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| Le Simulateur ~ Dora Marr |
A drop of semen hangs from the tip of Edwards penis as he leans into the tripod-mounted matt-black sniper rifle. From a gentle caress of the soft-sprung trigger and the rifle-jerk in Edward’s shoulder a percussive champagne pop disturbs the fecund air in the apartment’s winter garden.
“Bingo”
Gravity does its duty and the drop of semen descends to join the myriad of stains and smears that decorate the luxurious blue velvet sofa upon which Edward stands splay-legged and naked.
Through the open doors of the winter garden and across the deeply untidy living room Kate scoops sardines from a half opened can; the oil runs down her arm and onto her shirt as she plunges four fingers into her mouth; her glazed eyes reflect the action on the wall display before her: scripted scenes of immense banality; faces prosthetically enhanced beyond the evolved boundaries of taste. Kate laughs and almost chokes on a unchewed lump of oily fish; spits it back into the tin which she then places with overstressed care onto the glass ring-marked table.
“We need to get that cleaning man in, the one with the big cock”
It has always been true that London is a city of strangers; true even now with the population, at best estimate, reduced to a few hundred thousand.
“I don’t think he’ll come after last time darling, probably still recovering from the rope burns”
Strangers separated by walls of class and culture; strangers hidden behind masks of avarice, pride or paranoia; strangers acting out fantasies of abuse and power; slaves to the cult of self.
“He loved it Eddie, besides, he was well rewarded”
For Kate and Edward, all are strangers beyond the confines and intimacy of their colliding and overlapping selves, they speak to no one save when faced by necessity or by duty, and on these occasions their behaviour is accompanied by a secondary lexicon of seemingly natural gestures – a finger touch to the earlobe; a moment of direct eye contact. Subtle enough to be noticed by anyone actually paying attention.
“He never did finish the cleaning though”
In a city reduced to what the Aristocracy has managed to hang onto, the Fainne family name may be used to acquire the standard trappings and open most doors, but for the darker requirements to which the twins are predisposed, other tactics have to be developed.
Off duty they are free to enact their lives in the manner of their want, provided it does not tread on any important toes.
History bears witness to the fact that it has always been thus within the courts of English wealth, power and influence; the heartfelt belief amongst the rich that Morality should be the reserve of the poor.
Kate and Edward don’t need the lessons of history to teach them the ways of privilege; they are young and like horses they are born fully formed into the arms of the aristocracy; their entitlement extends beyond heritage, beyond the boundaries of their parents’ decaying documentation of grandeur; beyond the myth of the past.
By the same token they and their peers are born into and confined to a kingdom whose dimensions are too small to support the historic bookcases that document its existence.
Like many of their peers Kate and Edward require an endless stream of new entertainment; entertainment that requires creativity and resources.
Edward and Kate have nothing but time on their hands and that particular devil has plenty of tasks for the patient and idle.
It takes a lot of time and patience and some expensive hardware, to perfect the sniper’s skills, to hit a target as small as a human being from the distance and elevation of the 43rd floor.
“I’m going to have to graduate to head shots,” says Edward as he jumps over the back of the blue velvet sofa, “Torso’s becoming too easy.”
These skills gleaned between days of intoxication and intense sexual games of chance play out to add jeopardy to the plush and tattered scatterings that furnish the apartment in the ugly glass monster at the south end of Blackfriars Bridge; a nest for these creatures at the end of their reign; creatures thankfully made infertile by the ill researched Pharma games credited with aiding and abetting the downfall of Western Capitalism.
It’s Games Night tonight at St Pauls and Kate and Edward head out; all washed up, perfumed and entitled; attired black and white formal as required by the occasion; the white of their eyes and lapels black-lit by the interior of the car.
Their pupils occasionally counter-flash red or yellow with the data being streamed there.
“Hah! Love your speech; it’s sooo you,” Kate pats his thigh.
“Shit, haven’t even read it yet,” Edward chews on the stimulator embedded in his thumbnail, careful not to bite right through, he skims the content of his speech checking for traps.
As the vehicle slows at the curve right onto Queen Victoria St. its visual sensors pick up two digitally darkened MagLevs approaching head-on at speed.
The vehicle’s Health & Safety protocol deems the situation critical and saturates the attackers with terminal payload: this side of the river you don’t get to express your opinions; nor do you get access to due process when contravening the boundaries of class.
The passengers glance briefly out at the mess, unaware of their fundamental roles in the situation but aroused by the faint scent trails of danger that seep through the vehicle’s ventilation system.
“Bingo”
Gravity does its duty and the drop of semen descends to join the myriad of stains and smears that decorate the luxurious blue velvet sofa upon which Edward stands splay-legged and naked.
Through the open doors of the winter garden and across the deeply untidy living room Kate scoops sardines from a half opened can; the oil runs down her arm and onto her shirt as she plunges four fingers into her mouth; her glazed eyes reflect the action on the wall display before her: scripted scenes of immense banality; faces prosthetically enhanced beyond the evolved boundaries of taste. Kate laughs and almost chokes on a unchewed lump of oily fish; spits it back into the tin which she then places with overstressed care onto the glass ring-marked table.
“We need to get that cleaning man in, the one with the big cock”
It has always been true that London is a city of strangers; true even now with the population, at best estimate, reduced to a few hundred thousand.
“I don’t think he’ll come after last time darling, probably still recovering from the rope burns”
Strangers separated by walls of class and culture; strangers hidden behind masks of avarice, pride or paranoia; strangers acting out fantasies of abuse and power; slaves to the cult of self.
“He loved it Eddie, besides, he was well rewarded”
For Kate and Edward, all are strangers beyond the confines and intimacy of their colliding and overlapping selves, they speak to no one save when faced by necessity or by duty, and on these occasions their behaviour is accompanied by a secondary lexicon of seemingly natural gestures – a finger touch to the earlobe; a moment of direct eye contact. Subtle enough to be noticed by anyone actually paying attention.
“He never did finish the cleaning though”
In a city reduced to what the Aristocracy has managed to hang onto, the Fainne family name may be used to acquire the standard trappings and open most doors, but for the darker requirements to which the twins are predisposed, other tactics have to be developed.
Off duty they are free to enact their lives in the manner of their want, provided it does not tread on any important toes.
History bears witness to the fact that it has always been thus within the courts of English wealth, power and influence; the heartfelt belief amongst the rich that Morality should be the reserve of the poor.
Kate and Edward don’t need the lessons of history to teach them the ways of privilege; they are young and like horses they are born fully formed into the arms of the aristocracy; their entitlement extends beyond heritage, beyond the boundaries of their parents’ decaying documentation of grandeur; beyond the myth of the past.
By the same token they and their peers are born into and confined to a kingdom whose dimensions are too small to support the historic bookcases that document its existence.
Like many of their peers Kate and Edward require an endless stream of new entertainment; entertainment that requires creativity and resources.
Edward and Kate have nothing but time on their hands and that particular devil has plenty of tasks for the patient and idle.
It takes a lot of time and patience and some expensive hardware, to perfect the sniper’s skills, to hit a target as small as a human being from the distance and elevation of the 43rd floor.
“I’m going to have to graduate to head shots,” says Edward as he jumps over the back of the blue velvet sofa, “Torso’s becoming too easy.”
These skills gleaned between days of intoxication and intense sexual games of chance play out to add jeopardy to the plush and tattered scatterings that furnish the apartment in the ugly glass monster at the south end of Blackfriars Bridge; a nest for these creatures at the end of their reign; creatures thankfully made infertile by the ill researched Pharma games credited with aiding and abetting the downfall of Western Capitalism.
It’s Games Night tonight at St Pauls and Kate and Edward head out; all washed up, perfumed and entitled; attired black and white formal as required by the occasion; the white of their eyes and lapels black-lit by the interior of the car.
Their pupils occasionally counter-flash red or yellow with the data being streamed there.
“Hah! Love your speech; it’s sooo you,” Kate pats his thigh.
“Shit, haven’t even read it yet,” Edward chews on the stimulator embedded in his thumbnail, careful not to bite right through, he skims the content of his speech checking for traps.
As the vehicle slows at the curve right onto Queen Victoria St. its visual sensors pick up two digitally darkened MagLevs approaching head-on at speed.
The vehicle’s Health & Safety protocol deems the situation critical and saturates the attackers with terminal payload: this side of the river you don’t get to express your opinions; nor do you get access to due process when contravening the boundaries of class.
The passengers glance briefly out at the mess, unaware of their fundamental roles in the situation but aroused by the faint scent trails of danger that seep through the vehicle’s ventilation system.
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