LANDLINE PASCOM

CHAPTER IV

The shoddy work of each Network having recklessness upon their grasp, they are to be considered as people that bote fortune upon themselves, and only to harvest by that same degree of boasting one must have to give an invitation for an act of bereavement never to be pondered twice, only to muse on how these corporations that calls them will be pleased. The telephone rang, it laid helplessly on the table, next to the emptiness of this darkness peppering a terrible taste for dread when left unchecked. A few rings, and then clicked, now on loudspeaker, while he grew leery at the gaping mouth of the Pascomnian slums he was under.

"Apparently someone is trying to bamboozle our water pipe, said that they will be fixing it now but only met us with a shake to the head, and an apology for not having to check on what lapse it had. Now, we're trying to figure out where we have gone wrong. We want you to check one of our associates in charge of keeping the water flow cascading,"

The same woman that handled all meetings had spoken to him, directly, and not to the others beyond the existence of help needed to be sought by the corporation on these Networks that lay in total conciliatory when not yet introduced to the gist.

"We want you to talk to the head of their station, file a report on how they proposed a very antediluvian choice they are compelled to. We are displeased by their unsuspecting withdrawal. Upper parts of Pascom, Sweven District. Recklessness will never be vouched, only business talk."

Clicked. The long dialing tone flooded the room with an initiative, an ending ring that had the place be in account of what noise it was at the end of the line. To whom it was calling, and it receded, the existence of the voice from an unknown line greeted the man with a very peculiar sense to whip him intricately.

"On that meadow where each day the grass, the reeds, and the land witnessed the forbearance of each falling that his sun made lay a Fox, specious of his own existence. To whose name would yours be, Mister Fantastic Fox?"

With laughter like no other, as perplexing as it existed on that landline, befuddling when it disappeared soon after. The falling of silence was loud enough, and the telephone went silent, not immune to the deafening noise of nothingness beyond comprehension by anyone else. Affected by such quelling, it evoked the man's unquenchable thirst to finally taste the rawness, the nakedness of his own stewed vexation. He is the mask of hate. He is Alfred Hitchcock's Theme, the flirtatious suspension of Charles Gounod and Lyn Murray's The Funeral March of A Marionette.

To orchestrate genocide, the hacking and the haggling of an axe, the digging of a shovel, and the stabbing of a rusty knife on someone's kidney. Marshall Matter's Alfred's Theme, he was the wish of demise, death's living incarnate. Beside the telephone, there is this mask, a fox's face with an ominous grin from a canine's toothy grin. Matted with fur, fluffy with puffed furry cheeks like an animal's, it almost imitated the face of an arctic tundra dweller that sprung to introduce such dismemberment always coerced to a fox's methodological qualities. Pertaining to a dangerous simpleton that foxed every predator nor prey. Beside it however is something special, dear to anybody perceiving the true nature of Mister Auburn, in the flesh.

Under the evenly distributed tension of these blaring redness above ground, Mister Auburn drove himself up to Pascom's enriched haven, the upper parts, exceeding north. This is where the storm-breaking surnames of the Chishiki's exist. All of the upper's precincts are controlled, even to the inner circle of the city's heart, to where the stark buildings and gigantic business assets financially struck this sinful place lucratively. Above them is where the green doubloons pelted the roofs with sales, a rain that ceaselessly fattened everyone with fortune, and of richness that dared to corrupt everyone else.

The Chishiki's? Supposedly, fuming of toxicity, and hazardous youths. But Mister Auburn sped through, crashing that barrier that abstained a commoner from Rancor Street, South of Pascom, before Lower. Hammering his way through, his engine revved harmoniously, and with his light he had shone through this darkened place of antiquity. Only his light would be the torch of his own arrival, establishing a dramatic entrance to the seceding incorporation of his liege.