Friday, July 13, 2018

'38 Rue Utopia ~ Ep.15

We get tempted by the lies of the whores and their eyes of crystal
In which I can read the number of paces and the choice of the pistol
~ Balthazar ‘The Man Who Owns the Place’ 2012

Stadsgezicht ~ Carel Willink

They remove the blindfold after 30 minutes of enough left and right and possible U-turns to confuse anybody’s internal GPS; they are deep in the subterranean city beneath Bigmark, encased in the Sporter that carries them silently along the disconcertingly clean plazmac streets of the Bunker.
Ellie’s face hurts where Giles’d paid personal attention to it. The swelling around her left eye narrows her vision, blurred as it already is, she’s dialled the pain down to discomfort – the best that fetish can do under the circumstances.
Area lighting bathes this subterranean suburb in a warm iLED glow; not quite achieving the illusion of sunshine but brighter than the outside.
They pass the variously decorated and strongly armoured gates that front the domains of Bigmark’s elders.
There’s no movement but the barely-visible blue-laser beams from the eyes of security programs scanning.
Slowing they enter onto gravel that makes no sound under the tyres of the Sporter, to be presented with a faux-country manor house in the Anglophile style: apparently hand-cut black wood beams and facias against white walls and multi-paned windows that facet-reflect the false daylight – the print quality is as high as it gets.
Two top-line cars, 20’s vintage, adorn either end of the driveway arc, a black Aston facing inward and a white Volga facing out, both spotless and gleaming in an unashamed display of techno-porn. Ellie is not familiar with these historic details but the message is clear: Giles & Krystal are not to be fucked with.
Nikos ushers her from the vehicle, arms tie-wrapped behind her at wrists and elbows, they follow Giles up three broad steps to the echoing entrance hall.
The Tudor England fa├žade is shattered by the interior baroque; like amethysts inside a geode the decor makes no excuses for its gold-on-ivory fuck-you to the apocalypse: it revels in the glam and glitter trappings of traditional late 20th century Russian wealth.
Their footfalls on marble echo in the emptiness whose only decoration is a wall-sized portrait of the owners.
“Krystal darling,” Giles calls up the gleaming white staircase “I’ve got someone here who’s dying to meet you”

The Man Who Owns the Place

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