Magician - I

A Slice of the Novella from Tarot Blanco

In the present which converges with the past to create the future past.

And The Riot Intersperse Of Style

Ending sober chat Hashtag and thrust only now

The curve that makes one solid and layers the infinity crossing into golden air. However, how so ever, this did not bind one to the many as he wanted. He switched the “Revolutionary” Etude by Chopin with a sign of relief. Oh, for the magic of yesteryear when even his name was a mystery.

Now it was hard to come up with something witty that wasn’t enshittification in the extreme the moment he pressed “send” and away into the entrance to the void. He remembered when he made the pack to ride with the Devil of longer the pentagram and the Pentecostal cup rising to his lips and dashing forth into the staff with the sword of Damocles holding fast.

So what do we gather for the next quip that almost no one will read? He fumed but nothing came to him. He mentally banged his forehead on the imagined wall. This used to be so easy - or perhaps there was an elan which had long since slipped away.

His phone rang. It was important because only important people had the number of numbers.

“Yello.” With mellow jello.

“Hello, am I speaking to Duncan?”

“On this side of the river, what can I do for you?” The implied attachment was “for what some of the money?” Though he didn’t care about that, in reality.

“I was wondering if you could work on punching up a paper.”

“Why is it a little dry?”

“If it were martini that would be fine but it isn’t. The postgraduate who wrote it had all of the right equations, but none of the equality.”

“You can send the paper over and I can make it shine. What is the topic?”

“How lawyers shift the language in debates.”

He thought for a moment and this was a topic near and dear to his heart because he was minorly infuriated by the coolness and evenness. A lawyer could talk as if it were the end of the world if any other meaning was even entertained. He preferred his brow and then immediately reached for the top of the coffee MIT Schlag.

“I will take the paper and do everything in my power.” the dripping of sarcasm was plain even over the telephone, not because the paper probably needed some work, but because there was a crowd of law school professors who defended their own.

There was a silence on the other side and then a query: “I thought you had a distaste for lawyers and law schools.”

“That’s not true. I, in fact, admire them.” Again, the bite of his words, even in the air, preached on the phone. Duncan looked through the pot of hyacinths and roses placed on his desk by someone who thought more of him than he thought of himself.

“Admire?”

“I admire the lawyer and his purity.”

There was a moment of silence. “What address should send it to?” Duncan supplied one that was meant for business communication.

When the phone had hung up and while he was waiting for the paper, he decided to create a slab of text, which lambasted the legal profession for defending what was undefensible and indefensible. It was in his milieu to remind the people who read his work on Blue Sky, that what they said truly had meaning. And how they SNAFU and JANFU - go perhaps it was FEBFU by now - the suppose it meaning.

He began typing a phrase with the premise that was falsified at the start.

“Law prof…”

And then he finished with an arcana version of the Contrapositive of the opposite of what had happened in the Civil War. And in that moment he became gleeful at how a style of writing had become a virtue of vice: because it always imagined that things were different. He stretched one arm backwards and the other down but he hashtagged his hands to the proper typing position: with snark brimming interspersed from every pore.

He typed the next line with certainty.

And with that, he sent it to kill a mockingbird.