JAMES BOND-THE ESCAPEHATCH (JEG)(ELRUADEBOOK)
Author: Elruade

Chapter 9
DOACRACY

9-DOACRACY

 

        I don’t know about this era. I don’t know what to call it. I think people of the future will have a very difficult time deciding what to call this era. It may well be called a ‘doacracy’. This is how it will be referred to.

        I don’t see any authority. I don’t see inequality. I don’t see anyone having a good time, I don’t see anyone having a difficult time. People won’t share their feelings with me. I have made this table for you. There is a green cloth hanging over the table. A teapot in the middle. We can eat soft cake and drink the tea at the same time.

        I don’t think this is called for, I don’t believe it is the right time. I think they’d rather ignore the signs. Something is about to erupt. No; man is being pulled inwards as into a sink. The Great Release is the Network. The people are alright. Just leave them alone. Leave each to his own.

                                                                                        -EZ

       

        The night was long and hot. The people who stayed in the room next to me wouldn’t turn the sound down. I developed an urge for orange juice; the fridge was full of it. They say orange juice is one of Paris’ specialties. I expect this to be freshly squeezed. No luck; it is a generic brand. I pour all of it out into three glasses. I dip my fingers into each one; each time I touch one body part. I feel refreshed.

        I read the letter one more time. It says ‘doacracy’. Whoever wrote this is fucked in the head, but at least he has a daring streak. ‘I don’t see any authority, I don’t see inequality’. It is strange to hear it like this. Whether it is true or not; hard to say.

        One thing that annoys the hell out of me is that people don’t appreciate elitism anymore, or even celebrities. I cannot walk around in a 5000 pound suit; people will throw cans and bottlecaps at me. I agree with this guy; there is no inequality anymore. It is very confusing to me. I don’t know what to call it.

        The room is silly. There is one television, as large as a Renoir. There is one bed, awkwardly shoved underneath a bookshelf. (There are some cheap reads and a telephone list)

There is the little refrigerator, and in the corner, a  cupboard with a Tutu statue on it. I have turned the statue around; his face is too ugly. There is no toilet here. Should I feel the urge I can use the one down the hallway. I don’t believe it is a closet. That there are no windows didn’t surprise me so much at first, but now it is annoying me.

        The night is spent with upright back against the wall, and doing nothing but listening. To this is attached a soft desire of receiving some message. Tomorrow they will start shooting. They will start filming the latest Bond movie, Inevitability of Death. Yet there is no indication of anything going to happen. It is hard to imagine anything happening.

        The temperature rose slightly and the darkness in the room increased; as soon as the light was turned off it was total.

       

THE CONSECUTIVE AND CONCLUSIVE

 

        In the night nothing is distinguishable any longer. A soft arrow passed by slowly. On a screen its velocity is shown to the decimal point. Irregular. Notoriety worn on a fleece jacket. He emerged from a cabin, half-asleep. It were a rocking motion that set you askew.

        Most were hiding underground. Already they had formed new societies, new hierarchies, and power was renewed and put in place. Above ground you just find holes. These are large enough to crawl through; these are the entrances.

        Doacracy: Human Enterprise for sale. 49 knots. Deerpark, Excelsior. His effect ain’t made plain; what on earth is he doing. He is going round in a circular plot. To all answers he replied: speak again. This time make everything clear; clear enough so the dunce can HEAR IT.

        Doacracy: if it is investments you are turning to, turn around and face the jackal. The sharp teeth were once depicted in a quarterly; rich illustrations, 20 cents per stack. Have you anyroom for more? It is this garage that worries me. Your primary concern; starvation and liquidation.

        Doacracy: government divested; morally infested, diagonally congested. Three go, three come, and a lipswitch happened when the crowd least planned it. The ship landed in a storm. There was no more TIME for the comedian; yet he turned up all the same. Did you hear him? His act was about icewater diplomacy, and captainship without direction, he splurged on the outfit and unbuttoned his shoes!

        Buildings without windows; the wind is strong! That man—who has written about you—is terribly ashamed. He awaits your reply. Include with the letter a pressed flower. Geranium would be alright. I have it visualized; matchsticks. He will slice the (it) open and the flower shows its head. Its head, its head! (No; its stem)

        Buildings without roofing; God the Wind! Does it flow straight down, like a silk hammer? It drop down, into your lap, you dogshead! My aching palm. I sanded it down and rubbed ointment onto it yesterday. As of today my wrist feels gone and all I can do is touch it with the other hand.

        -Dostoevsky, what are you planning for dinner?

        -All the same! Dog’s Head; Chop Liver!

        -And to drink?

        -All the same! Ruddy Port; Cheap Wine!

        -For after the meal; could you please read to us your latest script, and your latest indulgence?

        -What? After the meal, I will walk around the park and come back and fall down in my chair!

        -You’re fingernails are bitten.

        -My angry dog did that. I pulled him in a little closer and smacked him about the ears.

        -And still you prefer dog over sheep?

        -Anyday of the week, yes. I have work to do, get lost.

        Friday night, footage of the long battle that stretched out for days. Comerades hitting comerades, enemies coming back for seconds, with screaming filthy plates. In a dramatic twist, director Lostrut has portrayed the innocent as the thieving carcasses they told the shells they were extinct and—text text text—stop your ass from getting square in the face. Diagram showing number of deaths and number of living. Both are shaded, one of the two is in color. Further information drop a web, signal sausages to lay to waste, and wash the barbarist streaks. Text you text you, long let Lyon rot!

        With my toe I changed channels. (I know it is hard to justify, but you weren’t there that day) Israel. A country for the weak; I shall depict it now with tolerance for the weak, by the weak. Thorn, what is an eye?

        -Israel is my shinguard I protect.

        -What is the background?

        -Paper mache, flint. Hobbyist Weekend.

        -Terrorism, terrorism, bodies full of sticks!!

        -Cholesterol, birdpoop, extension 409.

        -Speak up, darling.

        -Dial pound to vote for favorite munch. Orchestra copyright Delia Wright. Fighting every night; watch it.

        Three-Dimensional model of the human body. Optional male body for the connoisseur and the already familiar. Limbs are moveable, the neck isn’t breakable. Choose from any background; or upload your own shit. Rendering done using superlatives. Choose skincolor; from light to deep dark. Black is for the squinting eyes only. Returned to its source: Eastern hair, Western torso, arms of lightweight, flame-retardant plastic.

        (Goes On) Save it to Drive D, share it with billions. It is your choice (you are choosing from our choice, and by sharing you agree to this arrangement) Down through the centuries. Upload your face (The fox kind) and paste it onto your texture lover, foul square. (Four times four is dilemma)

Have *** with it, or an apple. Make it **** or replace it by a later model. (One more raucous, one more body fag, once more scream ****, **** **) Marx was apparently right.

            This here is the script to the fake film, Tomorrow doesn’t die. It was found inside a box in the studio. It was in a corner of a hallway, and anyone walking past might well miss it. Walk past it. But this is interesting. I wonder who wrote it. It wasn’t made into a movie, but I think there was one based on this script. Here; I’ll copy a part of it so you can see for yourself. See what it reminds you of.

        Newest Bond movie. More gadgets, more missions, more sex sex sex. I want a new actor. This one should be the best looking guy on the planet. Tall, short dark hair, elaborate muscles, and legs twice as long as most. I don’t want a stunt double. This man is able to do it all himself.

        I have done research into the latest gadgets, and these will be featured in the film. We will base the gadgets on existing ones so that the viewer can relate. A pair of sunglasses with UV 80; extra protection. Doubles as a pen and a screwdriver. 80 watt protective headset; to cover the ears. Protects against sounds of any decibel range. Doubles as necklace and infrared detector. Put it over your eyes and you can see heatpatterns. Especially helpful in the dark.

        Missions across the world. At least four hours in length. What the title means; it means that there will always be a tomorrow, so you can take it easy today and go crazy tomorrow. This is Bond’s mentality. He thinks there will always be tomorrow. That is exactly why he is so slick as he his. Nothing can go wrong because there is no fear; if you believe there will be tomorrow.

        Tropical locales; see a tan develop in real-time. Tunes by the London Orchestra; very dramatic! Women women women; the best women in the world. One to fuck for every day of the week. Shaved pussies, clean rearworks, lips glossed and minted. I want lewd angles and close-ups,   frames with just the women in it, I want lesbian scenes, I want women working together against Bond, I want their collaboration to fail and have a catfight, I want Bond to look on and get excited and then join in the fight.

        I want Bond to find a man and I want Bond to get involved with the man and I want them tangled I want the muscles to bounce I want the fat rubbed over them—

       

 

THE AGENDA IS LOOKED AT AGAIN

 

 

Entry 5; September 5, 1956

 

        I called my father! He was in his bed, smoking a cigar, I think. He was coughing loudly; to me it seemed he faked it and coughed into the phone especially. I hung up because he made too much noise. I don’t remember him like this. My childhood wasn’t like this.

 

Entry 6; October 1, 2056

 

       Again there was no noise around me. I was crouching down and listening. I heard today that the heart of Gary Cooper was very inexpensive to make. Of course, everyone believes he is so much hot shit just because of the way he looks. Inside, his heart is a Grade F dud. It can only pump the blood around. None of the advanced features.

 

Entry 7, October 3, 2056

 

        I purchased five liters of Orange Juice and filled my bathtub with it. Then I soaked in it for an hour. It was very hard to get all of it off me, but it left a refreshing scent. Whoever came up with the idea that I like Martinis best wasn’t fit in the head.

 

Entry 8, October 8, 2056

 

        This agenda is getting full. And it is so un-orderly. Maybe I’ll rip out the pages and put it in a separate folder. No, that won’t help. If I put it on tape, you might think I was some teenage schoolboy. My voice sounds so detached and wavering. Where is that one tape; I need to find it. It is a recorded voice of Pierce Brosnan and his Final Will. Only I understood him. He left a large bookcase for me, as well as a golden trumpet. Can you imagine how much these things would be worth!

 

Entry 9, October 2056

 

        I am sick of signing papers. Who thinks signatures are worth shit? Someone asked me to stop by and ‘sign a few books’. There was a guy in a suit and books stacked to here. I had no time for that, and I asked him if he had any salt. Of course he didn’t; salt is distributed freely.

        The following entry is scratched out; it is unreadable writing. You can sure arrest tale be more, whoever.

        Hot hot hot hot! Do you enjoy it? If there is a question of ‘how to reach me’, just forget it! I am catering to you, and I am not in an expectant mood!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Meningitis; waiting for the men to push my belongings up the hill.

 

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