Do you play chess? Do you remember when you learned to play? I do. I was about fifteen, living with my parents and my sisters sharing the same room in the Hotel Rich. The hotel was well-known by Chilean refugees in Buenos Aires. The accomodation and food was provided by the Hotel and the U.N paid the costs. The Hotelier, Pipi provided food for us, but as most businessmen he cut corners to make more profit in the food and cleanliness. When I think about it now, the food was so bad I wouldn't even feed my dog that food. Those three long years; that period of our lives I wouldn't call it living, I'd call it existing, we felt we were in an Abyss. Time went slowly back then, no schooling for my sisters or me and my parents weren't allowed to work. We received from the UN, a monthly stipend as a family to spend it on essentials such as clothes and toiletries. Mum kept control of the money we received, and on the odd...
In the topologically unstable suburb of Lower Upper Middle Thought, there exists a building that only appears when no one’s looking for it. It’s a squat, confused-looking structure with an architectural style best described as beige regret . This is the headquarters of the Department of Inconvenient Enlightenment , a bureaucratic backwater tasked with discovering Truth — but only the sort that makes people wince slightly. The Department’s most prominent (and indeed only) employee was a man named Clive Marbles. Clive had the sort of face that looked like it had been quietly disappointed by most sandwiches, and a walk that suggested he was always just about to explain something tedious about printer settings. Clive had one tremendous strength: he was brilliant at identifying other people’s mistakes. He once won an award for pointing out a typo in the preamble to the Universal Declaration of Consensus. He was the reason most toaster instruction manuals now include the phrase “Do not attem...
[Scene: A sun-washed terrace bar in coastal Spain. Plastic chairs. Slight scent of aftershave and calamari. Barry stands at the bar, holding up a pint of beer with a floating arthropod inside. Luis, the barman, is cheerfully drying glasses that do not look especially clean.] Barry (British, incensed but polite): Hola. Excuse me. There’s a dead fly in my beer. Luis (smiling broadly): Ah sí! Is garnish . We call him Pedro . He always choose the best drinks. Barry: He’s floating! Face down in my Estrella like a drunk sailor. He’s clearly dead . Luis: No, señor — he is... how you say... tranquilo . Very relaxed fly. Spanish fly, no? Barry: He’s not relaxed, he’s deceased! This fly has lost interest in all things fizzy! It has popped its last bubble! It has buzzed its final buzz! Luis (peering in): Hmm. Maybe he is… a little bit... muerto. Tiny bit. But still very good fly. Local! Barry: Local?! He’s doing the backstroke in the afterlife! Luis: We use only fresh ingredi...
The guilty bishop met his death in the disappointed abbess.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteIs this the same Abyss Nite Club my boyzz own?
Delete