girl. She collapsed onto his limp body, crying, and was pulled away screaming by a black suit. There was blood on her hands.

    The weeping hole in her ear felt like a bee sting that refused to subside. Fat, salty tears gathered in one eye, and paved a path to her pointed chin. The girl wiped at the side of her face with a slack, threadbare sleeve as a heavy door opened, plunging the cabin into radiant light. Ooidal stood silent for thirteen seconds before erupting into a robust, cathartic chuckle. The girl began to grin, and laugh as well; the bittersweet taste of a tear fell past her lips, mixing with old vomit.

    She was at the diner, drowning a smiley-face pancake in syrup; her fiery orange hair was pulled into adorable schoolgirl pigtails. It was September twenty-sixth, 1999 – the last Sunday before a new school year. The girl was eight, and has father had taken her out for breakfast. In the kitchen, a tan man with large black hair, and a cumbersome black overcoat buried his fist into a veteran’s stomach. He was wearing a blonde wig, a red cocktail dress, and a head full of secrets.

    Ooidal had to lean onto the steel frame around him, doubled over in laughter, clutching his stomach. Fara laughed too, her face flushing a cherry red.

    “Wh’ur th’ell’ju get that?” As he said it, he was stepping out through a thick metal frame, the cold air biting at his freshly thrashed nose. He heard a thick, wet thump, and saw a man’s fist in the brat’s stomach; she fell backward. Her side hit an opened drawer and a covert hand trickled inside, removing something shiny, green, and she dropped to the floor. He watched her hands as she fell; they were nimble, somehow graceful, the black gloves demanding some form of reverence.

    And he was aboard the Lethe, one war ago, his inexperienced fingers danced wildly across a faded keyboard. A black haired woman put a hand on his shoulder assuredly before planting herself in a worn armchair with a gaping hole in its headrest. He watched the codestream update in blinding, rectangular flashes. A tan man in a dark coat dug a thick, powerful fist into a flowing red gown. Ooidal prayed that she would get there fast enough to plant a bullet in the unlucky veteran’s head. A door burst open, and the man’s form wrinkled, falling into itself, the blonde wig falling into his eyes.

    Errant strands of knotted, rusty hair fell into the girl’s eyes. “I found it,” she managed through a giggling wince, “wha’d’y’think?”

    “I ‘fin’g you shoul’ clean dis’suh’p before Systemic sees tha’chu bled all ov’ur her bed.” He stepped out of the dormitory, making his way through the cold, grate hallway to a claustrophobic ladder.

    While Dante stepped over a pile of inaccurate newspapers, his hand hitting the door, pulling himself from the hallway. Lethe strode a few steps behind him, on a cell phone. “Days like these,” he breathed deeply, the crisp, autumn air, “we’re lucky to be alive.” He wanted badly to find the kid and be done, but nobody seemed to know of an one-eyed redhead with a stolen ship. That X-whatever, he seemed to know something, but was not going to give it up easily. Hopefully the exile chick he contracted would beat it out of him.

    “Remember the diner, Dante?” Lethe covered the receiver with his hand, smiling broadly, a streetlight illuminating his glasses. “Back then, we could get things done, you and me. We could really pack a punch.”

    “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he laughed to no one in particular. “Maybe I’m just getting old.”

**Eleutherophobia**

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

-Edgar Allen Poe - "The Raven"-

**Ballak**

Excellent use of copy and paste, my friend.

**Eleutherophobia**

(Thanks for the bump. I found it most fitting for Halloween.)

**Eleutherophobia**

Eh ehm. Just a reminder.

**Eleutherophobia**

“Where are we going?” Domino queried, uncurious. A nimble, cold hand like that of a starving child pulled at a leather-padded handle with a small split that irritated her fingertips.

    Ooidal grunted, heaving a bundle of poly-proportioned rods from a hideaway compartment. “Who curr’s?” he replied, not looking up. And he dug a pebble of white chalk from a pouch of the same, marking every few centimeters down the largest pipe.

    Domino did not care where they were going. They were leaving New Antigone behind, and that was what she cared about. “I do not. But, does the captain?” Somewhere, an anxious fuse popped, cutting the life support to a row of lights, causing them to flicker derisively, then die.

    “She’suh bright girl,” Ooidal continued his tedious chore, “She’s ah-ways played it har’ ‘n close. But there’s one thin’ she’s grasped: yuh’ don’ make omlettes wif’out breakin’ eggs – an’ rules. Th’brat’s broke more than h’urr shar’ruff eggs, an’ makes a dah’um good omlette.” He furrowed his heavy, hairless brow, made heavier by the now uncertain shadow, and ground his twisted little yellow teeth, satisfied with the metaphor.

    The gaunt woman nodded her head downward, feeling like she had missed a history lesson. Her head felt heavy, and her big blue eyes looked drained and glassy. Ooidal held the same desperate, haggard appearance. His big, fat lips looked like pulled pieces of bacon fat hanging limply below his bandaged, violet nose.

    The girl’s off-white eyelids fluttered, her jaw tightly set. Two powerful vises wrapped around the sides of her face, congregating at the stem of a thick spike that drove into her skull, and gently weeped a clearish red gunk. She had worn a grubby camisole shirt and a ragged sweater before falling out of this reality. Since, a thin shawl with makeshift sleeves, and two blankets had been draped over her small frame. A cruel looking cuff held two syringe heads in place, their cords trailing to two intravenous bottles that were switched every few hours. Her tangerine hair was darker from blood and filth, each stylus was knotted and unkempt, with frayed recessions where she had pulled at it nervously.

    Inside, it was much brighter, livelier. Her salmon locks smelled the way they always had - a clean, well-washed, little-girl-ready-for-a-party smell. They sat under a whitish Panama with a black stripe, slightly damp at the bottom for autumn sweat. Big, bug-eye sunglasses masked the hue difference in her eyes, taking attention from the watery purple of her too-wide grin. Her shirt was a pale white, and wrinkled slightly, like the skin of a drowning victim. Over it, she wore a dark grey vest in thin kevlar and velvet, laced in corset fashion by a handful of cheap belts. Outside, was a faded tailcoat, in a swatch of dark grey silk masquerading a mannish cut that clung, by another pair of belts to a waist just the width to hint that one could span it with an open hand. Her adolescent hips were trimmed in black, and pinstriped – pointing downward to impatient toes in black leather.

    She had been in the simulation for a marathon six-day stint. One hundred and forty hours without sleep, even illusory sleep, had allowed the girl to daydream more than usual. The sensitivity of her senses had blunted, and she had begun to find herself unable to concentrate, hold a vein of attention. Sleep deprivation is like a big party that nobody is invited to. The people that show up do not know each other going in, spend some time vomiting and getting dizzy, and do not know each other afterward.

    Perfect.

    “There’s some’fink I need t’find out,” she chewed at her lip as she spoke, the reflection of the fire of New Antigone danced in her saffron-tinged, pupil-less milky eye. “Once this’us done, I need t’find someone. Y’understand, right?”

    Ooidal was unpacking large, sodden boxes of newly stolen supplies. “Yeah. I und’uh’stand. Bef’urr I w’huz assigned t’th’uh Equinox, bef’urr th’war w’huz over, I–“

    -It sounded like fireworks exploding under a picnic table. The thick shell exploded, sending obese lead roaches boring through the apartment’s thin door. The plated sole of a snakeskin boot kicked at the remaining hinge, knocking the door to its ochre carpeted ground. A tattered crimson coat stepped in, surrounded by a chuckling, choking aura of cigarette smoke. Underneath the coat was an unzipped leather jacket in deep burgundy that framed the rippling, ardently tanned muscle of a olive patterned shirt. The man wore oval glasses in the same shining not-brown of his jacket. They matched his dark cheeks that were slightly reddened from the crisp fall air. His black hair jutted outward in every direction, like a big, egomaniacal lion’s mane.

    He walked in alone, but both he and that redheaded pirate knew that someone else had strode in next to him. A professional looking main in a suit, which no light could escape, grinned into his cellular phone.

    “Hello there, friend. My name's Dante.”

**Eleutherophobia**

We're not the same as everyone else.

**Eleutherophobia**

What's he building in there?
What the hell is he building
In there?
He has subscriptions to those
Magazines... He never
Waves when he goes by
He's hiding something from
The rest of us... He's all
To himself... I think I know
Why... He took down the
Tire swing from the Peppertree
He has no children of his
Own you see... He has no dog
And he has no friends and
His lawn is dying... and
What about all those packages
He sends. What's he building in there?
With that hook light
On the stairs. What's he building
In there... I'll tell you one thing
He's not building a playhouse for
The children what's he building
In there?

Now what's that sound from under the door?
He's pounding nails into a
Hardwood floor... and I
Swear to god I heard someone
Moaning low... and I keep
Seeing the blue light of a
T.V. show...
He has a router
And a table saw... and you
Won't believe what Mr. Sticha saw
There's poison underneath the sink
Of course... But there's also
Enough formaldehyde to choke
A horse... What's he building
In there. What the hell is he
Building in there? I heard he
Has an ex-wife in some place
Called Mayors Income, Tennessee
And he used to have a
consulting business in Indonesia...
but what is he building in there?
What the hell is building in there?

He has no friends
But he gets a lot of mail
I'll bet he spent a little
Time in jail...
I heard he was up on the
Roof last night
Signaling with a flashlight
And what's that tune he's
Always whistling...
What's he building in there?
What's he building in there?

We have a right to know...

"What's he Building?" - Tom Waits

**Eleutherophobia**

What a tragic situation.