2-17: The Long Night
‘McWarickson then,’ said Donnie, glancing up at the TV monitor in the window opposite the other end of the alleyway. A stone buddha came to life and sipped at a can of fizzy drink. Was nothing sacred wondered Donnie. He used to drink that stuff goddamn it.
‘You are wondering why?’
‘The thought crossed my mind,’ said Donnie in defference to the fact that it hadn’t.
‘We need to question him as to the effects of the reality merge,’ answered Pink. ‘To confirm his memory corresponds with other samples we have taken.’
‘Samples?’
‘An increase in mass can be detected only by dissection Monsieur Penfolde.’
‘That’s horrible.’
‘The price of knowledge,’ said Madame Pink, her French accent lending further to her dismissive tone. ‘We are scientists Monsieur Penfolde.’
‘Where is Bleu then,’ asked Donnie.
‘Not here Monsieur Penfolde,’ she replied, stating the obvious in a highly attractive manner. She turned on her heel and disappeared into the night.
For want of anything better to do, Donnie found himself watching TV. It was all he could do until the checkpoint was cleaned-up. The men had lost quite a bit of weight which would probably do their colons the world of good in the long-term.
On one TV, behind the glass window, music videos raged on. A woman laughed theatrically, her black check dress swirling around her. Surrealism had never been Donnie’s favourite art-form. The woman transformed into a man with goatee, still wearing the dress. Transvestism wasn’t high on Donnie’s list of artforms either. Not lately anyway.
The next TV was a news report with swirling graphics and pounding music; Donnie could tell by the way the window vibrated in time with the TV logo. A still photo of Freddy McWarwickson appeared on the screen, with an “Ex Pope Perilous Seen” heading below. Donnie wished he’d been the other side of the glass to hear the report, but didn’t need to wait long for some more useful information. The TV logo changed, by way of zooming arrows over a CAD rendered landscape to a street-view of Freddy’s last known whereabouts: 45 St. George’s Road, Fitzroy North.
There are a few ways to describe one's self when effectively trying to mask the fact that you're a complete hermit and spend your entire existence behind a computer screen sipping hot tea and eating cakes. The first would be to suggest that you're somewhat introverted and avoid coffee. Another might be to suggest you're a fan of Apple Macs but are cutting-down from the 6 you used to have to an even two (Macbook and Mac Mini in turn). Finally you might choose to say that despite the massive pay-drop, this writing thing is quite a lark isn't it? Not to mention enjoying the creative life a lot more than mindless tedium in corporate jobs, working the 40 hour week to the drumming of endless meetings and political intrigue that would have made Machiavelli blush and hand his pen over to the corporate slugs that run companies these days. Enough said really.
