How Random Babbling Becomes Corporate Policy (t3knomanser) wrote,
How Random Babbling Becomes Corporate Policy

On Anarchy: Introductions

I've had this story idea bouncing around in my head. Actually, it's so visual, it's really a comic book idea, but that's way too much work. So what I'm going to be doing is writing it here in my journal. I'm not going to write much every day, but I will write at least a little into it. All of the posts will be entitled "On Anarchy", and I'll provide a set of links down the side of my journal so people can pick it up.

Terrorist (n): One that engages in an act of terrorism.

Yeah, that was in a dictionary. I know, I looked it up. Damn, my sixth grade english teacher would have failed me with a vocabulary excersise like that!

Terrorism (n): The unlawful use or threatened use of force or violence by a person or an organized group against people or property with the intention of intimidating or coercing societies or governments, often for ideological or political reasons.

That's more like it.

"Le Contesse" she was called. It was impossible to not notice her, and even harder not to focus on her. I first saw her in "Mab's Cairn", a sub-basement goth club in Manhattan. It was the kind that brought all comers, from the die-hard-I'm-so-goth-I'm-dead to the oh-look-at-the-collar-I-bought-at-the-mall. Fairy goths, vampire goths... Me? I was just a tourist. I was bored on a Saturday night and like chicks in leather with pale complexions. At any rate, in this sea of ruffled collars, tight leather, and bad makeup, floated Le Contesse. And floated is the correct term, for Le Contesse was dolled up in exacting 18th century clothing, with an 18th century hairdo, which included a boat on her head. Yes, a ghost white schooner was perched upon her powdered and inhumanly tall hair, bobbing along. Her face was painted white, with a black velvet mole on one cheek. And her dress... light a lightbulb in a black room, it was a very light peach. Her panniers hung at her hips, pushing her skirt out three feet on either side; with the embroidery on the fabric, she could only be either a gigantic curtain, or a wedding cake.

As I entered the club, she was laughing, and it carried, deep and throaty, drowning out the music and the chattering. A dozen or so retainers hung around her, brining drinks, and hanging on her every word. And while I was there for one reason and one reason only (getting laid - hey, at least I'm honest), Le Contesse was like watching a train wreck- I couldn't look away. Before I realized it, I was in that throng of retainers, listening to her speak.

"And so ladies and gentlemen," her voice was a deep and throaty as her laugh, and as she spoke, her head bobbed, causing the ship upon it to bounce as if in rough seas. "What we must ask ourselves, is not wether or not we are ruled by a tyrant! Look around you! We can all see the tyranical oppression. No, we must ask first: Who is this tyrant? Second: What can be done? And lastly: What are we willing to do." At this point, I examined the retainers surrounding her. That's when I noticed that I was surrounded by angsty, acne ridden high schoolers.

High school anarchists. Perhaps the most embarassing breed of "revolutionary". I should know, I was one. The oppression inherent in being a white middle class suburbanite is so hard to bear of course, that we had to cook up complex schemes for vengance in high school. My anarchist revolt extend to throwing textbooks from high windows and setting off fire crackers in garbage cans. With disgust, I turned to leave the noble woman and her vapid entourage to their revolution.

Let me be clear on this. I hate Wal-Mart, George Bush, Ashcroft, and company with a passion. I conserve gas and get angry at SUV drivers. I vote Democrat and occasionally Libertarian. In the last election I voted Nader, but New York state went to Gore anyway. So yeah, I can understand at least the feeling behind Le Contesse... but that's just foolishness.

As I mused, I wandered to the bar and ordered a beer. That's when I heard a voice at my shoulder. "All sound and fury, signifying... nothing?" I glanced down at a petite goth girl. Black hair, black tank top over black fishnet with a floor length black velvet skirt slit up to mid-thigh, exposing yet more fishnet. Black bondage collar. Dark red lipstick. Bright yellow "Hug me, I'm an Anarchist" button on her tank top. "Excuse me?" I asked, sounding as cordial as I could. She looked about college age, but was small, and exceedingly cute. Not hot, or gorgeous, just cute.

"I saw the look on your face when you walked away from Le Contesse," she said the name with distaste.
"So, that's who that moron is?"
"Oh yeah. If you ever want revolting pretension, you can find it there. I mean, he's what, like thirty? Little to old for him to be playing around with high schoolers. Rumor has it he seduces some of them too, boys and girls."
I gaped for a moment. "Him?" I glanced back at Le Contesse.
"I'm surprised you didn't notice. I guess it's just a girl thing. He's not the world's best cross dresser."
"I'm Kristen by the way."
I grinned at her, with a cheerful smile, totally unfitting to these oh-so-goth surroundings. "Thom. With an 'h'. Can I buy you a drink?"
Kristen grinned back, abd threw a few dollars down on the bar. "No, but I can pick up yours." She flags the bar tender. "This is for his and for a martini, extra dry, extra dirty with the really big olives if you've got 'em. And use the Saphire! I saw you pouring one with," she made a vulgar noise, "Seagram's."

Previous | Next

There's installment one. Rough start, if I do say so, but then again, considering that I only have a character idea for Le Contesse, that's to be expected. One character and a vague idea of the plot makes it fairly difficult to draft these out. Next "issue", I'll actually explore these characters and go someplace with it. But right now, I have to pee. I'll set up a box for links to this later.

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