the monitoring

He opened the door slowly, and there stood the bald head with a suitcase in his hand. "you have this in hall sir." he said dryly. he made no
attempt to communicate any more than the bear minimum. the bald man put the suitcase down inside the door and turned towards the stairs.

Florcus sat on his bed, and from his suitcase took out a lap top. he turned it on. the green buttons on his cardigan began to glow mutely, there was a small white stain on the wool, maybe it was cream cheese, i'm not sure. i am sure that he read the following passage taken from tapped internet correspondence.

• 6:00:41 PM The Percussionologist: what up bro
• 6:10:09 PM jimmy: hey
• 6:10:27 PM The Percussionologist: whats up manh
• 6:10:30 PM jimmy: is this Brendan??
• 6:12:12 PM The Percussionologist: yeah!
• 6:12:16 PM jimmy: wtf
• 6:12:20 PM The Percussionologist: just landed in sydney from tasmanaia\
• 6:12:20 PM jimmy: i didin't think you existed
• 6:12:37 PM jimmy: thought you were the thing of legends like the unicorn
• 6:12:56 PM The Percussionologist: damn
• 6:13:03 PM The Percussionologist: feels like it now
• 6:13:09 PM The Percussionologist: returning home.
• 6:13:10 PM jimmy: like a unicorn?
• 6:13:29 PM The Percussionologist: i'm iron like a lion in zion though these days so it's not all bad
• 6:13:57 PM The Percussionologist: what you up to?
• 6:14:06 PM jimmy: just did a mad show
• 6:14:11 PM jimmy: go to flickr
• 6:14:17 PM jimmy: and google shenanigans.tv
• 6:14:24 PM jimmy: i mean search for
• 6:14:33 PM jimmy: so dudes took some class pics
• 6:14:52 PM jimmy: have been tasting the mandolin a good bit
• 6:14:57 PM The Percussionologist: will do
• 6:15:08 PM The Percussionologist: good show yeah
• 6:15:09 PM The Percussionologist: sick
• 6:15:14 PM The Percussionologist: what setup?
• 6:15:34 PM jimmy: organize by most recent
• 6:15:37 PM jimmy: pics
• 6:16:49 PM The Percussionologist: madness
• 6:17:26 PM jimmy: how are you feeling about going home?
• 6:21:43 PM The Percussionologist: that show loooks rippin
• 6:21:48 PM The Percussionologist: savage
• 6:22:02 PM jimmy: what's your mind like these days?
• 6:23:28 PM The Percussionologist: what a question
• 6:23:49 PM The Percussionologist: good over here
• 6:23:59 PM The Percussionologist: what it'll be like in ireland I don't know!
• 6:25:13 PM jimmy: you nervous about going home?
• 6:25:42 PM The Percussionologist: suppose so yeah
• 6:25:50 PM The Percussionologist: just want to keep rocking out here ion the road
• 6:25:53 PM jimmy: a bit sad?
• 6:25:55 PM The Percussionologist: everythings good
• 6:25:59 PM The Percussionologist: for sure
• 6:26:05 PM jimmy: it's natural to feel sad
• 6:26:18 PM jimmy: how long have you been there now
• 6:26:27 PM The Percussionologist: almost a year
• 6:26:46 PM The Percussionologist: i have a very different life here though you know
• 6:28:38 PM The Percussionologist: don't know if I'll stay in ireland or head back on the road
• 6:29:05 PM jimmy: what do you like about the road?
• 6:31:00 PM The Percussionologist: the constant madness
• 6:31:10 PM The Percussionologist: never having a penny for food
• 6:31:16 PM The Percussionologist: one meal every 2 days
• 6:31:24 PM The Percussionologist: new people every day
• 6:31:58 PM The Percussionologist: freestyle rapping, graffitti, surfing, sandboarding, jamming, smoking, it's all it
• 6:32:19 PM The Percussionologist: australia is just mind blowing
• 6:34:04 PM jimmy: are the people very differnt
• 6:34:22 PM The Percussionologist: yeah
• 6:35:03 PM The Percussionologist: the whole thing
• 6:35:11 PM The Percussionologist: tazzies are mental
• 6:36:44 PM The Percussionologist: how's tommy bren and ultan doing?
• 6:36:49 PM jimmy: why don't you document it somehow
• 6:37:08 PM jimmy: the crew here are doign great
• 6:37:13 PM The Percussionologist: class
• 6:37:15 PM jimmy: we're getting a canoe this week
• 6:37:24 PM The Percussionologist: and tell kelly i said hi
• 6:37:25 PM jimmy: going to hit some of the lakes/rivers in ludington
• 6:37:28 PM The Percussionologist: class
• 6:37:34 PM jimmy: it's so beautiful up there
• 6:37:36 PM The Percussionologist: what length?
• 6:37:38 PM jimmy: like being in heaven
• 6:37:44 PM The Percussionologist: did you get the house then?
• 6:37:46 PM jimmy: about 57 feet
• 6:37:54 PM The Percussionologist: decent
• 6:37:56 PM jimmy: yes have you seen the facebook snaps
• 6:38:01 PM The Percussionologist: no !
• 6:38:03 PM jimmy: no it's 15.5 feet
• 6:38:11 PM The Percussionologist: not much internet in australia
• 6:38:17 PM jimmy: it's just a conoe not a full on boat
• 6:38:17 PM The Percussionologist: cool
• 6:38:36 PM The Percussionologist: you living in the luddington house now?
• 6:38:43 PM jimmy: part time
• 6:39:03 PM The Percussionologist: and 334 magnolia?
• 6:40:39 PM jimmy: we going up to lud most weekends
• 6:41:04 PM jimmy: i love it up there
• 6:41:06 PM jimmy: so wild
• 6:41:09 PM jimmy: being on the water
• 6:41:13 PM jimmy: really makes me happier
• 6:41:26 PM jimmy: huge forests to get lost in
• 6:41:30 PM jimmy: small town
• 6:41:46 PM jimmy: and same dist to chicago for getting the newness
• 6:41:55 PM jimmy: and for flight home and all that
• 6:41:58 PM The Percussionologist: looking forward to seeing it
• 6:42:08 PM jimmy: you should see the salmon crazy huge
• 6:42:17 PM jimmy: it's fishing paradise
• 6:42:58 PM The Percussionologist: you should scope out some good places for fishing them
• 6:43:04 PM jimmy: we have been slowly
• 6:43:09 PM jimmy: there are loads of lakes/rivers
• 6:43:14 PM jimmy: and then lake mich too
• 6:43:26 PM jimmy: you must have seen some amazing diff species of life down there
• 6:43:42 PM jimmy: hope you documented that stuff
• 6:43:46 PM The Percussionologist: insane
• 6:44:11 PM jimmy: get a tape recorder or vid cam and sit down for a few hours and tell your story
• 6:44:49 PM The Percussionologist: in the last week alone I've seen an echidna, wild penguins, short tailed shearwaters, huntstmam and a wolf spider, lorikeets, kookaburra and a red snapper what I caught
• 6:45:27 PM The Percussionologist: wild fruit grows everywhere, it;s paradise
• 6:48:13 PM jimmy: madness
• 6:50:37 PM The Percussionologist: gonna be hard to go back to study and that
• 6:51:13 PM jimmy: focus on documenting it first
• 6:51:16 PM jimmy: that way it lasts
• 6:51:19 PM The Percussionologist: hey I've only got a minute left on this internet
• 6:51:38 PM The Percussionologist: I'll give you a call from home when I get back this weekend
• 6:51:44 PM jimmy: well i love you, and selfishly looking forward to talking
• 6:51:57 PM jimmy: travel in safety
• 6:52:13 PM The Percussionologist: good talkting to you jim,
• 6:52:15 PM The Percussionologist: l;ove you man
• 6:52:20 PM The Percussionologist: solid bros
• 6:52:24 PM jimmy: truth
• 6:52:25 PM The Percussionologist: bros before hos
• 6:52:29 PM jimmy: ha ha
• 6:52:39 PM The Percussionologist: ain't no party like my nannas tea party
• 6:52:53 PM The Percussionologist: righteo, chat to you later
• 6:53:03 PM The Percussionologist: hi to kelly and the kids from me!
• 6:53:08 PM The Percussionologist: and austrtalia
• Changed status to Offline (6:53:13 PM)

The Tale of teal and Marie.

If I ever became the ruler of this country, thought Florcus as his arm dislocated for the umpteenth time, the first thing I'd do is rearrange this country to coordinate with the rest of the world. Who numbers beginning from the top of the house? I mean, really?
Harold was at the top of the stairs by now and using the other arm to ease the mammoth bag over the last step. He let himself into the room and the journey was almost worth it.

The room was fairly small, wider than it was long, impeccably clean, but with small peels of teal paint near the ceiling revealing an orange and white wallpaper. Small marigolds set off the teal, but the real attraction was the window. It must have been fifteen foot in diameter, a perfect circle. Harold pressed up against it and could see the crowds moving around beneath his feet. The city moved, restless and humming in the broad sunlight. You could see the whole town, the river with the white ornamental carvings, the parks with tall oaks and everywhere an air of New-World optimism. Florcus decided to keep the room.

He had mail already. It was from the birdlike man downstairs and he opened it.

'Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace.'

In smaller letters below, 'Victor Hugo.
Florcus had always liked the way the French named their children, with the men named Marie. Victor Marie Hugo. Henri Marie de Tou-louse-Lautrec. Harold Marie Florcus.
It would never stick.

The teal doorbell rang, shaking the small bone china on the stand beside the door.

souls

lorcus took the pen and wrote,
lightning hopkins.
looking at the woman he squeezed out a thin laugh, and nodded in a way to suggest that she leave the room and return to her watching of television. "what are you watching?" he asked. "the eurovision song" she said. florcus laughed, this time from deep inside.
In the midst of his self abandoned fit, a small piece of stool dislodged itself from it's comrades in his rectal vault and popped into the 65 year old's drawers. he quickly took on a serious look. while trying to ignore the rectal escape probe, he tapped the receptionist's forearm.
I NEED TO TALK TO YOU..... LATER. florcus mouthed to him.
the receptionist smiled, an unknowing nod was passed between them. florcus tapped at his chest and took out his wallet. a blip of understanding passed over the ukrainian's face. florcus showed him his hand
LATER
florcus pointed at the desk
I'LL BE BACK.
bending at the knees florcus picked up his bag. "room 4, at the top of the stairs." the woman shouted.

Florcus let himself into the front door of the guest house; it was large and smelled like pine. The landlady, being an atheist, felt that cleanliness was far above godliness and adhered to this principle above all others. Even the part of the dirt road outside her house was cleaner than the rest of the road. It may just have appeared so, but Harold had no time to muse about such things.
Inside, the house was disproportionately tall, with a spiral staircase stretching upwards, each marbled step neatly punctuated with a small red square of red carpet.
The reception consisted of a room with a desk, separated from the main living room by a curtain through which a tv could faintly be heard. Ukrainian shouting carried over a theme from the bus.
Also in the waiting room was an old man with a moustache and a leather briefcase, of the type that travelling salesmen used in the 50s.
'!' said the stranger in Ukrainian.
'Sorry, I don't speak Ukrainian', said Harold. 'Well, a little bit, but...'
Harold trailed off, realizing that the stranger was paying the least possible amount of interest and was instead rooting around in the bag.
'?' enquired he and pointed to Harold's chest.
'My chest?'
The other man pointed to his own chest, made a gesture indicating heavenwards and pointed back to his own chest. He then blessed himself.
'Soul? Heaven? God?' Harold was thoroughly confused and was relieved when the curtains parted to reveal a woman in a shirtdress and polishing slippers.
The woman saw the stranger and began to shout at him. Here we go again, thought Florcus. Doesn't this country come with a volume control?
The man came closer to Florcus, his bald head shining excitedly and his bird-like nose creasing up with the stress of the moment. His suitcase lay open for Harold to see.
Several pieces of paper, folded up, some crumpled up and in the corner a Nestle borscht packet.
'I see you.' said the bald head, and almost ran out of the room, just about missing a sausage thrown in his direction by the woman.
'Excuse we', said the woman, 'Uzbekistani, you know. He does a great trade in buying and selling souls in this area.'
'Souls?'
'Yes...it's an old Romanian superstition. Those in need can buy extra souls to store their left over sins. It's silly. What's your name?'
The book of names was pushed towards Harold and he leaned forward to sign it.

Interlude #1 - Ukrainian Lullaby

HE
had almost nodded off when the bus hit a rather largish rut, shaking him awake in time to shove his suitcase forward in the overhead compartment before it fell on his head. There were no bars or straps or any other visible means to secure baggage, and he had been forced to keep repeating this maneuver ever since Chernihiv, as the heavy bags kept crashing forward with each pothole and dip in the road, of which there was a not inconsiderable number and occurring with such frequency as to make him imagine indeed that there was more hole in the road than there was road in the road.

The bus itself was like a short version of a short bus - more of an over-sized van, really. A curtain separated him from the driver and prohibited a view of the road. He had slid the curtain over a few inches at the beginning of the trek, but the driver had reached behind himself and yanked the sheet back in place -- "and so much for that," he had thought.

Every so often, the little bus/van would pull over and pick up another villager along the side of the pock-marked dirt road. The side door had a trick handle and no one who got on could make it latch shut for anything - the driver yelling in Ukrainian, and the fresh guests yelling back. Latching of the door was finally left to the pros in the front seats - the seasoned veterans who had now successfully latched the door several times in the last hour and had mastered the trick and just the right touch.

At some point, the bus had become standing room only for new travelers, but the driver kept stopping to let them on, and taking their 50 kopeks, and yelling at them about the door, and getting yelled back at in Ukrainian, and the pros in the front seats beside the door kept latching it shut after slamming it two or three times first.

He looked away from the newest passenger - a red-haired thick-bodied Ukrainian girl wearing an old denim jacket, pink jeans, heavy eye shadow and a haughty look - in time to see his own suitcase about to land on his head again. He jumped up and caught it just in time, as just then the bus came to a complete stop. They had arrived in Pryluky - the end of the line.

He put his case down on the floor of the bus and allowed the red haired girl to go past. She gave him an icy "pahzhalaster" and passed by, glancing down at his sad frayed suitcase with the worn leather tags.

If she had been able to read English, she might have read "Harold O'Florcus" on the tag's handwritten label.

Not that it would have meant anything to her.