The Game that Nobody Understands Game

http://hunter.apana.org.au/~gallae/hecate/images/photo/phallic_symbol.jpg

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Heh heh

'There are always these people coming to my door, Heather,' old Mrs. Alison said to her daughter. Heather noticed that her mother's voice grew queerly faint, like a bee's, when she was in a different room. Her mother's voice was so quiet that Heather could barely hear it. Yet, as even a sweetly simple 'I didn't hear you properly' exasperated her mother, she usually said 'Oh yes?' and anticipated a more exhaustive reply:

?-'Oh yes?'
'Yes. It seems as if there's been a new visitor since the twins' father left, and you went away to study.'

Mrs. Alison had many peculiar customs; one of these was to blame everything on Heather's going away to study. Whether it be the fall of true Communism in China, or the shortage of blue Parker pens, Heather's going away to Cambridge has some sort of divine influence into it, a grey area in which neither logic not applesauce is needed. To her credit, Mrs. Alison never said 'it's because of you;' if Heather thought that her stinging tones meant that, well, that was Heather's fault....

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I love to be unhappy! I love to be in pain! I'd rather have a headache & go dancin' in the rain!...
I love to be a dancer... (I don't remember the line!)...I love to have thick ankles & ugly muscles in my feet! - from a bit by Gilda Radner SNL)

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VOLUME ONE

Foreword

The following story, written in eight sucessive parts in most volumes, was written in the year, 1816, and is widely believed to be a true account of personal terror during and after the Napoleonic war. It was written in the visionary style of some random person trying to tell a story on 'The Internet,' a supposedly 'beastly' other-worldly device, and was found on the ceiling of cubicle number 2 in the Hovercraft terminal in La Harve.

Suggested further reading

'My side of the Eggshell,' Wayne Luddock-- Berlin, 1818.
'La merci et le merde,' Professor Natalya Piluke, Petrograd, unknown date.

Part One

This whole sorry affair started in Paris; it was Bastille Day of the year 1813, I think. The year, whatever it was, was best remembered as having ?'the Summer of Love.' To celebrate Bastille Day, my former wife, Portia, who left me for Tsar Nicholas the First, and I, held a wingding of a party. Indeed, the party was completely wild; I can recall at least four young ladies flashing their ankles intemperately in my direction. I was uncharacteristically taken in by such exhibitionism; yet, my then wife put an end to that. To make her ire even worse, a host of buggers who, despite being garbed in what one might call ?'acceptable' clothes, looked like scruffs. Who, also, said that they had come from Aix-en-Provence as mediators for the disheartened duchess, Aurélie de La Corse, to settle when the marriage would take place and how much peculiarly-named flavoured water needed to be brought to it. Portia looked on with disgust.

I, I was perplexed by these random people. I took their ringleader to one side to explain: sorry, I have already married; enjoy the party, and perhaps you will find someone else. The ringleader, who looked like a breeding experiment between Sir Keith de la Chegwin and mustard seeds, asked that I dismiss my attendants in the most awful French. He sounded like a famous Welsh footballer, if he were on hallucinogenic drugs for three months and had fire extinguisher foam up his left nostril. Grudgingly, apprehensively, I complied, but ensured that my attachés were right outside, incase anything happened.

He, to my surprise, dropped the bad French, and started speaking the English that one would hear in Wigan and the Environs. He introduced himself as ?'Wayne Luddock,' and?-when I told him that I should not marry Ms. de la Corse, he looked unmoved, as if he did not care of the end-result after travelling more than four-hundred miles. Then, he said in a very perverse tone that: ?'[he would] meet [me] again.' He fled the room, and?-before I could question him once again?-he gave out address cards with a false name, LaDuc, out; to increase his contacts, I suppose. Before two winks and a shovel, he was gone from my sight; but not, of course, from my mind.

Part Two

That night, I got no sleep after the futile interrogation to which Portia subjected me. Instead, I considered who these b?-?- could be, and why they should be so keen as to meet me again. From the combined stress of the failure of my Bastille party, my then wife's repugnance, and these unusual twisted people, I needed to get away. A letter came from ?'Le Duc' telling me to come down to Marseille, as I needed to discuss with him things that he was too... paralytic... to understand so at my party. I agreed to meet him; I was so green. My heart believed his lie: that he calls himself English whenever he is drunk due to an awful incident that happened him on his tour of Scunthorpe. So, I invented a business interest; I pretended that a young woman called Sylvia had desired me to meet her husband, Monsieur le grand Bon Buri, to help him with a project called ?'Sexx Laws.' This, to my wife, seemed rather sobre, and so I was let to go down to Marseille.

Marseille was like an extended version of the soirée that I had for Bastille day; the only difference was that the women, and unfortunately some of the men, had developed an even more dangerous desire to flash flesh; most showed both ankles and, indeed, more than an acceptable amount of little toe. It was at a Seigneur Teilni's house that I met Mlle. Christelle. Although this in its-self was good, what followed would change my life and hers forever, for better or worse; it is only now that I choose to explain what led up to my being destroyed.

Preface to the Third Entry, by the author

I have snuck online(1) to post this.

Notes to the preface to the Third Entry, by Dr. Anne Rosemont.
(1) Continuing the motif of ?'being online' and ?'offline' adds to the environment, the raw feeling, of intimacy, of no intimacy, of immediacy and of a new society conquering an old one.

Suggested reading to the notes to the Preface to the Third Entry

O, Brave New World: relating the story of Leduc to Shakespeare, by the Minerva Press

Giant Envelopes and pints of flamingos: a guide to criticising prefaces and helping people to sleep, by Lucrympists Anonymous.

Part 3

Being an observer of stupid things, what I noticed most at Sr. Teilni's house was not the people, nor the furnishings, but rather the xanthic yellow blotches on his otherwise egg-white coloured ceiling. The house was unusual in seeming like a pale fire, rather than adorned with fabulous colours. I noticed, from my right eye, someone contributing to these blotches; someone whom I would later find to be Christelle. Her cigarette was longer than most cigars, and she lit it in the most unusual way; by stealing a candlestick. This was interest enough to provoke me into seeing who she was.

We waltzed for a while; for I find it unacceptable to not practise one's not looking like an idiot while attempting to dance, and we talked until the early hours. Naturally, whenever there was a knock on our host's door, our attention faltered; we noted whomever so should we see, and perhaps, if we knew them well, we told anecdotes about ?'that one party in Genova,' and the like. Well, unusually after midnight, in entered Monsieur ?'LaDuc.' He had, it seemed, more apparatchiki this time, and after being cordially welcomed by our host, he approached the places on which my new friend and I were sitting. ?'Ma amie!' he exclaimed in his disastrously incorrect French, ?'I see you've come. Here, here, have some absinth!' He brandished a bottle; I politely refused abruptly, but succumbed to his wine. Christelle took the absinth from him, despite my advice not to do this, and, in masterful swigs, emptied it dry. La Duc seemed oddly pleased at her voulerboire.

As the night progressed, and the hall emptied of people in the same manner as wine drips from a cask, both Christelle and LD (we were on initials terms) seemed to lose discretion. Christelle was, beneath her joviality, miserable; a b unfavourable person called Le Grand Meulnes broke off their ?'love;' she was in fear of war and her family treated her badly, due to her lack of husband. ?'It might be better to even go to England at this rate,' she sighed.

Hearing the mention of England, LaDuc picked up the courage, and, after stuttering and thinking for about three years, ?'spontaneously' exploded with the words:
?'God, your eyes are as strong as an artic night and just as startling.' He then directed the talk to being about where she would stay in England; whether it were true that she had connections with a certain Pimpernel family.

I thought to myself: ?'perhaps they are falling in love. Bless them:' despite my misgivings. During the whole evening, he never mentioned this elusive woman who yearned for my love; he just talked of his own, for Christelle.

After lighting another long cigarette, Christelle finally retired to her bedchambers. She hugged me with great affection, and blew three kisses to La Duc. After Christelle's leaving, LD seemed to have no reason to stay with me. He politely excused me, and said that he needed sleep, if he were to get back on the road to Paris to-morrow. I said that it pleased me to meet him once again, with little conviction.

After the whole mess, after getting to Orczy, I would find out on one night of insomnia what had happened next, from Christelle: La Duc waited two minutes, and then pounded on her door, helplessly, calling out her name and asking whether he could run away with her. Either response would be fatal, in one way or another.

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http://www.tiscali.co.uk/news/pa/photos/galleries/20040608/images/large/20040608_22_css1b13.jpg

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Little child ... running wild ...

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cjhsa! <grins>

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...drink up me hearties, yo-ho!

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One thousand angels in each gust of wind
Show little nothingness in our nothingness.

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Mrs Vickers, you have an appointment with your financial advisor in one hour's time.

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http://weirdpicturearchive.com/indimg.jpg

'Kloot.'

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Pus, seeping out in yellow drops.

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abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz!

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What the f*** are you all keeping me up for? Don't you know I need my sleep? You are so bloody cruel!

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Mercury - Venus - Earth - Mars - Jupiter - Saturn -
Uranus - Neptune - Pluto

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*starts a random song*

Oh, old karaoke bones
Rattling around my second homes
I have a .44 loaded up
And a pink-flannel chapel stolen coffee cup

But I don't care if the sun shines not
Or the wind stays stagnant and's starting to rot;
I don't care if the BBC
Start filming me... 'cause I
have not you.

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Yuba duba dooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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A frog went a courtin' and he did ride, uh-huh...

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jug

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I left my soul in Southwark station, (and when I went back, someone had taken it already.)

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The Game that Nobody Understands Game

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