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Golda

“We have always been at war with Prescription,” Golda intones.

“I’m not sure it qualifies as war,” says Nestor. “It’s more a dynamic tension that informs–”

“It is too a war!”

“That sounds like received wisdom speaking.”

“It’s not!” Golda backpedals. “It’s description! That’s what we do!”

“That’s an interesting circular problem,” says Roan. “If people choose to become Descriptivists based on our self-description, have we then prescribed a philosophy of–”

“Shut up, Roan,” says Nestor.

“Don’t tell her to shut up!” says Golda.

“Don’t end a sentence with a preposi–” is all he manages before they tear him apart.

Arrete

“Ecce picturo,” says Arrete, flicking her bored wand at the window. The view changes to a rainforest, a desert, the Pentagon, Mars.

“I don’t know why you can’t use real Latin,” grumbles Verona.

“It wouldn’t work,” says Arrete. “Obvs.”

Verona deliberately gives her a slow, bovine blink.

“Words are just the focus. Pseudolatin has connotations of privilege and archaic mystery to most English-speakers. It puts your brain in the right place for magic.”

“It could just as easily be Pseudoswahili?”

“Not to me.”

“But magic’s more than the sum of your cultural baggage!”

Arrete gives her a slow, bovine blink.

Inspector Handsome

“I should mention that Lord Vandernoot was not only my uncle… but indeed my father,” hisses Tania.

“Mine as well!” says Eurynome. “And what’s more, I am left-handed!”

“Really?” says Inspector Handsome, eyes alight.

“There’s just one thing you’ve forgotten!” shrills Mr. Spurlock, heaving up off the divan. “I’m ambidextrous, and I’m the only one who needed the money!”

“Please, Donny, we’re all mortgaged to the hilt,” says Tania.

“Fascinating,” says Inspector Handsome. “The only thing we haven’t considered is–”

“Look it is obviously me just GET OUT THE CUFFS ALREADY,” gasps the butler, erection wild in his shiny pants.

Doctor Ovid

Blood diagrams the operating table.

“Yeah, that’s the definite article,” says Doctor Pheme. “You going to let it dangle?”

“No!” snaps Doctor Ovid. “We’re going to get him through this prospect. Nurse, I asked for a preterite!”

“Shouldn’t you at least try a drip of interrogative subjunct?” Doctor Pheme is sweating through her cotton participle. “Or a shot of momentane?”

Hands steady, Doctor Ovid is already incising the patient’s nominative absolute. “If you insist, you can start him on an aspect of inchoate.”

“This all depends,” says Doctor Pheme, “on you knowing what you’re doing.”

“Trust me. I’ve perfected this technique.”

Satan

Satan’s new nametag says SATIN.

“It was probably one of those accidentally-on-purpose typos,” says Aaron. “He doesn’t want people coming into the store and thinking you’re some…”

“If he was going to do that,” says Satan, “why wouldn’t he just go with ‘Stan?'”

“I like it,” says Rosaline, through quesadilla. “Sort of a cool drag vibe.”

“Rosaline,” says Aaron with great concern, “no one ever says ‘vibe.'”

Rosaline defies him by stuffing more quesadilla into her face. They’re all sick of the quesadilla, but it’s so cheap and so good, and where else are they going to hang out?

The Summersmith

The Summersmith’s feet will detumesce, given a little patience; and for once patience is something she can apply in a paste.

It’s hot and it smells of tasteless breakfast. When she’s done tying cheesecloth she puts her feet up and cranks down the phenakistoscope. She peers through its baroque, flickering lens into her belly: he’s in there, all right, cramped and discouraged, shoulders struggling against the limits of her skin. His hands are always grasping. He doesn’t know it yet, but he longs for tools.

She eats raisins and soothes him. Soon, littlesmith. Ankles and genesis: all they take is time.

Francine

In a moment, Francine is going to reach out and touch his shoulder. She’s learned that this is beyond her control; her will, when he needs comfort, is not her own.

But she can change what “moment” means.

A spider spins a web from the tip of her finger. The silk turns to cobweb, the cobweb to dust. Through the French doors the path of the sun elongates into streaks of fire. Buildings sprout buildings. Mountains lose their tops.

A geological heartbeat is measured in the movement of magma. Still and outstretched, Francine waits for her hot stone blood to recede.

Brunhilde

They’ve shoved him in the back and buckled him in, treating him like a five-year-old, treating him as if a little time in the spotlight is going to turn him into a slobbering drunk. As if they’re so much wiser! As if they behaved any better when they were Narrator.

Brunhilde’s eyes show white and she bites her lip when she smiles back between the seats at him. “I promise you can have your keys back once you”re more used to it, okay?” she says.

The Narrator knows she is lying, though (she is a total bitch like that).

The Columbian Exchange

This is a con for one artist, two shills and as many marks as you can get your filthy hands on.

  1. First, become Pestilence incarnate. Next, have your shills pose as explorers and compete for the favor of a moneyed patron (not the mark!). He or she will feel compelled to fund one or the other, on the promise of enormous return on investment.
  2. The chosen shill will “discover” a populated area. These are the marks! Unleash yourself! The area will become nonpopulated. Return the patron’s investment, which is paltry compared to the natural resources now at your command.
  3. Profit!

Erhard

“So what you do is click the refresh button,” says Magret, “and just keep on clicking it until it says the count is done. Then you print that out and walk it down to Detton.”

Erhard waits.

“Oh, that’s… that’s all there is,” he says, at length.

“Yep!” Magret beams.

“This is a job,” says Erhard, choosing words with care, “that a monkey could do.”

Magret’s smile inverts. “That is absolutely untrue! We have tried it with monkeys and they can’t stay focused. They need more mental stimulation.”

Erhard feels his spine weaken a little.

“They also cost more,” Magret says.