Pylons Up in unseen clouds tinged with pink, lavender, the asure air, the pylons stood. Proud they, erected sikhara towers of brass which stood as the summits of a great monument over the land of elephants. Those that dwelled here, some physically, others often, took these great heaven-sundering monuments for granted. No accident, this, for opulent ones party to the tower's pleasures didn't often consider what escaped their fleeting grasp. No mistake, then, that the events ready to take shape at these pylons were completely hidden of the tower's occupants. To those outside, moans of the bottom castes and unchaste (untouchables) accompanied by brassy, thundering roars of herded slave elephants resounded throughout the muddy deltas, even unto Punjab. After the initial shockwave and rising up the yells caused, an echo hung still in the air, spurning oblivion. The call, the echo, was fading of late, but wise ones, fakirs, knew the renewal of the cycle was close at hand. In the towers, fools of fakirs, fallacies, concluded all was well as they gorged in all mundane ways to excess. The wise fakirs, smiling the wan smile of the oppressed but expectant, would do nothing but wait. Dark rolling clouds spread as sepia ink quenched in a river above the sikhara towers, and ozone with sheared copper (blood) hung heavily inside, waiting as a fakir. The All-American calmly strode accross the steaming asphalt. He carried himself as a king among beggars, striding curtly in his buff-glowed shoes of fresh sewn leather. The lower-class sections of Manhattan never phased him. Afterall, didn't selective reality take care of everything? Just a gleaming hallway to a feast in the Taj Mahal. Gleaming like newly capped teeth, he thought, considering his own beauties. He smiled internally, smugly. He trod, standing ever straight, over to the procession of flat, uncaring faces proceeding along the broken concrete. The liquid, nullifying scent of spent gasoline slapped his nostrils. Simultaneously, a cola can crumpled under his left foot and refused to dislodge itself. He considered this and tried to return to his other reality, but failed. He gasped under his breath in annoyance, facing the ground reality. He speared his way over to a curb, limping somewhat, but trying hard to exude the aura of dignity. He balanced himself on his right leg, a tanned, All-American crane befeathered with the finest Italian business (power) suits one could buy in all of New York. Stuck real good, he mused, gripping the crumpled aluminum tightly. The All-American's tanned, big hands made short work of the can's desire to stay, but a much more considerable offense was then apparent. As the crumpled metal leech played out its sorry trajectory out onto the dirty asphalt, a pink lifeline, gummed with earth and concrete, followed and stretched itself thread-thin. The All-American looked on uncomprehendingly, and then he focused in, with furrowed brow and unswerving blue eyes registering shock. A blob of hot pink bubble gum adhered to his smooth, pristine rubber sole, like a bloated, dumb birthmark on the otherwise perfect face of the All-American girl next door. Such incredible, irrational hate and destructive anguish filled him to the core then! His handsome face became a pink, strained devil-mask, as his huge hands coiled into tight boxes of annihilation, and a feral, primordial yell ripped his mouth and throat. Spittle shot all over his handmade silk tie, and also onto the cheek and jowl of an inattentive passer-by. His rolling, blurred vision roamed all over the appearance of the passer-by, a Foreigner with dumb, black eyes, dirty rat-brown skin, and clothes which were much like spotty, moth-eaten brown bags. He stopped and stared, wired up and snarling. It was all the Foreigner could do to retreat, still not fully aware of what was happening. A subdued, ignorant stare marred the Foreigner's features, but what set the All-American into motion was the protruding, caramel-tinged buck teeth, glistening at him to complete the Foreigner's infuriating impression. He swung then, a graceless maneuver which most resembled a haymaker punch, but was really meant to scare the Foreigner and get him out of the way, he convinced himself in the rational core of his thoughts. Instead of frightening, it rather forced the passer-by backwards and outwards while violently birthing three detestable teeth and cracking the straight cartilage of the Foreigner's squat nose. The All-American's carefully bulked and sculpted musculature swung to a halt, and a crumpled animal skidded to a halt on the broken ground, a bubbling, viscid mixture of thick mucus mingled with thin, runny blood made a lifeline to the All-American's all-gold varsity ring. A pink river ran. Suddenly, the All-Amreican noticed the large, judicial gang of strangers, a few sympathizers, most merely onlookers, which had just observed all of the recent events. Oh God, Oh God, he chanted. Oh my God! I didn't mean it, he pleaded. I never mean it! Oh god. Alone, an old, wrinkled shell of a man wearing a red bandanna and a much-too-small demim jacket locked on a soft gaze with the All-American, and gave the slightest of nods. Of course, the All-American started, I understand. His big, tanned hands searched out his carefully crafted woolen pocket and removed a fine, burnished and very familiar eelskin billfold. It only contained denominations of one hundred or more, but he wanted so very much to fix what had happened. Planning on having a relaxing week off at Waldorf-Astoria with this, but what do you know, you've got to take complications as they come. The selective reality encompassed him full force just as the Old One's wan smile widened by a few degrees. He was at the beautiful selective arch at the entrance to the Taj Mahal; the opulent towers. The Old One sat embracing outside, hovering over the reflecting pool, which was a mere hnt to the grandeur which waited inside. Yet, his worn and understanding smile was constant, obviously content. Pondering this vision, a sudden peal of pure judgment coming from above forced him to look. Gleaming copper towers were beginning to give off a luminescent radiance of eldritch purple. The All-American just had time to acknowledge that he never suspected of the existence of these highest pinnacles of his saving vision before A four-pronged bolt of destiny, foretold as common knowledge to all wise fakirs, flowed inexorably through the excellently conducing copper pylons, and through a set of painstakingly and thoroughly prepared enormous circuits of hand-spun copper wire. This wire system converted the towers into a beautifully constructed lightning rod of four parts, each supplying and benefiting from each other's liquidly crackling glow. The towers were gazed upon in the Punjab Valley. This glow never leaves, and is a wondrous gift to all onlookers outside the tower, whereas the occupants of the towers wallow in their fitting graves of fried grease and glinting discs of melted copper, never to appreciate power again. Fakirs still smile that accoustomed wry smile as A wavy-bladed dagger punctures the throat and carotid artery of the All-American. Death throes wrack his mundane self, but a seed of calmness miraculously bears fruit. He understands much before the curtains close. He knows of ritual clensing, and its importance. He understands the basis for discipline. Finally, the most important, inexpressible value of humility is made clear to him. His final glimpse of his vision is his figure, naked and accepting, in a lotus posture, floating towards the pink, lavender, azure expanse vaulting above the pylons, his face reflecting the wry smile of fakir. SAUCE00Pylons Marduuk Rulers Of Chaos 19941012VP