Verse II: Theoretical Life

In your physical reality, on the other side of the world, a gaunt man named Devon rolls over upon his sleeping contraption, his limb thrusting blind into oblivion as he searches for the Samsung Galaxy S666 that he had smuggled in through a hole in his superego. The antimatter in the quantum machine goes cold as it correlates his genome to the present universe’s Akashic Record, querying God Himself as to why an antihuman might have any business here whatsoever.

…Devon is quite accustomed to the lost minutes and days that are resultant from the cursed technology, is not surprised when his circadian rhythm informs him that today, which was a Tuesday, has transmogrified into last Saturday at approximately the same time.

“It always happens on a Saturay night.”

The animalism inside these people is spectacular to behold: The S666 fluctuates its form into a glock with naught but a low crackle as Devon flips backwards and behind the bed, pointing the happenstance firearm at the intruder.

Lifting a hand, Elle sends psionic commands to cause the gun to melt into a puddle of mercury, the liquid kissing the knobs of flesh between her husband’s fingers before splashing onto the floor. “The witches steal the sunrise,” she continues, advancing into their present home. “A man named Jeffrey MacLean crawls out of a painting somewhere in Toronto and Frederic Medina always manages to mess up his simple directive of murder because he refuses to accept that Jeff is not secretly Solinis.”

“What are you talking about?”

A frown. “Are you not at all surprised to see me?” There was supposed to be an entire year before their next rendezvous.

Aromatic tradewinds slip in through the askance window, trailing in with it the hints of flora from a thousand locales; terse bastardizations of ancient black magicks cast a shroud over their abode to give it the appearance of stasis… but this place flickers through the vulnerable sectors of collective uconsciousness. This home is everywhere you are not, dynamic enough to shift modicums in space to mirror any efforts you make towards it.

This queer faerie tale is the employment that Devon would sell his soul to vacate. “Just tell me this does not mean we are stuck babysitting Solinis for another decade.”

Gleeful to hear his name, the demigod of the fourth dimension prances out of Elle’s shadow and skips towards Devon. “Hey, bro. ‘Sup?”

“Solinis is very hungry and very bored today,” Elle reveals. “I think we might have to visit the jungles of Peru to ingest copious amounts of ayahuasca.”

“Pffft.” Solinis takes out a pack of Marlboros with his tail and snaps his fingers to call forth a little blue flame on his left index finger. “Jeff got all the way to the fourth dimension on cough syrup alone. No, I think there is something resonating in the criminal underworld of Montreal. Tina Turner needs a break from Ike.”

Only one of Devon’s eyebrows raises and I am not going to tell you which one.

Soft female fingers caress the tufts of dark brown hair at Solinis’s nape. “Jeff might actually get killed this time around.”

“I know, I know: Cry wolf.” Bright purple fumes are exhumed. “But it turns out that Jeff met Fred once and pretended to be me.”

“I can confirm this,” says Elle.

“And you know who Fred’s daddy is.”

Devon is tempted to scream. “Actually, no. I don’t.”

Demon eyes take in the other man’s appearance for the first time. “Wait a second. I always get you two mixed up: Are you Devon, or the one they call Cairo?”


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