Escutcheon reads murder. Swivelin’ red rum, I order more at the bartender. Buxom. Cabaretesque. Red stilettos...oozed with a sharp nine inch that ain’t gon save her anything but in nick or ’n time.
Harlequinesque my overbearing demeanor unveiled at a vaudeville partially Victorian and partial carnival with cavaliers dressed as such in Godfather headless apocalyptic horseman of but ’nef said.
I further not belabor my reader with extraneous filigree and get to the...point.
The lifestyle is such my entire Scops Owl fed panopticon Cyclopean monocle deep embedded and programmed in the avatar of my inner-Crosshair that everything read like a page of living dead scroll, C.. rebus.
Cerberus, I could easily manipulate her and manifest her deform in matter of minutes. As Ceres she was voluptuous. Cher! I cry. yNought bringeth the shadowy vodka fro tottering sideways shakin that saintly ass... as if ..?
I got you.
I could tell this is the minute that she wille xcuz’ herself and get that poweder-box going under vanity handheld oval mirror. Pouting her lips she smacked the puffy powder.
The irony is that bitch will think she had her worst trip ever.
Invisibility. Stealth. Surveillance. Camouflage. Mastery in disguise. Precision marksmanship. Photographic memory. Patience. Proficiency in languages. Trigonometric mindset. Weaponry. Assassination techniques. Hand-to-hand combat. Knowledge of arcane arts. Ability to lucid dream... are but few to name any the skills which my stagecraft & tradecraft must possess.
For invisibility I trained 10 years with the best street magician to disappear at will from the middle of Times Square in the middle of broad daylight.
See it is just matter of befooling the vantage point. How many surveillance cameras are there pointing at you at any given point on any given coordinates? Who is looking at who at what instance? What are the usual visual misdirection? Will a fire fighter errand call for all attention? I studied these. Yeah these. As days progressed, as my patience broke fruit to fruition stomach pain various under carapaces of iron grid mesh of fence. Is it possible to culminate to one particular crux whereby each is wearing different looks at different fashion and poster and all it leaves is a blinkling of a Sadhu's kalpa eyeblink wink for me to disappear at will amongst the various diaspora?
It was a multidisciplinary approach. From vaudeville I learned art of costume change and special effects make-up. From the top mime in the world, the art of stillness. Job-like patience and St.Simeon x David Blaine Vienna doll statuesque stilling to a stand-still frozen attire.
Rappelling, thuggee de Rumali strangulation, bear choke to save lives, and of course from the best !Xhosa soldiers the art of tracking.
I took trig class dressed as grey man. The least of alphas of alpha, the utterest omega, as if many a Ezra Pound didn’t even discern the dissipation that a Special Force vehement behemoth passed by like the Mothman in the room in their very eyes, blindspot their frontal lobe in Comm. College.
What are you doing here?
She telepathically communicated with her ivory-bronze looks. Eyes dilated. Her breathing rate increased. Enough to fool a galvanic seismic meter. I had her.
Of course, she was very far from a poor little me, spider Little Miss Muffet.
Highly trained in toxicology, like the venomous visshyakanna, who could womb’e out gross teratological deformations just for the mithdridatic compounds she annual compounded.
Calculatd. I vorif3rously calculat’yed everything from start to finish. I was clearly in the zone. Although she had godly superior hand eye coordination and out-of-theworld astral projection skills, and reflex, yes reflex, all it took was grabbing by her hairbun under the diadem ’n plethora of jewels, and smashing straight onto the wine glass, upside down bottoms up.
It was either her or her zither...man who violinically played the suave instrument in altruistic tune.
I took the counterdote pill. She wanted me as much as I wantd her. But we decided to make love, anyhow, regardless, as matter as such, next... it was just matter of undergoing the ritual ’n the special fx.
She wrapped herself around me like a fig banyan. Thighs crushing it was either her or moi. Meme chose. I whispered sussurously in her ear on the countertop.
“One always has time enough if one will apply it well.” She quoth in perfect Goethe -German.
It is like Romeo and Juliet. I whisphered. [in my faux Welsh accent.] Except in reverse.
Invisibility. Stealth. Surveillance. Camouflage. Mastery in disguise. Precision marksmanship. Photographic memory. Patience. Proficiency in languages. Trigonometric mindset. Weaponry. Assassination techniques. Hand-to-hand combat. Knowledge of arcane arts. Ability to lucid dream... are but few to name any.
Ability to lucid dream. Why? For this is the only potent overdose I found and counterdote to all the trauma induced and surfaced on my imprint. It is sort of mental clearing of blockages.
Learning trig was boriin' I tell you. No. I mean I tell you. As in boring a fuckin' hole deep underground and after counting countless species of birdwatching foretelling the orrery future.
It was almost like when you take a calculus-frame and bring it down to a shutterspeed stop...you almost need to blend in with the background and be-COME the monster. The godly, Brahman swivelin' her head, like a Zeus Kronos chaotic monster, as if nine-inch hundred thousand adveism Mara heads all screwed and glued shut to one, very detached solider of a shoulder.
So when you do do that. When you do mindfully stop your palpitations and heart-rate you start to startle yourself and do magic. You feel from your patience, stone like arctic architecture, friezin' to death, scarab-halt, you see and feel everything, what the Whole Atman feels. You can predict anything from the flutter of a moth or a butterfly d'hourglass precision.
For precision. Now that you tell me, you compare binary digits and convert from hexa to decimal all day night along.
No one said, it'd be glamorous right?
I was born in a shadow in a dinghy in the murky rivrs of Meghna. Fishing village. 1973. Right after country regained independence.
"Love, I am pregnant." She interjected to the interlude.
And quiet disquietingly I retracted my switchblade.
As someone who clocks 'n and out this deadly art, I see, hear and know everything. But who knew it'd evade my omniscience?
'Wjen did this happn?' I stammer in part-Portuguese and Spanish-Flemish being harked back from picking his uniform man of war from coat stand.
"They are twins." Her eyes twinkled.