Trading Places

"This by far is the absolution of boredom at any province, any destination, any moment of our experience together."

Perhaps the photocopy of Da Vinci's The Last Supper prompted my dearest Comrade to undergo a state of self induced sleepwalking; I watch him deliberately run into a wall for the sake of mischief. Victoria is wearing a white roll of wig buns running about while Cordelia suits herself a colonial general. Braid assures our discretion; she desires to be with Avitas, Leary, Sin and Indie. We embrace; she does not return.

"I shall chop a cherry for the enlightenment of common man."

"I shall battle until every politic is incorrect."

"He fell."

"Dearest me."

"Sir?"

"There's a basement."

Time is no essence unless I am waiting for my twin. Ruby painstakingly searches every portion of this white fixation; he uncovers a ladder. Voices are heard distinctly through each canal, I admit to being frightened, they speak of priests and women. My bones are visibly wiggling the milk genie; I assume he ditched me.

"Ruby!"

"I'm coming. I need to snap this button then remove the safety clasp......okay......wait......okay."

"Ruby! They are talking about impregnating women with some crazy shit!"

"There are people down there?"

"No."

"What is it?"

"Something similar to vibration."

"Fuck."

"Are you coming or what?"

"Fuck."

"Shit."

"Shit."

"Fuck."

"I'm going to him."

"Victoria hurry! You know how much I fear religious context."

"Cordelia is coming!"

"Victoria!"

"I'm coming Sir."

"Ruby....."

"How did I get down here?"

"We pushed you."

Removal accepts the position. Removal accepts the position. Removal accepts the position. Removal accepts the position. Removal accepts the position.

Zen is overcome by deception, she explains an emotion we both contemplate for several guests leaving as we watch and count; each is a garment color, each a different caste, each a separate attached to an indefinite whole a hundred and thirty-two. Fragrance similar to gorging leeches faints of me while Ambrosia lifts my body into a chair. A plate attempts to balance itself on the floor; an angry hand tipped ceramic for marbled madness. I stare into space thinking of Cinnamon; she is watching from above yet refused to attend for show, the spectacle is her speculation. My Beau makes his presence known through a gallant display of affection. He settles on a knee to nuzzle my lips with his nose; the door is open for all to see, one is a wrathful wreath of a forehead.

"Bianca and Yasmeen, I want you both to know how much I adore you."

"As do we."

"You are my children."

"Solely?"

"Yes."

"You are our guardian of guardians."

"You must go to Moscow."

"We packed your things."

"You will come with us."

"You must go with Micah and Regina."

"What about Nicoli and Hanbok?"

"You will see them when you exit."

A group of strangers cloaking extreme weather clothing stumble inside the room. Enoch laughs at their pile of distaste; Nico and Hans club them with spears. They stand for dizziness while we stand aback; machine guns are clasped inside their hands. Our guardians surrender themselves wholeheartedly and bodily however we are going to Moscow. These faux snow troopers are a proud boast; we stare a direct diversion. Wolves and bobcats are invited inside the house.

"They left us a rather large truck."

"It says....."

"Hummer."

"Wow."

"There is a missile launcher on the roof."

"Micah! Regina!"

"I'm going to push the button."

"Micah....."

"I need to push it."

"There is some kind of green circle on a screen inside the dashboard."

"What does it say?"

"Engage target."

"Where is everybody else?"

"They are collecting supplies."

"Push the button....push the button....I need to push the button...."

"Where is Washington D.C.?"

"I pushed it."

"Now it says locked ignition."

"I hate this place."

"Me too."

"Don't tell my wife."

"You just did."

"Where did the missile go?"

"I feel so much better."