The Hypothesis Colony*

*this is an Internet novel that grows every day or every other day or every other other day or...

 Every little detail comes to life in here in propositions of knowledge. The men are trying to be more than men and the female population just wants to have a good time in proportion of the character each time. The equivalent of mastery in here is the same as the nectarine falling from his tree. The transcendence of the body of work is a miracle when it comes in terms of time. A big boned man standing in the middle of the boulevard feeling horny as a donkey, his underpants are a woman's underpants, she speaks in terms and conditions of after sex. People inside of systematic boredom units that serve alcohol and loud music, are trying to have their memories relived on couches and on legs they no longer control. 
    The fluids of the stomach are in perfect synchronization with the brain waves, the air waves and the tubes of the panel of understanding. Muscles are the boat of her love that wants him bound in her own disguises, her own mobility. I search a more distant future with no pain inside it but her actions make everything look perfectly abnormal. In my house the shades come off in the early morning dew, the animals crawl hungry from their leirs - and the animals are real animals not some fullish metaphor - they are real tigers with pale pockets beside their jackets, they have clay legs that sound so royal in my hall room floor. The armies of Love are treated unhappily and they are now unrecognisable in their bruises, their blue eyes don't cry anymore, their shaggy tits float on the bed.
     Big Grandma Helen is like a stick in the grass, alone she carries her dead frogs in the house, she mingles her juice in the pot, she has a large hole ine her belly - there it is, can you see it? You must mix the fox's intestines with honey and some stone from a fish's head to understand the recipe. She is my grandmother, she lives alone in the village. Love might have saved you but you cannot find it anywhere in the human area - you only excavate shit, poison, feces, tracks of loneliness and some other Kings that are long gone.I touch the thing i have to put the mouse of the computer and then i touch my penice with regret. Regret is one of the national products of Greece and sophisticated sorrow leaks from the drains. I am somewhere there with a broom and i push the liquid towards my house.
     Joe Matigliani is rising from his bed like a huge automobile from the 50's, tired and embroidered with useless metal parts that only turn him into a soup. The dream he had with Grandma Helen was tough, he saw dogs barking at him but then he saw his hand caress their dirty fur. He has intuitions about the non profital business of shaving, he wakes up early cause he is kinda bored of sleeping - how a man being bored of sleeping? He can be bored with the most glorious of situations. He is boring. He is a boring man. "Sorry to call you at this hour...yes i know...Joe..yeah Joe..i don't understand this. The construction was build for this...yes..the mass seems more of a pulse of flesh..we decoded that shit..ofcourse by the letter.." Spillhead Kakada Mitzdrouper says that the ignition was a total waste of time. He instists that Matigliani must come to the office immediately. The real data was unbelievably fucked. Tabetha insisted that the data was like a vast swarm of metal hinges but all the departments are scratching there heads now - you see the white snow that falls on their shoulders, their teeth grind and the feet tremple - there was always something to argue against it you see. The ideas were deleting each other in time lapse in their heads. The flickering habit was poor and so strange, they haven't seen anything like that, it was a mimic game this, no more than a little pinhead in the black ocean of stars. Every few years the star flickered like plot gamblers do in Loutraki and in Vegas. It's mass dimmed like...like drastically. Tabetha Pealor wrote a big paper about it, her office full of hairballs and toast crumbles, a layer of paper mold, three kilos of ceiling dust, a pair of pink Pisces smiling under the thick German breads, the star had a bizarre behaviour you see, the Kepler mission was out there now about three years, the islands in her head touched her nipples in a very Japanish way - she doesn't know why, she don't like Japan anyway, she things Japanese people are unhealthy, the star undergo irregularly shaped, aperiodic pink flux comes to life in her dusty computer screen. That activity of the dip thing could cancel all her appointments with love incarnations that she might had been dreaming the previous weeks, there is high resolution spectroscopy there - her ass feels so angry and wetty and this is not professional for an office like this one - the Fourier analysis of the dipping is like cooking dope and so she pulled her teeth to her intestines to get a breath out of her ears. People come and go in the office, some are deeply freezed some are fucked and cherished, the wheelchair of the Manager is trying to escape the building in the Center of Athens Disctrict. She lights up her cigarette, she know what to expect of the main sequence of the F3 V/IV mass, The rotation period was like an Albanian party outhere probably, 0,88 d and the excibit of the IR excess feels and spreads it's tentacles in her pussy. Her job is so fucking sensual, she draw some smoke and spits her yellow mouthlink on the floor. Nanos lived on the opposite side of the office, he is a bloody poet and old like a mountain, his white beard looks even bigger in the morning sunlight, he wears a red t shirt that surely stings of cardboard and piss...piss two years old. She tries to come to terms with the description she has to give Kakada in the afternoon rain - she can predict the weather like a meteo machine that laughs blood and Armani dew - the Kepler light curve seemed cancerous and bright in the opposite manner of light, her colleagues had problems explaining the data in hand. She lights another cigarette and she puts her finger in her mouth - her good finger - there is some food there, maybe meat or raddish. By considering the observational constraints on dust clumps orbiting a normal main-sequence star she proclaims that the mass in her belly is not a child, the sperm of Joe's testicles giggles her even at this hour. Is she fantasizes him making love to her? Did it really happen? The pills don't actually help so much. Her memory is kinda expired. The exocomet fragments seem to be the answer or maybe she concluded like an idiot deer - a passage of exocomet fragments don't seem so skeptikal or so ideal in her mind - the single breakout event shows that the mouth of that mass is not so boring. She might need some time though. She wants to interpret the data and the system of observations. 
    The Arctic was there alright. Joe couldn't believe the Dr. Titley had his mind on escaping the Program. There was no future up there in the Deep North. Russia was extremely boring and vast but fully equipped with icebreakers. 17 icebreakers and we head only two. NO chance. Tabetha smelled her apron this morning. So full of unrequited situations. She could not discriminate the labor of her love for Joe. The exocomet was bull. Just a microwave oven in the facilities caused the stupid signal we received. The Alaskan Arctic was the thing now and Tabetha knew that. Dr. Titley is sharing his pale photos of his ass on the Internet now, his cell is a big China thing from Xouxasai corps or whatever is called that nest of riceeaters. He is great with the angle but not so great with the light. How the fuck are we going to know that the oil down there would be as good as we think? An oil spill in the Arctic is going to be devastating and you know it Joe. “Yeah...we must proclaim it...there is no other way..i have the flu...i''ll be there in two days or something..sitting here mingling with the cats..i eat there hairballs...it's awful and great at the same time...you must call Zampoyn immediately...” said Joe on the phone. Dr. Titley shrugged and emailed some ass photos out there..somewhere in Finland probably. Finnish are the best drunkards. HE love them. Matigliani shared his files on Dropps and slithered his body in the kitchen – that clumsy old parliament of a house district that looks like bombed Berlin in the '40's – and put the kettle on to make some old timer's spaghetti with cheese and ketchup. His favorite joint. The Ass was sitting in his clay prematureness on the wooden table - it was talking to him – his art project, Zampoyn said it was hilarious and filthy and he grabbed it's cheeks like a mother grabbing her child's sick moisture – tried to say something but his voice was full of plastic phlegm – that very excruciating cough made him sweaty like a drummer. The water boiled and he tried to cough. Joe was tedious like a deer but the things in his apartment in the Central Athens District were making things difficult for him to endure. Vironas was nice and he loved that cave-y feel of his premises. Why the fuck must he be choosey for this? It was a straight order. Kakada said it. That summer hole that Athens represented in his scans was the ideal place for the Arctic Headquarters. Chinaware fought for this but failed with the Corso situation. That bloody Kakada. Humanoid of sorts – he liked him though – had a taste in sounds. The Orchard Treeline was here and happening. The Arctic just melted all day. Until 2031 Joe Matigliani would be a Greek citizen fluid notion paperboy. He missed Denver so much. That swastika airport was his Peak. He tried to thin and pre-masturbate his cock - Tabetha naked but he just could not keep it up. His memory looked like a stripped gallon of molded cheese poisonous snake pit. Full of distractions and misdemeanors. He knew the Keeper. He tried to write in Greek but he was a screaming failure. He liked him a lot. The Keeper was a lizard of a man, liked to watch old sports games, like '60's soccer in Greece with ladies on the..on the..how they are called again? Women in the fifties wearing tights and have moustachioed bosomy. Old Athenians were paranoid in a traditionality function that he could not descirminate and that turkish mud they gulped all day long – uffy fuckers. The memo said it. WE MUST INCREASE THE NORTH TOURISM. It would be harsh that one. Joe was ready for some crab fishing net pastoralism. We just lose a lot of precious time in the Microwave KIC incident. That stupid microwave oven did it for us. Matigliani made a face and tried to cough some brown-green thing from his lungs. Aerolin inhales immediately and deliberately my lad – his grandfather Irish voice said – that old goat fucker. He now does the laundry and waits for the next email on his cell. He would not go to work unselfconscious as he is now – like a large arachnoid who cries in the upper corner of the kitchen.
    His father was a man of work. Joe's father, Georgie Matigliani, born and bread in the village of Choustouliana. He was a very short man full of wrinkles, black like smoke or is that grey? Smoked his Marlboro's like a Warshaw machinery. Electrician in profession, never knew a thing about economy or society, he blew his nose a lot and preferred to eat his okra with chicken and red sauce Georgie always feared that his scalp will explode in front of his neighbors so he discerned the fact that his blind mustache grew stronger from his victories. Football player in small topic teams like Malia FC or Ergotelis FC when he was 25 – he once made his breakthrough with a back scissors move and broke his collarbone. He dreamed of having a lot of money all his life but he actually was very fearfull and hickey man. He was afraid of his shadow – so his son was the exact same fucker. Joe Matigliani – a retarded, Cretan analyst of capitalism of the world. His father had a sword from his father that went back to the Cretan revolution of 1866 – a big, old killer full of marble and Ebony and magic. Actually that sword belonged to that old guy Daskalogianni – they even made him a statue in Heraclion. Joe at first hated the Ottomans – his father looked like one – but after his adolescence he just didn't care about such entitlements. Who gave a shit? Everybody was human – human against non human profits. Those stupid, devious companies...and now he worked for them. He was a corporate dog with an old sword. His grandma Helen was a witch. Georgies mother – an orphaned witch. Joe liked her – she was skinny like a stick and carried so many tasks in the village. Choustouliana were ultimately boring, nothing to see for miles, just oil trees and mud and faces like old wood, hearts like stones under water.. Joe wanted to throw away that stupid sword – his family's treasure. It also smelled like sheep – especially when you were staring at it in discontent. The bugger was alive. Daskalogianni's soul lived in there. Fuck him. Why he bothered freeing us from those Otto-fuckers anyway? Now we had the Company fuckers – like Kakada and the Arctic Molecules. They wanted to fuck the South and raise the North. For the money. Fuck them. Joe was a great back, he played soccer like a vicious bear. He liked to cut them in their running.
There are no intuitions here, every little thing is talentless and disorderly. Joe Matigliani is searching for his lost happy thoughts man. He stays in bed for days - his muscles pour their fluids on the fish fried couch, his dreams are torso pains and his eyes are fucked so much he cannot see his neighbors windows. But he is not blind ok. He is sick for weeks with these thoughts. He wants to shoot somebody and then cry over his carcass. Carcass! That was a death metal band he liked when he was younger. Now the sounds are foxtrot funny soundtracks and vitamin bubbles. The plane is so tight that his tongue tickles the front woman, the back of her head. Clothes are still smelling of fried salmon. Mitzdrouper sent him in the greater area if the Milan District of the Italian Compound. That man is a filthy trooper of capilasismo. Joe buys a journal off a black guy in the street of Emmanuelle Filliberto - he tries for six seconds to be a poet. He throws it on a pizza corpse. Tabetha texted him, she said she missed his wooden pickle and that he must meet the woman of his dreams in a tram.
This is what Matigliani saw yesterday in the Milan Compound.

 It's a big, old thing, a building made of ancient spaghetti and old pizza pieces. This is the office that Mitzdrouper sent him to meet his Italian colleague. Expo is finishing but now they starting to get the misfortunes of their depts. Their nonsense Batman colour office is full of metal cheese. And this is what Joe's desk has for a view. It's some kind of catholic church full of Ramazzoti's. The rain just started and Joe is wearing his office dress, like a poncho, second hand Greek army shirt. Italians are like lobsters made of tablecloth. This is the church:

 You couldn't escape this. The scent of his boggus in his nostrils when he blew his nose remind him of broken promises. Matigliani noticed this as soon as he entered the office - he must attend to a matter of analysis that for him was lost many years before. His year long colleague of economic analysis in time of crisis - that means ALWAYS - was long gone now - he just released his body from the torment of life obligations and routines by entering his vains a respectable amount of pure Conium maculatum. Morrandi is gone and now there will be no more prefa games for them. The corpse was found by Joe on his office, he was looking at that church by the time he - Morrandi - drew his last breath. On the corpse's shoulders there was an Inter FC blanket, the vaporiser still burnin the insest of the poison. His mystic animal was dead too. It was a sausage dog called Bond - it layed there dead too with his tongue out of his long mouth and his little Inter FC berta on his doggish shoulders.     There where a pair of football shoes full of mud. Joe did not ofcourse phoned the police - the instructions where very specific in these situations - he stayed at his office for about three hours, smoked a packet of cigarettes and drunk a six pack of beer purchased by the nearest tabachi store that was full of Italian and Chinese art students. He occasionally sniffed for the corpse's smell but nothing - just the faint odour of pencil and margarine - he had a serious syspicion that he had lost his sense of smell lately (he did not know if it was his stomach problems, his allergies to the morning awakening or his long term cough). The majestic light of dawn stiffled in the small office that illuminated the two dead bodies - dog and man. Now there was enough light to be very decent with the emerging power of death. All the windows were covered with cardboards and heavy curtains and only one just stood there showing the strange church building on the other side of the street. The heaviness of the office furniture was a thing with angel wings from a Carra painting. Then he saw the bookshelves. They were utterly crammed with files, jars with unidentified fluids, a big light bulb that was covered with a yellow cardboard. Next to the body of Morrandi was the tray of poison and the keyboard of his desktop computer, pieces of old semen stained the buttons, old ash and snow from his head. Everywhere you saw old magazines, photos of naked children and pieces of film inside of glasses of coke. These naked children looked like angels - angels smiling in a rennaissaince painting full of migrated soldiers of the 1990's, wearing peculiar sneakers and t shirts of Slacker. The fresh air gasts coming from the now open window deleted the poisonous atmosphere - but if you knew the feeling of a broken heart you could trace the small remains of the bitter thoughts of the dead analyst and his faithfull dog's fascism beliefs. Joe Matigliani believed that this place could not be a proper capsule of unrequited love's ending - he thought of this with no intention of destroying his Italian's colleague's glory of suicide. This is the Divine Obscure News Broadcast, he thought. The dog looked a lot like Muscolini - Joe was distracted by the place.
    The police inspector came on his own - it looked like he was a kind of houndog for suicidal analysts species in Milan. An old pathologist came with him, he examimed the bodies and smiled at the black walls like a Scandinavian ship. They greeted Matigliani like mother and father - they seemed to be a couple of intentional vulgarity, they did not seem to know the analytic providence that connected Matigliani and Morrandi. Joe shook hands with both of them and he tried to fart in silencio in his pants - he was cold in the belly for sure. He dreamed of his new cd purchase that was an 1992 Pavement release, Slanted and Enchanted from a used record shop that was owned by a pederast. He did not care much for these two mongoloids. The pathologist looked under the blanket, Morrandi was fully naked and...smiling like a hyena, blue as a piece of Scottish rock, one hunderd years older than he looked yesterday, his pupils where very shiny, his cock locked in his legs as an uncut appendix of a baby born in a Greek hospital. His torso was broad like a closet full of slaves but his legs where thin - straws in the morning dew. Matigliani studied him for a minute, his heart ached in silence for this Italian ape. A very thin string of grief passed in his vains and then disappeared immediately as it came. "Stupid baffoon..it is over now...you can rest". He then discovered that this pathologist houndog had found a photo of a man walking the street of Milan center inside of Morrandi's shirt pocket:

    He covered his body again. Garbage business in this city was corrupted but that was the reason Matigliani was here right? They had people releasing their plastic, paper, glass and bloody napkins in seperate cans, they made them gathering their garbage in strange coloured cans in the street, then they examined them in special garbage teams, there were prohibitions and fines if you did not put the right garbage in the right can - hands pushing piles of full condoms and shit paper - but no the toilet paper went down the drain straight - it was a miracle! Fuckers. Matigliani covered them - they mixed the garbage all together again. He analysed his profits and sent them in an .idx decoded image. Garbage business in Milan was great. He made a tea for him and the police houndogs. Immediatelly the body of Morrandi regained his analytic glory. In his Skype speech the week before Morrandi noticed that he was going to reitre and go to Crete for a permanent vacation, his Russian wife made the arrangements for this - a big boned ludicrous creature full of white skin lattex. "I want to die under the hot sun of the south seas" Morrandi stated in their annual Skype meeting and briefing. The fucker could not do this now and his Russian wife...she probably did not know yet. The old analyst could not hear a bomb and he leaned in gold canes to walk, he loved Inter FC and went there with Mitzdrouper's permission - his own Audi limousine. San Siro is utterly fucked but that was his passion. Morrandi used to wear only linen suits, even in winter - he smoked a pipe full of straight dope. He were a marijuana enthusiast. His goatee matched his glasses - grey and full of miserable intuitions, his most faithfull expression of his character were the gold buttons on his hands. Stupido bafoono! Today was colder than yesterday and Joe had a taste of whoring. In his pockets he had a crazy amount of scribbled paper, info about enterprises he must relist, names of streets tha had interest in his passing, little bottles of perfume for his sweaty body, tram tickets and photos of perky tumblr tits printed in small pieces of plain paper - a comfort in his trips through the unerotic city of his brain. Morrandi were Milan's most fastidious analyst, an illustrious bagger, he used his office power in a manner that he had gain no respect of his nearest people, his neighbors dispised him. Morrandi, Maigliani thought, deserved more respect and affection than he had gained over the years in this artistic shithole of a city that was reeking of rich Italian costumes and well dressed women that kicked you in the balls if you stand in their way. FANCULO!
(Matigliani is bitter about the Milan district - he is bitter but he tries not to be cause he is afraid that Tabetha will dumb him immediately. Nobody has the slightest idea how he is where he is now. The Athens District Dep. seems to be involved in some kind of espionage for north pole tourism. Joe is working for the rich and that is well known. He is poor - poor of mind and heart and soul, not poor of mind ok? Tabetha is a heavy breasted woman with rich behinds and special gears - she is a negro. Mitzdrouper is so proud they had her this year. She loves Guided By Voices but he pretends to dance to rap songs and she is the inventor of the ass thing on YouTube. This is the mid 90's period. Joe has long hair and looks like an older Pearl Jam singer with a bit more fat on him - he smiles like a frying pan filled with tomatoes, poster lover and collector of noise/experimental cd's. He secretly despises 80's horror movies but he is afraid to say to anyone because he considers himself artsy).

 {Tabetha sent an email on Joe's computer - one hour to get it with this perfectly fast machine - ...she missed him obviously}

His instructions to the pathologist were precise - nobody needed an autopsy. It was obvious that the cause of death had been the poison in that plate which stunk of old, skimmed milk burned and tarnished. Morrandi was a big poison enthusiast it seemed. The police inspector showed some vigorous hesitation but Joe's reaction was so unwillingly apathetic that stunned him on his feet like an alkaline mule. "Who's gonna sing the forms?" said the pathologist but nobody heard him, he had a low voice like a little girl's. The pathologist was irritated like a Spaniard conquistador, he sneered on a pale handkerchief, he was allergic to his irritation, his trousers hot from his long held feces - perfectly matching his swamp-green pullover: this is the Milanesi dress code - every man over 50 looks like a model of a fashion magazine for family men and lawyers, spaghttinis and horse worshippers - conservative shit. 
    And now there is this woman on the church' s balcony, eating a lollipop, a giant one, cherry propably the flavour, on the other side of the street, wearing a white fur coat, she was staring non professionaly at Matigliani with her huge, dinosaur eyes (DIY memories crumb in his head like stubs of needles). She is a nice girl, probably Godzilla's sister, fat legs and ass. Who is she now? It seemed for a moment that she roared - maybe it was the windy weather. She unbuttoned her blouse, showed with all it's glory a chubby, white breast with a pink tart for a nipple. Joe's mouth filled with saliva. Shit. What is this now? Some surrealist's dream? Joe started biting the filter of his new lit cigarette, he was in an agonizing riddle section of his heart perplexity's rooms. HIs Viceroy is strong, his teeth are yellow - who threw that bucket of piss in his face? 
    "This man is dead of love's misfortunes" said the birdy like pathologist and in that moment a large piece of ceiling paint fell on the cadaver's torso: his silent words were earthquake maybe. Moriandi was an avid reader and he mostly followed Greek literature - a man of Athen's District always sent him the latest releases. That bugger! Morrandi preferred ugly Russian whores for escort and Greek literature - mostly young, unknown authors. That was also known in the Domodosola area. Before his siesta Morrandi used to read his stupid Greek books, then he masturbated forcefully. He saw blueblack dreams of Inter FC - the players massaging his naked scalp with their feet in the restrooms of San Siro. After he woke up he mostly bathed his fat body and dressed by his slave girl in his linen white suits. Morrandi did his funny, useless finger excersises in front of his Michelangelo PIstolleto mirror of Ragazza de Scappa - which he bought earlier that year for a pile of gold from the Novecento - a pile that Mitzdrouper sent him surely. He loved to watch the black birds fly from his office window every morning, he believed that the smoke from the rooftops could tell you the fortune of the days to come. Bloody or boring, weak or strong, shinny or cloudy, healthy or sick - a man must gain his life from a pair of chocolate ducklings. SUCK MY DUCK! That was the stamp in his underpants - always the same stump with the smiling duck. Morrandi just returned from Paris a few days ago where the new obesity epidemic just started. All the young fellas going to rock concerts - he cherished the moments when he brushed his crotch on young girls behinds. This is 1995 and big men own monstrous cellphones and they carry them in suitcases with cords. They are like black shoes on their ears. His hair is carefully combed as Charlie Sheen's in Wall Street - he dreams of his Russian Daryl Hanna naked on his bathroom floor cleaning his feet with her toothbrush...he eats wormwoods for his stomach and cloves of garlic for the wormwoods. He is afraid of his heart failure problems. He spits his morning tea on a fresh pineapple on the kitchen table and then he orders his slave girl Karloumpiana to make him a macchiato shit. He fills his pipe with fresh dope from Peloponnesos mountains and smokes his scull off. After the office Morrandi would attend his ballet class and after that he would go to his literature club in Isola. The last thing they analysed was Updike' s hemorrhoids while they chew tobacco while wearing no trousers - women too. He was a faithfull Catholic and attended the evening Mass. Ate lunch at the office and then had a five minute siesta in the mope closet - he loved to hear the cleaning women who worked downstairs and washed the stairs, with their mango juices in their chests running on their nipples - mixed with sweat and deodorant fumes. The shouts of the chinese vendors in the street, the angry uproar of the Audi's and Julietta's motors, running on the Corso Sempione, make trams look like assholes, their fog entering the office like demons ready and condemned for putrification. His Intel 386 machine is smiling now that he is a corpse, it seems to Joe that his computer is a Milan FC enthusiast. And then, after all those routines, Morrandi would eventually sing his operetta pieces of Rigolleto to his dog Bond and the animal would cry tears of happiness in his blue bowl of salmon fillet. At six o' clock he would drink a birra straight from the bottle, he would eat a piece of raw lemon, clean his mouth with it, throw the used thing on a certain Chinaman down the street that he despised for his crooked teeth, and would taste three almonds garnished with parmazane. Despite his age he would not work at his home - every day he would go to the office like a pilgrim to his pilgrimage. This city is so domesticated that he actually peed freely out of the balcony in the daylight in perfect safety like a Duke of Lombardia that he was. 

 this is Morrandi's hearse and some people just looking sad around it.

...and this is a pair of trousers which fell from the Literature Club by accident before his death.
    They have ice in their hearts” said the pathologist. “We must search with care”.
Matigliani spoke to the inspector as if to a little rat. He almost ordered him to take care of the circumvent and the legal processions so that the funeral take place the same day. Great discretion was needed. “I will speak to my officer in charge later” the inspector said. Joe knew tha Morrandi lived in a luxurious austerity and he earned much more with his gambling than he needed. Joe found the drawer in his closet that held the funeral expenses.
It does not matter...Athens District will take care of everything” said Joe.
Matigliani ordered the inspector to tell the press that his colleague had died of natural causes. He already knew that these news will not interest them. Joe said: “If it is necessary I will speak to the Mayor”. The inspector, a serious flop of a man, knew that Matigliani's sense of civic responsibility was less than zero, he was not surprised that he wanted to skip legal formalities in order to hurry the funeral. Joe was not willing to phone Mitzdrouper so that Morrandi would be buried in his favorite Greek cemetary in Athens District. The inspector astonished in his own gas that exited his pants, attempted to make no excuses for this noise that was coming out of his lower parts.
I know that this man was almost like a Saint to you” said the inspector to Joe.
He was something even more...rare...he was a Sun City Girls fun..he owned everything they had ever released...even the 12''s and some other cassette curiosities”.
These are matters of God to decide” said the birdy pathologist.
His car is parked downstairs” said Matigliani. He meant that old Volkswagen thing that looked like a child has been painting it with spray paint randomly a silverish colour for years and years of childish play.
In the distance, at the far end of the Athens District, somewhere in Mets, Vironas, the bells of Saint Helias rung for High Mass. Matigliani took the first airplane for El. Vel. And put on his half moon glasses – those with the silver rims – consulted his giant cellphone clock, fat, elegant like Buddha, the cellphone light was green and he knew he was about to miss the Pentecost Mass.
In the parlor was a huge video camera for television specials, it was marine colour, painted with saliva of a blue lizard maybe, the walls were decorated with pictures of Christ eating soup and doing other things – Holy Things. Bunny costumes, Superman costumes, Arlekino's...Year after year during matches of furious ping pong hits, Joe saw the gradual covering of the walls, he thought in casual boredom and sorrow that the casual portraits of Jesus lay the germs of a future species, governed and corrupted by those hipster Jesuses, unknown children of war – the ashes of their glory would not remain.

This is Morrandi's Volks ------->

On his desk, next to a jar that held all Winter Swimmers's albums and several chicken bones, was his computer with a Pacman unfinished game. Despite his haste and his mood Matigliani could not resist the temptation to examine this. He knew that this was yesterday's game for Morrandi, he played till dusk three days a week. He always finished his game and then he stored his computer in the files closet and locked it. The Pacman was paused and it was ready to be eaten by a purple ghost. “If there had been a crime, this would be a good...” Matigliani said to himself. “I know only one man capable of doing this. This is a masterful trap”. Matigliani was about to discover the mystery of the purple ghost but his belly was aching and he let a glorious fart – everything looked better now.
At 7 that morning, as he was making his last farts and dick promises, the night ruffian had seen the dead koala nailed to the front door: Come in without knocking and inform the inspector. A short while later the inspector arrived with the pathologist, and the two of them had searched the house for some Sonic Youth albums that might contradict the unmistakable breath of bitter gas and bitter love. But in the brief minutes Matigliani needed to study the unfinished game, the inspector discovered a coffee glass among the files on the computer, addressed to Matigliani and sealed with so much boggus that it had to be ripped to pieces to get the disk out. Matigliani opened the black curtain over the window to have more light, gave a quick eye at the eleven files covered on both sides by a diligent code, and when he had read the first paragraph he knew that he would miss Pentecost Communion. He read with agitated breath, turning back on several code pages to find the thread he had lost, and when he finished he seemed to return from very far away and very long ago. His belly ache was obvious despite his effort to control it: his ass cheeks were as blue as the corpse and he could not stop the trembling of his fingers as he refolded the disk and placed it in his vest pocket. Then he remembered the inspector and the young pathologist, and he smiled at them through the mists of grief and belly ache.

Nothing in particular,” he said. “His final code for the North Pole Tourism Plan.” It was a half-truth, but they thought it complete because he ordered them to lift a loose hair from his sculp, where they found a worn account disk that contained the combination to the .dll. There was not as much info as they expected, but it was more than enough for the funeral mess and to meet other minor obligations. Then Joe Matigliani realized that he could not get to the Saint Helias before the Gospel reading. “It’s the third time I’ve missed Sunday Mass goddamnit since I’ve had the use of my arse,” he said. “But God understands.” So he chose to spend a few minutes more and attend to all the details, although he could hardly bear his intense longing to share the secrets of the disk with Tabetha. He promised to notify the numerous Albanian refugees who lived in the city in case they wanted to pay their last respects to the man who had conducted himself as if he were the most respectable of them all, the most active and the most stupendous, even after it had become all too clear that he had been overwhelmed by the burden of disillusion. He would also inform his Pacman partners, who ranged from distinguished professional footballes to nameless laborers, as well as other, less intimate acquaintances who might perhaps wish to attend the funeral. Before he read the posthumous code he had resolved to be first among them, but afterward he was not certain of anything. In any case, he was going to send a wreath of garifalos in the event that Morrandi had repented at the last moment. The burial would be at five, which was the most suitable hour during the coldest months. If they needed him, from noon on he would be at the country house of Mitzdrouper, his beloved disciple, who was celebrating his silver anniversary in the profession with a formal luncheon that day. 

this is Morrandi's computer screen paused:

Once the stormy years of his early struggles were turn into a Russian hat, Joe Matigliani had followed a set routine and achieved a respectability and prestige that had no equal in his toilet province. He arose at the crack of dawn, when he began to take his secret medicines: beer to raise his spirits, nurofen for the ache in his bones when it rained, emetostop drops for vertigo, weed for sound sleep. He took something every hour, always in secret, because in his long life as an analyst and tarsier hustler he had always opposed prescribing himself palliatives for old farts: it was easier for him to bear other people’s pains than his own. In his sock he always carried a little pad of Vicodin that he inhaled deeply when no one was watching to calm his fear of so many medicines mixed together. He put his Abe Sada cassette on his walkman and started shaking his old head that looked like a cantaloupe in the rain. Tha Heraklion fuckers sounded sooo good.
    It was all for football. At first they played after supper at seven o’clock, with a reasonable handicap for Morrandi because of his notable leg, but the handicap was reduced until at last they played as equals. Later, when Manjurian opened the first outdoor football bar in Milan, Morrandi was one of his most dependable customers, and the games of soccer were limited to the nights when a new match was not being shown. By then he and the old analyst had become such good friends that they would go to see the football games together, but never with Morrandi’s wife, in part because she did not have the patience to follow the complicated systems, and in part because it always seemed to her, through sheer intuition, that Morrandi was not a good companion for anyone. His Sundays were different. He would attend High Mass at the Cathedral and then smoke some dope at the office.
    Matigliani is back in Athens. I am seated in an office, blah blah blah...surrounded by W.O.A.H! records. My posture is consciously fucked up to the shape of my hard chair. This is a cold room in Athens District, wood-walled,
Mosaic-hung, double-windowed against the November rain, insulated from Formionos street
sounds by the reception area outside, at which Nikos PIitsoel, Mr. Scooby and I were lately
I am in a decent, high mood thanks to that weed.
Three faces have resolved into place above summer-weight plimsolls and half-baked heads
across a polished olive tree conference table shiny with the strong light of an Athenian noon. These
are three Pukes of FuzzFuzz of fuzz, Academic fuzz, Athletic fuzz. I do not know which face
belongs to whom. Shit. This stinks. Please take this hand my dear.

His daily soups were so methodical that his wife knew where to send him a message if an emergency arose in the course of the Hot Burb. When he was a young man he would stop in the Noodle Kick club before coming home, and this was where he perfected his soccer game with his father-in-law's cronies and some Albanian refugees. But he had not returned to the Noodle since the dawn of the new century, and he had attempted to organize national tournaments under the sponsorship of the Hot Burb. It was at this time that Morrandi arrived, his hands already dead, not yet an analyser of turbans, yet in less than three months everyone who knew how to move the ball in the net knew who he was, because no one had been able to defeat him in a game. For Matigliani it was a miraculous meeting, at the very moment when football had become an unconquerable passion for him and he no longer had many loves who could satisfy it. 
Thanks to him, Morrandi could become what he was among the world. Joe made himself his unconditional protector, his backtrack in everything, without even taking the trouble to learn who he was or what he did or what inglorious positions he had come from in his crippled, broken state. He eventually lent him the money to set up his football magazine, and from the time he wrote his first article startled by the magnesium elegance, Morrandi paid back every last penny with religious regularity. It was all for football. At first they played after supper at seven o'clock, with a reasonable handicap for Morrandi because of his notable superiority, but the handicap was reduced until at last they played as equals. Later, when Manjourian opened the first outdoor club, Morrandi was one of his most dependable customers, and the games of bloody soccer were limited to the nights when a new game was not being shown. By then he and Matigliani had become such good friends that they would go to see the games together, but never with the Hefe's wife, in part because she did not have the patience to follow the complicated defence lines, and in part because it always seemed to her, through sheer intuition, that Morrandi was not a good companion for anyone. His Sundays were different. He would attend High Mass at the Cathedral and then return home to rest and smoke weed on the terrace in the patio. He seldom visited his office on a holy day of obligation unless it was of extreme urgency, and for many years he had not accepted a social engagement that was not fucked up. On this Pentecost, in a rare coincidence, two extraordinary events had occurred: the death of a friend and the silver anniversary of an eminent pupil. Yet instead of going straight home as he had intended after certifying the death of Morrandi, he allowed himself to be carried along by weed smoke.
I believe I appear wasted, maybe even like a peasant, though I've been coached to piss on the side of neutrality and not attempt what would feel to me like a pleasant expression of a
Gargoyle. I listen to this all morning:jondunbar.bandcamp.com
I have committed to crossing my hands I hope carefully, ankle on knee, hands together in the lap
of my Dr. Martins. My eyes are mated into a mirrored series of what manifests, to me, as the letter
X. The interview room's other personnel include: the University's Director of Hex, its
varsity football coach, and Academy slacker Mr. Scooby is beside me; the others sit,
stand and smoke, respectively, at the periphery of my focus. The football coach jingles pocketchange.
There is something vaguely fucked up about the room's odors. The high-traction sole of
my complimentary Dr Martin's runs parallel to the leather thing of my mother's halfbrother,
here in his capacity as Headcoattee, sitting in the chair to what I hope is my immediate
right, also facing Toehungers.
The Toehunger at left, a lean yellowish man whose fixed eyes nevertheless has the impermanent
quality of something stamped into uncooperative plastic, is a personality-type I've come

lately to listen, the type who delays his morning letters. Passed a packet of Camel by the shaggy lion of a Toehunger at center, he is speaking more or less to these pages, almost crying down.
Despite his almost maniacal love for Indie Pop and a knowledge of it superior to anyone's, Joe Matigliani had not often had reason as he did that Sunday to venture boldly into the tumult of the old gig quarter. The taxidriver had to make many turns and stop to ask directions several times in order to find the venue. As they passed by the marshes, Joe recognized their oppressive weight, their ominous silence, their suffocating gas, which on so many insomniac dawns had risen to his bedroom, blending with the fragrance of weed from the patio, and which he felt pass by him like a wind out of yesterday that had nothing to do with his mind. But that pestilence so frequently idealized by nostalgia became an unbearable reality when the carriage began to lurch through the quagmire of the streets where buzzards fought over the slaughterhouse offal as it was swept along by the receding tide. Unlike the city of Vironas where the houses were made of masonry, here they were built of weathered boards and zinc roofs, and most of them rested on pilings to protect them from the flooding of the open sewers that had been inherited from the Turks. Everything looked wretched and desolate, but out of the sordid taverns came the thunder of riotous music, the godless drunken celebration of Pentecost by the poor. By the time they found the house, gangs of ragged rappers were chasing the cab and ridiculing the theatrical finery of the taxidriver, who had to drive them away with his spit. Joe, prepared for a confidential visit, realized too late that there was no innocence more dangerous than the innocence of age. 

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