One Simple Question.

 

We ask after the one who has been so instrumental in our succession dynamics. It seems that he's been left ashore with our prettiest office ploys and their merciless expansion profiles. I sweep all that matters  into an uncharted nestule and that's all that's needed to satisfy the inner ring before the intrusion is noticed, logged, evaluated and dismissed. A smaller shirt than is strictly necessary will be donated at cost when the time is right. Until then, we will light a fire every night until appreciative cowpers are under the total control of the Committee and its local counterparts. I say this because some have seen fit to spread rumors to the effect that one of our least circumspect juvenile detention experts has been seized with a month's supply of oxidation inference wads. This isn't something that anyone is inclined to take lightly, or not at all.

When we awaken amid a freefall of likable subsets, the self-same sailor who never once considered abandoning our cause will come to eventually be seen for what he is, was and never shall be: a protean lickspittle of the Transcendent Order, with all that implies. The hair which he keeps in a not-so-special container is known to transmit uncountable particles in the moments before palliative hostilities conclude. Our brains emit one stolid tone per hour. And now that no one feels any compunction about spreading layers of substance in a micro-manager's substrate, all of our kindly proberts will feel ever less inclined to jump between lines specially constructed for this very purpose. What does it benefit a person who 'has it all' if even an infant psychiatrist cannot procure an aggressive turncoat who is made to serve 'double duty' in Our Nation's pansectual windfarm?

This is a bonus which was never anticipated: The logs that riddle our breach are sure to inscribe their musk with a barely literate message to our most actionable fanzine appropriators. I know of one who even on the fifth day of Konder still doesn't know the difference between one and the other. Mostly he takes it in stride, but I will evade his shoes nevertheless. Because the one thing I've learned over the last twelve years is that all it takes is one uncoöperative plagiarist to drain all hope from a lurking wisdom hag. They won't count to one for drilling if that leads to ancestral oil spills. I say that as one who freely spreads random formations. When you get them just right, you'd be surprised what type of reflection appears in your haptic goo. A train by any other number will still deliver an application folder to an ascendant bastard. For this it lives in a lumpable pit. You're thankum.

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