etfiction eBooks
GUIOPERA (Online Serial)
STORYBOOK (Bedtime Stories)
SESSIONS (Transcripts)




By John Reyer Afamasaga


CHAPTER ZERO - ACT 1: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13

ACT 2: 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21

ACT 3: 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26

ACT 4: 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40




From September 5 to December 25 every year since 2008 (on almost any given day) when the LATEST UPLOAD hits the internet, servers on the world-wide-web will propagate the essential-data so mobile devices can download the Metafiction script-of-our-lives. There’s a rush, both to get the freshly written and newly released chapter and the fever with which it happens.

There within….

A cornucopia of idealism and what makes you wonder meet at the corner of Broadway, New York City and Neon strip in the SenFenide Dimension. There, music from above helps make the highly unlikely fathomable and the fantastical possible at just a slight stretch of the imagination.

In the SenFenide Dimension (SFD) also referred to as the Dream Dimension, life is not that different to as we know it in the MindMorph Dimension (MMD) or Earth. Under the laws of the InterDimensional Universe, the alternate reality of the SFD is governed by an inverted relativity of events in the MMD. In other words, our dreams dictate what happens in the SFD.

The dreamers are chosen by the Council that presides over proceedings in all dimensions. The Council is located in the AmalgaMension Dimension (AMD) a place where everything is congruent, nearly perfect.

ABOUT etfiction

In 2002 I created etfiction which is pronounced e-t-fiction and stands for Emotional Techno Fiction. I like to think of etfiction as sub-genre of Metafiction.

Metafiction is known for its romantic irony and literary devices. One of the devices I like to use is “A story about a writer who creates a story.” My application of this device is when I write myself into the story.

The other device I like to use is “Story about the story”…my take on it is the SASBWAH, “Story-About-the-Story—Being-Written.”

And then there is the GUIOPERA which I came up with in 2008. It stands for Graphical User Interface Opera.


WMTU: What Makes Them Unique
RMOLL: Reminds Me Of Looks Like

JOHNNY SHAWSHANK: If Harry Houdini were a street fighter.
AGE: Late teens
LOCATION: SenFenide Dimension (SFD)
WMTU: His loyalty.
RMOLL: Luke Bilyk has the same vibe

SKYLAH BONBON: Cute as hell, archetypal millennial girl.
AGE: Late teens
LOCATION: SenFenide Dimension (SFD)
WMTU: Irresistible charmer who is not self-serving.
RMOLL: Chloe Grace Moretz has the naivety required

JOHN LAZOO: An illiterate ex con looking for a break in the Big Apple.
AGE: Twenties
LOCATION: MindMorph Dimension (MMD)
WMTU: Charismatic as hell.
RMOLL: Young Leo DiCaprio for his acting ability

GENISIS JONES: A graduate looking forward to a bright future in NYC.
AGE: Twenties
LOCATION: MindMorph Dimension (MMD)
WMTU: Her compassion.
RMOLL: Young Charlize Theron

POET SOLDIER: Someone who lives by their wits for the greater good.
AGE: Spans teens-middle age
LOCATION: MindMorph, SenFenide Dimension (MMD + SFD)
WMTU: His honesty.
RMOLL: Young Marlon Brando had the same presence

ALEISHA SMITH: Thirty-something single woman living in post-disaster CHURCH.
AGE: Spans infant-thirty-something
LOCATION: MindMorph, AmalgaMension Dimension (MMD + AMD)
WMTU: Her understated appeal.
RMOLL: Scarlett Johansson has the sass


“The crunching…”

He waits nervously for more words to come to him. They usually did. He had a talent for finding the right thing to say to the right person at the right time to achieve the perfect outcome. Only difference was, the likely lad standing in front of him, glaring down at him was not the type to trade banter with.

Hopefully the words, once they arrive from outer space will save him from the mire-within. But they forsake him once again leaving him high and dry. And just when he had all but given up, the required words (he assumes) tease him on the tip of his tongue, promising to save him from the dire dim cavern in the ground that will not open up and swallow his sorry ass and deliver him from his ordeal.

At twelve years the would-be poet is of slight build to say the least.

His lack of stature is further accentuated when he is, as he is in this scene, pitted against a kid who was bigger, bolder and brasher than the trembling child, who begins to gabble garbage under his breath like a jinxed sphinx in a sand storm.

“Beneath…thee-s b-boots…”

The words finally came, but were they correct? And was that all there was?  His shaking knees, would buckle in an instant from the littlest of efforts by the taller more robust looking boy, who at that very moment feints as if he is indeed going to strike the poet. The bigger kid lunges forward with his chest puffed out. The poet jumps back and in doing so loses his footing. The skinny child with clothes that are two sizes too big for him making him look even more awkward than he already is lands on the back of his head….

When he comes to, his vision is blurred. The growing lump under his left eye obscures a good percentage of his slanted sideways view of the world.

A cold and bitter howling southerly nips at his ear. He lays still in case his assailant feels the need to put another boot into him. In the distance he can hear, one, two, three cars pass by. Then a bus or truck. Maybe it was the school bus? The taste of blood he pretends to like is more metallic than ever before.

Somehow, the poet manages to feel the serenity from having nothing left to lose. Divine intervention does happen and it’s not always delivered how you would imagine….



Cameo Court is a-hush with anticipation.

Rows and rows of bleak looking, washed out faces on the verge of tears, muster courage to remain aloof in the face of adversity. Not theirs of course, but that of the young poet up on the gigantic silver screen.

Skylah Bonbon, is as cute as her name suggests. She is from the Oute-Sector, the districts east of Neon City. The skirts of the city, the lesser talked about parts of Neon City.

Ms Bonbon grips her mother’s arm. “It’s not real darling,” her mother whispers.

“Then why is your heart racing?” Little Ms Bonbon, as she is known whispers back in retaliation of her mother’s annihilation of another magic moment the two of them could’ve shared.

Two rows back and twenty-eight seats to the east, if the big screen was indeed true north, is Johnny. Not just any Johnny, but the one and only Johnny Shawshank. He and his father remain stout in light of unfolding events.

The young poet lays wasted on the ground.

The perpetrators that stand over him, four skinheads—tattooed swastikas—the colour of their skin.

The fading light dwindles to a dot in the centre of the screen.


The word, a reprieve for the hungry audience.


James Elton wakes from deep slumber. His head throbs from having propped up his weight against the cold glass for most of the journey. Outside, passengers from Pasadena line the Chicago bus terminus sidewalk, ready like agents-of-anxious to hop on-board the Greyhound destined for New York.

Aboard, a weary looking twenty-one year old by the name of Mr Elton, it’s what his mother Janine, and her mother also Janine called James when he was a bad boy. Just this morning, Mr Elton completed a five year lag for his part in a bank robbery.

In no time and even with the worst ever cranial-quake measuring off the Richter-scale, Elton ponders the odds of a pretty woman ending up in the vacant seat next to him?

His streets smarts and powers of deduction amass critical-data in no time. Analysed, the results are stacked against him, when you consider that in the queue, there were nothing but nuns, moms and their little ones. Convicts like him, and the only two gorgeous women down there were together and so they will find seats next to each other in the empty bus, James looks around at.

The mention of his mom and her mom in the dialogue that’s everywhere is sobering to say the least.


“Let’s Marvin Gaye and get it on
You got the healing that I want
Just like they say it in the song
Until the dawn, let’s Marvin Gaye and get it on…”

A glowing vision of some aspiration is socialised on the streets of CHURCH, Aotearoa, when meaningful verbiage is uttered by the Poet Soldier on digital parchment per se in the LATEST UPLOAD that plays in the background on an Apple device of some sort.

An adornment of good will and positive vibrations fill the surrounds when Aleisha Smith opens the windows of her humble but comfy cottage on Linwood Ave to let in the warmth promised by the sun’s rays.

Spring time is definitely in the air.

All around the attractive woman of thirty-something years, not that you could tell, an unfathomable energy frisks her body. And then accompaniment—music from above. The ‘50s-esque sound of Charlie Puth and Meghan Trainor circumnavigates hardwired sensibilities.

Out on the avenue, children wave at the angelic figure in the window they had become accustomed to over the last year or so.

The morning sky is truly alight with luster absconded when a star exploded and the meaning of life thereupon was promised to someone special.

In the background, birds sing. In the foreground, dialogue from the never-ending script appends life as we know it with verve not witnessed before, and the likelihood of it ever happening again were slim to none.

To be fair, the litany of curses against the former exotic dancer were unjustified if not unfounded, a truth Aleisha had recently come to terms with. Needless to say the perpetual motion of change is further encouraged by the lyric in her golden hair…

“…There's loving in your eyes
That pulls me closer
It's so subtle, I'm in trouble
But I'd love to be in trouble with you

Let’s Marvin Gaye and get it on
I got that healing that you want
Just like they say it in the song
Until the dawn, let’s Marvin Gaye and get it on…”




“I know you don't get a chance to take a break this often
I know your life is speeding and it isn't stopping”

Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo and Thomas Bangalte commonly known as the Daft Punk, with help from Pharrell Williams and disco maestro Nile Rodgers stir up a storm on the streets of Neon City.

In the midst of this fabulous frolic….

Skylah Bonbon loves to have fun. In this instance she is caught up in a carnivale style whirlwind that solicits its own mildly salacious ore of will. Bouncing with the crowd which sweeps along Neon Strip, it dawns on the teenager whose birthday it is today that there were only a few months left in the year.

As her body continues to be swept away in the pandemonium her mind escapes to ponder another year that has passed. Its happenings, misfires, false starts and failures soon start to mount….In the sky, outlines of a scene, faint as it were but nevertheless promising since there were only four months left, in which time a REPRO had to happen.

If it were up to Imogen a REPRO star and Skylah’s mother, Skylah would’ve already appeared in the Dimension’s blockbuster. But Ms Bonbon would rather she made on it her own, without help especially from Imogen…


John Lazoo shields his eyes. The morning sun at play is broken every so often by the steel beams of Brooklyn Bridge. Still it manages to warm an aching soul, his heavy heart. It’s a condition LAZOO’s been aware of and has cared for on his own since the age of eleven.

The orangey hue in which he basks is concocted of historic architecture, the bridge and city skyline in sepia tones and nostalgia which colours his face.

Occasionally the shadows from the bridge on which the Greyhound carries the Big Apple’s latest romantic with a purpose that by far and away supersedes all deeds by all comers, darken his complexion.

Rumbling in the dungeon of his soul, a growling bass line that reminds Lazoo of Samuel from the F3quenZor. The benevolent boy dancing in the dust to free Aleisha from her ordeal. The lyric in the song comes to fruition, is apt to say the least.

“Here take my shirt and just go ahead and wipe up all the
Sweat, sweat, sweat”


Aleisha’s smile is of mixed emotions about the song playing on the radio. Daft Punk confirm their place in the internet scrolls with an offering diverse enough to not only lubricate the soul, but also carry the nuisances required for depth and familiarity—if penance for recognition were not enough.

In the middle of the intersection of Linwood Avenue, Aldwins Road and Buckleys Road, Samuel. The idyllic place for the shy extrovert. He looked happy with himself.

Ore of will. The richness of ones’ desires, moderately interpreted—how noble ones aspirations could be? Sam the child was selfless. Sam the adult, as ghastly as he was, he was her father at the end of the day.

The lights turn green for cars to cross.

Sam fades from sight.

The blast of a horn from the car behind jolts life back into Aleisha.

“…Lose yourself to dance
Lose yourself to dance
Lose yourself to dance
Lose yourself to dance…”



“It might not be the right time
I might not be the right one
But there's something about us I want to say
Cause there's something between us anyway...”

A true melancholic does not know that he suffers from melancholia. He truly believes that he lives in eternal autumn

Standing on the summit of Mt Inspiring one can be forgiven for believing they had finally made it.

Johnny Shawshank surveys the lands that run from the foot of the mountain to find the ocean. The terrain is lush in most parts and brittle at the edges of the place they call the Dimension Forks, adjacent to Neon City, separated by the Alchemy Alps which runs perpendicular to Mt Inspiring, home of the militia. The wandering Inertia River which irrigates farmland and villages runs from here to the Purple Sea that frames the capricious landscape that is the SenFenide Dimension.

Shawshank a member of the militia from the time he could walk does a jig to the Daft Punk song in the air “Something About Us”.

Dust flies from the kid’s fluid footwork.

His fleet footed flurry is only matched and bettered by the speed of his hands, which he lets fly, blurring and thickening the air they grace. The lighting combinations applied with precision, anchored by a weaving torso of ripped muscle. The fluent close combat formulations is how he earns his keep when he is not with his brothers fighting for freedom from Azins. The drills which he learnt through dance when he was a child, have never failed him. It reminds him of a certain someone, Jonomy Ovatzé his father Prince of the New Global Realm as it were back then. The great warrior was also his teacher, friend and mentor.

Finally the well-conditioned fighter stops when something down there begs his attention. There is smoke coming from Neon City. A look concern creases the brow on a well-defined face with a sturdy jawline.


“…Some kind of secret I will share with you

I need you more than anything in my life
I want you more than anything in my life
I'll miss you more than anyone in my life
I love you more than anyone in my life…”

Greenwich Village on a lazy Sunday afternoon is a haven for the lovesick and those who are yet to taste true love, but imagine that it would hurt like hell.

Genisis Jones, a fresh faced graduate submerges herself in the greyish matter of fact depiction of love as prescribed by someone who vindicates as they placate the pain of forever love.

The psychology student with honours socialises yet again the reasons and root causes for her becoming a practitioner of the human condition and not a practitioner of law.

The overwhelming support is in favour of her wise decision driven by aching heart’s desires.

The girl from upstate New York had high cheekbones and an almost prominent chin which her lingering smile on a good day softens, just like her bright blue eyes when you look into them.

On a day like today, there was no reason to sad, but neither was there anything to be highly excited by. So, she’ll just mosey on through the village ignoring the loving couple in an emphatic embrace that broadcasts their sickening happiness to the rest of the world.


The world according to someone of note who’s lived off the alms of deprivation is moderately fascist and mostly a con of how the classes are classified and town development is implemented in favour of a few.

The Poet Soldier a nonchalant instrument of the system—a role he inherited—muses intently to the funk in the mode of modern space, Daft Punk vibrations in the atmos.

The foray into serious stories about society is a risk. The funky music at noon, a guiding factor in the mesmerising and topical stance against corruption which he is one of the key and important apparatuses.

The training the young poet received when he was fourteen, still served him well.

Mindsets and individual spheres of influence, almost by osmosis for the naturally gifted and select few from the around the world, is how he learnt his craft which is—how to grab someone’s attention and hold it for good reason.

Another scheme that proved highly effective which the Network’s incumbent mastermind is an expert, is designing and implementing highly effective cloaking devices, case in point the GUIOPERA. His other notable scheme is his ability to make anyone believe they were what he wanted them to be. Do not be alarmed or annoyed at the fact that you religiously read his crap (as he affectionately refers to his work) for no other reason but for the fact that it is thought up by a true POET SOLDIER.

“…Some kind of secret I will share with you…”



“I spilled the ink across the page trying to spell your name
So I fold it up and I flick it out
Paper Aeroplane…”

Dexterous fingers press and crease corners and then the long edges of a piece of paper. On the paper an obscured message written in ink intrigues the naked eye and stumps the inquisitive mind as a flying apparatus is eventually created. Johnny holds up in the air a paper aeroplane so he may study its aero dynamism. Holding it by the nape of the fuselage he pulls it down to check the drag of air on the wings he made. After a few more routine checks and Johnny turns to where the plane must fly.

Down in Neon City the festival is at fever pitch.

Johnny checks the paper airplane one more time.


“…It won’t fly the seven seas to you
Coz it didn’t leave my room
But it awaits the hands of someone else
the garbage man…”

James Elton steps down from the Greyhound bus. The Stone siblings from Australia, Julia and Angus singing about their Paper Aeroplane act like buskers on the NYC sidewalk. The time warp making such an event possible in the early nineties would take some doing….

Skyscrapers dwarf dreams John Lazoo has brought with him. A passage to the sky on every street. The buzz of the city is deafening, like the rush of air for someone who was suffocating and now his compacting lungs are on the verge of exploding from rapid intake of oxygen. It’s intoxicating! The accumulation of hopes and fears mingle in the desperately dense atmosphere of individualism, everyone seeking limelight in an overexposed setting, it could be dangerously addictive for an ex con. How to get in touch with his parole officer Jack nags him. But so does the deed and need to change his name to JOHN LAZOO.

Yellow cabs, people in business attire, non-Caucasian people smart and non-menacing. Groups of men, mixed. Latin American, Caucasian, African American, Asian and Middle Eastern by the looks, congregate. Sharing a laugh. The new landscape is mildly amusing if not disturbing for James, who found refuge in the Aryan Brotherhood when as a teenager he ended up inside.

To numb his senses, while he allows himself some time to absorb this new reality James reverts to what his mother taught him….


Up till this point Aleisha had remained detached from her surroundings, choosing to concentrate on her lines and the choreography for her part…

“Aleisha Smith” her name is read out over the intercom. The meek and mild but not necessarily shy Ms Smith pokes her head forward and looks along the line of women seated, around the same age as her to see if there was another Aleisha Smith in the house? It’s a habit of hers born out of a stigma Ms Smith had with her name, she believed it was a common name when in fact she’d never met anyone else with the same name.

Anyways, she was here today to audition for the role of Mary Magdalene in the musical Jesus Christ Superstar. And the turnout was exactly what Aleisha expected it to be. Competitive!

Faces with names off TV peered back at her. A smattering of faces she connected with product from commercials and infomercials glanced her way and then pretended they hadn’t. The corridor of the Little Theatre in the domain of CHURCH was brimming with talent, which her agent hadn’t warned her about. A good thing she quickly decides.

No sooner had she resigned herself to the fact that today she was going to succeed at something, her phone goes off. It was the theme track from the LATEST UPLOAD. Aleisha waits for a moment or two. Then reaches into her handbag for her phone. On finding her iPhone, she turns off the music and has a quick peek at the chapter before she switches the phone off and puts it away in her bag and gets up and makes her way down to the end of the corridor. In a matter of seconds the rest of the phones in the hallway are triggered simultaneously depending on which carrier they were with. The whimsical whirlwind of disbelief when the rest of the girls realise that Aleisha Smith in their midst was the star of the GUIOPERA becomes euphoria when all of them jump to their feet and start clapping and cheering for Aleisha who meekly bows her head as she continues towards the door to the auditorium.

“…It hasn’t flown the seven seas to you
But it’s on its way
It goes through the hands
Then to someone else
to find you girl…”



Imogen looks down at herself and then back at the steps of the cathedral.

The sound of a crying baby is too much for the vexed vixen in her tattered wedding gown. Uneasy and antsy, the rather attractive looking woman itches the back of her neck and then she worries about the soiled state of her once glamourous frock which held so much meaning and promise for her—but that was a long time ago.

The culmination of screaming babies and Imogen’s bewilderment about her appearance escalates into what she believes is a rash that covers her skin from head to toe. Desperately, she begins to dig her fingernails deep into her skin to try and eradicate the tar and acid that burns her body all over.

Soon she is totally overawed by the episode. The contortions her body performs unwittingly are quite outstanding, a frenzied dance, one who was none the wiser, could call what was happening to poor Imogen.


Banter with a purpose is the order of the day in the offices of the “Name Changing Place” somewhere in New York City.

James Elton had found the place the Police officer had directed him to. And inside, it was another entirely different world and ecosystem for Elton to behold.

An industrious ambience that is best described as harmonious is offset by stationery equipment like staplers and pens being clicked in an offbeat and then in time with a monotonous wonder of synchronicity for Lazoo. Rulers being smacked down on desks, women in high heels and if you listened real close you’d be able to hear the sound of their nylon stockings as they rub together in certain places when members of wild looking species walk up and down the aisles made by desks and filing cabinets in the open plan office the size of the courtyard in jail.

As queue dwindled James’ anxiety mounted. He looks down to his left in his hand his mother’s knapsack. Inside it important documents about who he was.


Inside the easeful café located in the Seaside Village of New Brighton, CHURCH, the atmos is perfect.

Nondescript chatter from friendly locals, whose bene-faction for the LATEST UPLOAD (which they are not yet aware they are part of) is when their laughter peaks. This marvellous arrangement is to the music of Avicii playing somewhere in the underfoot of awareness.

John Reyer alias Cut-Throat-Creative, AKA JRA, the AFAMASAGA in LAZOO, METOFEAZ, LE-MAC & AFAMASAGA which stands for LMLA-ink is here for his morning fix of caffeine. The mild mannered guy mulls over what’s on offer at the magazine stand. In the end the dyslexic creative decides not to touch the well-handled material and feeds off artwork on the glossy covers and the bent headlines conjured by Gen-Yers out of control “Is 'resting bitchface' an asset?” With a picture of Kanye West and no surname Lorde to ferment the essence, one of the gems on offer.

“James” the call comes and JRA a brooding looking character for no reason other than it makes him feel more like Bob De Niro rather than Rob Lowe looks to see how many people stand in his route to the counter. Then he counts the number of people who might look up at him if he goes the long way around to collect the caffeine. In the end, the number of people who might for whatever reason glance up and see a middle aged man walking by (1 maybe 2) versus the two women, three men and a child with their backs faced to him through which he has to weave his way to grab the cup the young woman with plats has been holding up for him for near on four seconds now, is one too many.

For someone with quite a heavy look about them, he moves swiftly, gliding through limited space to get to the coffee. And in matter of whispers he is out the door, leaving only music in his wake.

“Where there's a will, there's a way, kind of beautiful
and every night has its day, so magical
and if there's love in this life, there's no obstacle
That can't be defeated…”



Haunting guitar sounds floating in from the hinterland resemble doom that may bring dismay, to one, to all, to everything in her world—her perfect, idyllic and insignificant world.

Overhead, storm clouds roll in to cover over the gleam of a once sumptuous day.

Skylah wraps her arms around herself when goose bumps invade the hot and humid afternoon with quivers at the thought—what would happen if someone, somehow connected the dots? The points of appreciation made up of traits, quirks, idiosyncrasies and maybe even DNA?

Ms Bonbon looks around to see if anyone might suspect something.

Up there in the sky for all to see, clearer than yesterday, Imogen her mother.

The materialising music is sombre at first, but then it builds and builds till it profoundly illustrates an exaggerated and heightened sense of self, that a worthless figure would place themselves in the same frame as the object of their desires.

“When you were here before
couldn’t look you in the eye
you’re just like an angel…”


The African American man in front of him walks off to the left, heads towards the male Mexican looking clerk.

Next, the Caucasian middle aged woman in the next queue makes a beeline for the woman who looks a lot like her in the window to the far right.

James Elton forgets his nervousness and crosses his fingers that he ends up with the buxom babe with fuck me eyes and wet slutty mouth dripping with red lipstick. Man, the things he could make that mouth do…”Please, let it be….” He whispers to no one in particular, which isn’t exactly what his mother had taught him. But it was the thought that counted. Right?

The young woman in her heyday from how she behaves like she farted fragrance or something thereabouts, goes to put her “Out to Lunch” sign up on the counter but then she notices him and slowly and slyly slides the sign down to her left and out of sight. She motions with her head for him to come to her, confirming for Lazoo that she would indeed be a dirty fuck, one that Mad Men like Don Draper would enjoy in seedy public spaces where they could be caught performing animalistic acts on each other.

John Lazoo straightens himself out, carefully holding his mother’s knapsack in a way to conceal what might already be a half mast appreciation of the clerk’s smile he heads for.

There are moments in ones’ life that are memorable. And in these last few hours everything was jumping out at him in contrasting and epic form—standout after standout. From the time he debussed at Grand Central it was all highlights for a lowlife like him.

He takes a step forward and the air is thick with particles. Deepened by his own intensity, add to that the narrative he creates with every step he takes which will end up on the f3quenZor for someone to document sometime in the future or maybe even the past? The vertex he was conjuring was powerful enough to generate an accompaniment of its own.

Guitars, bass and drums come to herald the arrival of the archetypal orphan at a crucial junction in his life. To the music of Radiohead James Elton steps towards his incarnation of JOHN LAZOO as prophesied in the POEMBOOK and STORYBOOK his mother Janine Elton read to James when he was a boy.

“…Your skin makes me cry
you float like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special…”


“…I don't care if it hurts
I want to have control
I want a perfect body…”

Music to commit morbid acts of self-torture and sabotage and maybe even mutilation? to, reverberates in the audacity of the wooden floorboards and concrete walls of the darkened auditorium.

Radiohead are here too.

Under a spot light, she had a pleasant face which elements of her wretched life had touched by virtue.

By no means was she haggard looking, but there was a hint of something else under the surface. An irascibility, maybe? From having witnessed her fair share of shit.

“Mary Magdalene was inch from where I was. As a person. And I guess I am still that person…”

Aleisha offers up her answer and then she shields her eyes as she waits for the next question.

“You studied dance, but can you sing?” The director obviously did not find anything else intriguing enough about her based on her CV or appearance to stimulate conversation but for the facts.

“Yes. And I’ve been taking lessons…Worst case I end up in the chorus choir…” Damn! She did what she promised herself she wouldn’t do today. Undersell herself under any circumstance! Is exactly what she promised herself she would not do! She replays her answer as her voice flails in the darkness of the empty auditorium.

On the end of her curtailing blunder, the surly faced director’s voice is like a rasp against the grain of music that romanticises ones’ basement existence.

“Thank you Ms Smith, we’ll be in touch.”

“…But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo
what the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here
I don't belong here….”



The silver moon has a heart made of scarlet tonight. Heavy with the weight of the world, it’s a wonder that it hangs so easily in the blackest of nights. It illuminates the suspicious pantomime in the sky for all to see.

Beneath the outstanding lunar orbiter, Skylah hugs her knees to her chest, like girls of all ages do...the recurring imagery of Imogen in the sky repeating itself over and over again when an Alchemy Glitch corrupted the locum-tale or placeholder concept—the preface to a REPRO—is brighter than Ms Bonbon would like.

At the edge of the lagoon a place where she and Imogen would come in difficult times to get away from the hype, Ms Bonbon is inconsolable not that you could tell. She appeared normal and self-assured, if anything remiss of the SFD’s non tangibles and the woes of a dreamer down in the MMD to which she is a slave. Basically she looked fine for a SenFenite with high hopes of being the next big thing, the lead character in a Dimension WIDE RELEASE of a REPRO. The only problem was, the locum-tale being broadcast in the sky had her mother in it once again.

So far Skylah had managed to distance herself from the Queen of Sufferance, the perennial martyr in her tattered wedding gown. Ms Bonbon wanted to carve out her own future as an actress, unrelated and therefore unblemished by her mother’s memory.

A sparse and hypnotic groove is created in outer space of the Dimension from the uneasiness of a lost soul as it wails in pity of itself….


James holds onto the sides of the Wurlitzer like he were about to shake the shit out of the machine, in an effort to retrieve his lost dimes.

Over his shoulder at the window table, a stack of papers, the deed for the name change he desperately deserves—the corners of the pieces of paper, dog eared but the lines for information remained blank.

The black and white checker floor of the diner somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen appears to go on forever in the mirrored walls that frame the fringes of a rabbit-hole.

Lazoo looks down to his left and clenches his jaw, a habitual gesture—by the young man who has been locked up behind bars for nearly a third of his life—when he feels cornered.

His strong jawline that leads to a protruding muscle, and now a thick vein running down his brow…Lazoo feels the temperature of his blood begin to rise. He quickly regathers himself, his thoughts, senses and thinking. The narrative, the anecdotal and episodic ramblings of a mad man which he must desensitise so normal everyday folk can adopt, adapt and therefore apply the Maxim Axiom LOVE, TRUST, HONESTY & RESPECT.

A distraction is required, any gibberish will do. And so he throws himself into one of his most trusted characters, one of many he had created over the years to help him through hell. The Illiterate Poet…

The mind of the greatest creatives known to man
are said to have possessed the power to absorb
all that exists in the worlds in which they live
Like black holes of physics
it is indeed the undetermined and ill-defined energy
on the outskirts of matter
that indiscriminately de gravitate
any object within admiring or for that matter
seething distance….

Lazoo catches himself as he drifts in and out of the out-of-body experience. Holding on to the Wurlitzer it appears that he’s merely looking to choose a song. The energy radiating from his body, a faint glow in the well-lit room, with a smattering of diners who notice nothing.

Behind the counter, Sheila continues to wrap and roll cutlery in their red napkins with one eye on the handsome kid who arrived in the dinner some hours ago.

When music from out of this world begins to play people at the tables look up, but then they go back to their food and conversation like nothing was awry. Sheila pays close attention to the kid who reminds her of someone.


Today, the sea looks a stunning turquoise colour and the sun is a bright dollop of energy in the bluest sky I ever did see in these parts.

Aleisha tries to tune out to stop herself from worrying about the audition.

So the imaginative person focuses on trying to make up stories for all those people walking along the pier at New Brighton beach.

The odd couple, a fat man in his sixties and a scantily clad waif teenager are undercover cops looking to infiltrate a human trafficking ring. They’re here on the pier to meet a contact…the hunched over old lady in a done up winter coat is an alien. This is the beginning of her orientation. Oh! She arrived by sea. Out there in the ocean there’s a spaceship beneath the seabed from whence the little old lady came. On reaching the pier she shimmied up a pylon as a jelly-like organism and on reaching the platform she proceeded to inhabit a shell or body of the bag lady. The rest of the crowd, the good-looking happy people in their prime. Are lost! They think they know where they’re going but they don’t! Pressure to marry one another and reproduce…sign posts directing them to the nearest bank for a mortgage are actually distractions designed to keep them occupied and enslaved so a select smart few can make a killing out of their insecurities….

The vibrating from the iPhone as the alert comes to snap Aleisha out of one of her states, is invasive. If she weren’t such a serene and sincere woman, she would throw the fucking phone out the window. But then she remembers that there hadn’t been a SASBWAH chapter release in a while. Instantly she succumbs to her need to know if she was still a part of the Story-About-the-Story—Being-Written! A privilege for a very select few, indeed.

The LATEST UPLOAD on a fine and sunny spring afternoon in mid-September is like a shot of Valium for her veins. She reaches down beside her seat and pulls the lever that rests the car seat back a few degrees or more.

The radio comes on. Static as the needle begins to scan the band, tickles the back of her throat. Winding her window down, she lets in the ocean breeze, the fresh and marvellously teasing air flowing off the turquoise’d surface of the sea, makes the hairs on the back of her neck rise to attention.

Then a sound collage made up of desperate disc jockeys and corny jingles titillate fingertips to reach for the power button so one can eliminate the rubbish from the airwaves. But then the needle finds its resting place in and amongst the ho-hum and below average subterfuge for entertainment.

A steady drum beat forms a groove that’s as good for the soul as it is for air that we breathe.

Lovebirds “U Give Me” creates rapture in the surrounds of the seaside village.



In the sky, circling the sleepy nook, an identifiable object. The paper aeroplane’s view of the town is sweeping if not fanciful.

Down on the church steps Imogen’s eyes swollen with tears tell the story. In her arms a baby girl, safe and soundly nestled in and against her plentiful bosom.

Murmurs carried by footsteps that close in on the scene gathers momentum. Coming from all directions, the town’s people gravitate towards the square, where news had it—a revelation had come to pass. Imogen had given birth to a healthy baby girl.

Without warning, without prelude but definitely with pivotal consequence of immense significance, Imogen was now a mother to a beautiful baby girl of some importance—to the people of the village and also the entire Dream Dimension.

She smiles as she waits for the townsfolk to arrive one by one for the naming ceremony.

Meanwhile, on the side of the road, head hung from hopes dashed. Skylah drags her feet in the dust. She could see Neon City in the distance. Plumes of dust around her feet fabricate indecision out of frustration. Up there in the sky—her life for all to see. The bare and ugly bits on show.

“Skylah,” she hears a man say her name and she looks up and sees one of the townsfolk talking to Imogen sitting on the steps cradling her. “Skylah” the woman next in line suggests the baby’s name should also be what it is. And so does the next person and the one after that….

Out of nowhere music appends the problematic scenario with a message of hope. Music to join hands by, and walk in harmony whilst it plays in the airs of our lives. Uplifting soul music from behind 2nd Horizon. I do believe the name “Marvin Gaye” was mentioned once or twice when the DJ in the sky let the record play for one and for all to consume these words by...

“Mother, mother
there’s too many of you crying
Brother, brother, brother…”


Genisis lies awake. The sounds of the city—music to Genisis’ ears. The brilliant moon and car lights throwing shadows on her walls, to which she applies her own soundtrack. A sultry saxophone, maybe it was a crying clarinet? Sets sail effortlessly, caresses intense and searing sirens, wrapped up in laughter that mock the seriousness of it all…Somewhere out there in this wonderfully vile and woefully decadent city, there was a story waiting for her to make her entrance. Genisis, a good girl from upstate New York knew this.

How did she know this?

There was a yearning that drew her to this place. A need by those who needed someone to append their fixations of self, and neglect of all else. Someone who understood them, got them, and approved of their narcissistic ways. Without question, doubt or concern for the time it took to douse themselves and anyone willing to indulge them in their wicked, wicked ways of folly. And of course she should be paid for such a selfless act.

Naturally, organically, the wistful narrative picks up where it previously left off. The comforting, ever-present and omniscient voice of…well, not reason, more like a consciousness, only much more entertaining in the way it presents age old concepts like empathy and love for all who crave it, need it and swear they’re better off without it or just blatantly deny it…

In the immediacy of her intimate feelings, emotion melds with aspiration mobilising an energy that conjures pure magic witnessed by purveyors of the end-to-end-saga—fine-music—a grand accompaniment for the textual nature of his narrative…

“…For only love can conquer hate
you know we've got to find a way
to bring some lovin' here today, oh oh oh…”


Aleisha ignores the iPhone on the coffee table in the centre of her living room.

Outside her window, flowers bloom in wildest dreams while birds perched in luscious leafy trees, sing to their hearts content.

Sunday afternoons at this time of the year when the story of our times was being hatched live by the Cut-Throat-Creative on the streets of CHURCH, were an event. Which one would share with their children’s children, for sure! For the magnitude of the affair and confidence it gave the locals.

The New Zealand Post man pulls up to her letterbox on his electric scooter and produces a large white envelope. Her Hyaluronic Acid serum HA! By Cutis IQ immediately comes to mind, that was quick! It had only been a matter of days since she purchased the new wonder product online at

In the background, music from the New Global Realm had made the jump from the neverlands of the SFD to takeover proceedings in the heartlands of this year’s GUIOPERA, the streets of CHURCH Aotearoa.

Sweet soul music from the heavens above laments the moment, as this sinew of hope is sent world-wide when the LATEST UPLOAD carries the voice of Marvin Gaye, far and wide on the many branches of the internet….

“…Don't punish me with brutality
C'mon talk to me
So you can see
What's going on
Yeah, what's going on
Tell me what's going on….”



“The Midas touch, touch, touch, touch…”

A Rhythm & Blues anthem for the TRUFUNK soldiers streams from the sky. On the streets and from the balconies and windows of their apartments—Citizens of Neon City, unbeknown to him, watch as they witness the arrival of someone who might bring with him blessings of an era of unsurpassed prosperity.

They say the Golden Weather or Prosperity follows a TRUFUNK Soldier wherever he goes. To look at a servant of the work, as it were, you wouldn’t know that they were an instrument, vessel or even a conduit for the Warmth to enter into an environ or habitat.

Johnny Shawshank looks around him at the celebrations going on, for whatever reason? And then he glances back up at Mt Inspiring one more time with that misty look in his eyes. Butterflies inside him from an eerie feeling that something was brewing and that he was part of the reason for an event that will prove crucial to the cause in the end.

Down on the streets of Neon City the top of the mountain in the west seemed so far away.

Across in the eastern skies on the 2nd Horizon the outlines of Imogen raising a beautiful baby girl continues to draw the crowds. The images were becoming more vivid by the hour. Could this eternalise into the REPRO everyone had been waiting for? The people were starving for the unequivocal manna from heaven, the economy could use the injection, not to mention the flow-on effects for InterDimensional trade and relations.

Dressed in civilian garb of a SenFenite, leather clad with a post-apocalyptic bent, Johnny shrugs of any signs of homesickness and does his best to blend in.

Two Azins, wearing armbands over the top of their civy gears pass by. They salute Johnny who has that certain look about him that would cause lower ranking soldiers from the enemy to address him in such a way. Johnny courteously bows his head void of any meaning, feeling and any emotion whatsoever. He had often joked with the hierarchy that it would be cause him immense pleasure to infiltrate the Azins and bring them to their knees from within.

Skylah in the shadows has to do a double take when in the sky, the face of a young man flashes intermittently, transposed over her and Imogen’s daily grind when they were young. He was undoubtedly very handsome. In fact he just might be the most handsome guy she had ever laid eyes on….


Sometime in 1997…

The Wurlitzer comes to life all on its own when the front door of the diner opens and in steps Genisis Jones.  

The feeling is one of nostalgia. Reminiscent of the way things were during the Halcyon days. The Golden era post WWII. The late ‘80s at the end of the cold war, and anytime in one’s life when everything just seemed to fall into place.

“Midas Touch,” Genisis whispers the title of one of her go to tracks from back in the day as the hypnotic drum beat continues to sustain Genisis’ fantasy.

Waiting behind the shiny Formica counter top with even shinier chrome trim, Sheila. Coffee pot in hand ready to pour. “The usual?” Sheila smiles like she knows something that Ms Jones does not….


“You say you’re going through changes
every day it seems your life is up and down
and you say that you’re lookin’ for an answer
Everywhere you look it seems you can’t be found...”

Tuesday morning on the streets of CHURCH….

The vibrations are humming. Biorhythms and sequential data sets for neural networks everywhere around the globe flow with a fluency seldom seen and rarely witnessed, sent from this page. Basically everything was in perfect harmony in accordance to script.

The ALL BLACKS had made a successful start to their campaign to reclaim the Rugby World Cup in hope of becoming the first Rugby Union team in history to win consecutive Rugby World Cups. And Don Draper AKA JON HAMM has finally gotten himself the recognition he so wickedly deserves….

In the atmos, thickening confidence, the Midnight Star classic brings a smile to JRA’s face. The wily character who could’ve been anything he wanted to be, is content with how his life has turned out.

A POETSOLDIER’s life is a blend of bohemia and monk like discipline for the purpose of bringing hope where previously there was only darkness.

And as far as the snotty nosed kid from Wainui-o-mata was concerned life could be worse.

“John” the Barista at the Wild Bean café at the corner of Gloucester St and Woodham Rd Linwood calls out. The poet come novice writer smiles as he counts the seconds to when the next chapter of his life is released on the New Global Realm as part of the LATEST UPLOAD.

“…I’ve got the Midas touch
everything I touch turns to gold, oh sugar
I’ve got the Midas touch
Baby, let me touch your body and your soul…”



“Heard about the party now
Just east of Harlem
Dougie gonna be there
But you got to call him…”

Compliments of Prince Nelson Rogers—Funk music—from back in the day, the whimsical impulse or switch that triggers ensuing events….Flash mobs and party people from across the forgotten planet swarm together in euphoria. The sensation sweeping the Dimension causes scenes of frenzy and glee when the citizens offer up gifts to the skies—dancing and enchantment—like never seen before, overflowing on the streets and pavements of Neon City. Every vantage point is taken to bear witness to an occasion.

At the edges of the celebration, Skylah who is no longer consumed by the saga in the sky is dumfounded by the jubilation on show. She remembers why she came to town and begins planning how she’s going to get to the eye of the beautiful storm. When in Rome…to the music! She decides and without a further ado, the slender young woman taps a foot, left right, right left and then she places it on a spot not too far from where the flash mob coming up the strip will pass by in one, two, one two three four five…

“…Keep the party movin'
just like I told you…

For the next few minutes, the pure exhilaration of being part of the pulsing, gyrating thing—the flash mob—she was now a cell of, gushed, no end. As the mob pushes up past City hall, Skylah manages to free herself from the exquisite organism like she were jumping off a bus. Once feet were on firmly on the ground, Skylah makes her way around the corner where she finds the location she has been seeking since laying eyes on the handsome stranger in the sky.

Behind City hall, the grounds of the civic arena were full to the brim. In the centre of it all, the main attraction.

Skylah who has heard of "polite" eases her way through the throng of admirers. “Oops, sorry. I’m a long lost limb. I mean pet. No! Computer! I’m an incarnation of his first Atari…” Most people were understanding, but every so often she’d feel the wrath of a hopeful like her, their elbow in her ribs. Short, sharp and swift….

Finally she could see him through the crowd. His well-defined jaw that frames his kind but manly looking face. Skylah looks around, young and old. Normal and abnormal. The brave and the meek. The calculating and opportunistic side by side, different strokes but the same thing on all their minds. “Get Johnny Shawshank!” Every single one of them, here to get as close as possible to Johnny.

To be fair, a lot of them came to absorb the atmosphere Johnny creates. Others were here in hope of landing a role as a confidant who could get close enough to Johnny so they then could pilfer, suck and suggest anything from plans to stupid ideas that would thwart Johnny’s mission in what was most likely going to explode into a REPRO anytime now. Then there were the Accounting Agencies and their serious  pundits here to study the character which wagers—large and small—would be placed on and against in the GAME one of the many spinoffs of a REPRO. In the SFD a REPRO equates to a blockbuster movie, only difference is the entire dimension becomes a giant set for the extravaganza once it starts and the population the actors.

In the centre of it all, the handsome guy whose profile fills the sky.

He stands in front of a table where a street monger displays an array of artefacts. The monger a middle aged man, who looks like he’s from somewhere near the Dimension Forks, dreadlocked with bronzed skin from exposure to extreme conditions of the wastelands, addresses Shawshank in Pigeon-Linkeon the dialect of the Forks… “Nede eld dy breeding dada. Wend dy mind decide dy dezdee, dy noh dy desdrukdor…”

Skylah bites her lip as she sees her opportunity, when it dawns on her that Johnny may not be able to converse in Pigeon-Linkeon. Whether or not, he could? Was immaterial as Ms Bonbon decides it’s now or never!

By the time Ms Bonbon could walk she could also talk. By the time she started school at the age of three she was fluent in all communication protocols of the SFD including Pigeon-Linkeon, her own dialect Linkeon and Azin.

A hush comes over the gathering as people wait for Johnny to respond. There’s a stir when Skylah from two rows back pushes her way through and nearly ends up face first in the turf. Luckily the nimble young woman regathers her balance before any further embarrassment.

Johnny looks down to his left and clenches his jaw—a habitual gesture—from Shawshank when he is concerned about a situation, scene or scenario.  

Behind him, Skylah with eyes to the sky stands tall, shoulders back, she chooses not rely upon her feminine charms. Instead in her bravest voice she begins to speak, interpreting the trader’s goad for Johnny word for word…

“Don’t hold your breath man. Once you decide your fate, you will know your opponent,”


“…Even the soldiers
Need a break sometimes
Listen to the groove y'all
Let it unwind your mind…”

Down in the MMD, the theme music was the same as in the Dream Dimension—Prince and his purple music the currency of the day.

Beneath the trees that slowly shed their leaves, walks a TRUFUNK soldier.

A lean and mean looking prophet of the new school, one of the altruistic and pure at heart chosen few—a minority within a minority—steps to the funk-as groove. John James Lazoo, formerly James Elton an associate of the Aryan Brotherhood, had changed his ways. Or, so it seemed. In a world full of men named John, Lazoo stood out.  

“LAZOO!” That was Jimmy who called out to Lazoo, walking ahead of everyone on his own as he does. John James in an ALL BLACK second hand suit, crisp white shirt and thin black leather tie continues to ignore his new found friends, Jimmy Afra and Mick Haze. Jimmy was a fast talking African American kid who hailed from Manhattan. And Haze was a slow talking Italian with quick hands from the Bronx. Fun facts about these two cats—Jimmy had a bleach blonde afro, hence the name Afra and Haze was bestowed his name for the effect his hands made during a fight.

The streets of Harlem were starting to turn orange. The warm hue of fall mixed with the cool airs of romantic notion circulating in the gentle breeze—intoxicating. Especially when one considers what the narrator has in store. Lazoo may not have been able to fill out the forms to have his name changed legally due to illiteracy, but just you remember, who dreamt the words you’re reading…

Up ahead a block party was in full swing. On the veranda of the Brownstone on the corner, Jon Le Mac the second "L" in LMLA-ink with headphones standing behind two turntables. The African American mastermind from LA was who Lazoo had come to meet. If you were to cast Le Mac in a movie, you’d be hard pressed to go past Will Smith. The only reason why you wouldn’t have Denzel play him was because he would play Jack Shack Assistant D.A of New York the one with the Yankees cap handing Le Mac a beer. Next to him leaning against a pillar, was Ton Horroh who used to work for Marsellus Wallace. Horroh was the so called overweight Samoan (Antwan Rockamora AKA Tony Rocky Horror) Jules Winnfield ever so irreverently refers to in the '94 Quentin Tarantino movie Pulp Fiction. Truth be said, Horroh was a twin of Latino heart throb Esai Morales, but he was definitely Samoan, you could tell by the no nonsense look about him.

“What is it?” Lazoo finally responds to Jimmy as Le Mac spots them and raises a hand to welcome them to the party.

That leaves us with one burning question, who would play Lazoo? LAZOO is an architype/classic kind of character, big enough to go around. To be shared. At inception which was during the later parts of the last century it was definitely Tom Cruise, Mark Wahlberg, Matt Damon and then it was Leo. But as time passed Gen Y spawned a crop of fitting tortured antiheroes in keeping with the way society has broadened its idea of a “classic hero” giving us a little more scope to be less typical when it comes to casting Rebel with a clue. And so the attributes to play the Illiterate Poet come Gigolo come Hitman come Country boy from the Midwest have become more obscure and less obvious. Add to that narrowing intervals in parameters due to an unsurpassed awakening of pride for ALL races!  Here’s a hint, Google the name "Ryan" and then click on the images tab…

“…No intoxication
unless you see what I see
Dancin' hot and sweaty
Right in front of me…”


The radio starts tuning itself. Over time Aleisha had become accustomed to all the goings-on in a GUIOPERA, and it no longer freaked her out. She just went with it now.

Evidently the dialogue, that’s what she preferred to call what others might refer to as voices in her head, was authentic. Authenticated, word for word, the narrative was hers' first before the world read it in the LATEST UPLOAD which her iPhone was only now alerting her of the physical-cyber insertion in textual format of what she felt, and in some cases may have conjured herself. But she hadn’t yet confirmed that part. She definitely heard the script read to her, and then like a reassuring echo the resounding substance that is his work would appear on her phone, laptop or Kindle.

The effect made even more intense than surreal when the radio began playing the theme song from Chapter 9 of the SASBWAH, the eighth GUIOPERA by John Reyer Afamasaga.
“Heard about the party now
Just east of Harlem
Dougie gonna be there
But you got to call him…”

Tooting horns arrest her mind from the moment she had been waiting for all day. Up ahead the lights turning orange, a sudden dampener. But then her iPhone starts ringing. The director’s name appears on screen and all else becomes a blur….




“Well there's a bridge and there's a river that I still must cross
as I'm going on my journey
Oh, I might be lost
the sound of solemn loneliness…”

Skylah stands alone. An overwhelming sense of relief washes over her as music which she recognises from previous REPROs begins to play. “Step by Step” another one of the anthems stirs feelings in the hearts of a generation that has grown up on Imogen and her plight. The music a symbol that transcends what Ms Bonbon up till now believed was near on impossible.

She looks around and the light shining down on her renders all else dusky, but for his face. Johnny Shawshank on the perimeter of this celestial occurrence, his smile and his eyes beam joy and happiness for her. Beyond him the multitudes of people lavishing themselves in the elysian moment she is the reason for, humbled.

They say you know when a REPRO has truly begun. It’s when life is worth living in accordance to the play in the sky. Defined and made obvious for all those who watch, because life becomes this fantastical adventure in which one could become illustrious or even infamous if so inclined. But for the lucky chosen few, the stars of the show, they’re oblivious to the fact that the entire planet follows their every move.


Genisis peers up at the skies through the slow falling rain. The imminence of which the rain drops come at her, would normally cause her to close her eyes. But today, it’s as if she is fearless of the rain, but most importantly, she is fearless of life. You could say there was now something that galvanised the once frail soul against anything and everything that life could throw at her.

Was it an epiphany of some sort? Had the knowledge and information vexed and then versed her mind so all that she had learned became this wonderful and comforting warm-wisdom that she could rely on in trying times?

Ms Jones feels an unnerving sense of control come over her. It’s aided by the music in the air, which has returned. Everywhere, the sound and feeling of strength. Whitney Houston singing one of her GUIOPERA anthems “Step by Step.”

The cobblestone pathways of Greenwich Village glisten, wet from the sudden sun shower in the middle of the day.

The ecstatic feeling from knowing things were looking up was incredible. Memories of lost love and misguided trust that ended in heartbreak subsiding as the music gets louder….

“…step by step…”


“…step by step…”

The live feed on screens around the planet direct from the writer’s Microsoft Word is metronomic if not hypnotic. Word by word an idea is dispensed. Then the flow stops while each line is probably reread, critiqued and edited till finally a passage is complete. Passage after passage, year after year now since ’08 the Guy who dropped out of high school continues to lament his place in history as the most widely read writer ever!

And in the end, it’s for two reasons. It’s wasn’t a case of a novice writer showboating on the web. Nor is it for personal gain, hell he gave it away for free. It was for the followers who find great pleasure in consuming the data, which they are the ones with the power that elevates the work of a novice to become what it is, an internet phenomenon that will stand the test of time, which they will tell their grandchildren they were the ones who made it possible. The body of work—complex as it is prolific—marks an epoch or period which could be as rare as a once-in-history miracle. And then of course, there were TRUFUNK soldiers, operatives who wait for the all-important code hidden in a cloaking device, like no other. That’s if you buy into the story of course….

The LATEST UPLOAD hits the internet and explodes with theme song “Step By Step” by Whitney. The event is emotionally charged—once again—only if you buy into the story! One of the many fables that make up the SASBWAH was Metofeaz Litigatti the “M” in LMLA-ink was a close confidant of the young Ms Houston when she first burst onto the scene. The tragedy that was to be the superstar’s life, still haunted Metofeaz. A resurgence by Whitney in the late 2000’s showed a glimmer of hope which was not to be in the end. I guess her legacy can be the amazing music she left us with….

“…step by step keep on moving
day by day
mile by mile…”



“Look, if you had, one shot, or one opportunity
to seize everything you ever wanted. In one moment
would you capture it, or just let it slip?”

The waves of fortune keep rolling in off the Purple Sea. No sooner had they reached the shore and glimmering impressions chime in from behind the 2nd Horizon. Signals that win over—hearts and minds—sail in on an effervescent current, music. It has a certain type of substance to it which will never wilt nor fray in the Months of John…

The sound of the waves soothe his mind and erase any misgivings his soul may harbour. The blood red moon combines calamity and calm, melding massive mountains of pain down to a trickling of water, no more than that of a brook.

Humbly, Johnny muses a miracle to come true. And if it were to somehow happen, he would triumphantly stride down Neon Strip on a victory march with prize in hand and the entire Dimension would know about it!

A song resonating courage whilst challenging his sense of adventure continues to tease the machinations of a boy…


Down in the MMD Marshall Bruce Mathers III’s influence on proceedings transcends the thin veneer of reality.

Looking through opportune blinds, there, right in front of his eyes across the street, was John James Lazoo. He was partying like he was a free man. The company he kept was mouth-watering for Metofeaz Litigatti.

There was Tone Horroh hitman. Crooked Jack Shack from the DA’s office, his partner in crime Gene Reyer notorious defence lawyer. All up the pair had worked enough cases together to retire wealthy. Small time players Jimmy Afra and Mick Haze rounded out the smorgasbord of unwanted infamy but wanted if you know what I mean. Just when Litigatti thought that was it, in rolls the long black Mercedes limousine belonging to Harry Clarenta arms dealer and property magnate.

Standing joke was CLARISS was the DA’s biggest client.

Keeping everything copacetic in the cesspool of degenerates, Jon Le Mac from California. A talented but also very calm and collected Network Operative who grew up with Horroh. Story has it Le Mac was there when Horroh made his first kill at the not so tender age of 7.

It had been six months now since the start of the operation but the stench of his own body odour still made him want to gag. Litigatti sees his reflection in the window as he gets another whiff of the offensive smell from the garb of a homeless man, his cover.

“Does he look like me?”

“Come see for yourself…” Metofeaz looks down to his left as the magnitude of what was transpiring in front of their eyes dawns on him. Not only were they witnessing the beginning of something special, when it was discovered that James Elton was part of the family, it became too good to be true when he appeared on the scene in what was a joint operation between FBI, CIA and the NETWORK a joint taskforce to bring down King Pin Clarenta AKA Hariss Clariss the scariest clown in town.

“Love to, but even from back here, I’m well intoxicated by your body odour …”

Litigatti smiles. It was good to be amongst family again. Behind him lounging on the couch was John Page AKA the PIRATE. Across the street is Page’s supposed dizygotic twin, fraternal in other words.

At the window watching John James Lazoo, is Litigatti the only family Page has ever known and vice a versa.

Litigatti’s father was a foot soldier for the mafia, his mother a singer—both were killed in a bomb blast when Metofeaz was just a baby. Metofeaz was then raised by the POETSOLDIER Jon Pierre Solomon. Litigatti studied his trade at the Network’s Academy from where he graduated with honours.

Over the past decade, he had been at the fall of the wall of Berlin. The Gulf War and a few other historical events in the background doing his bit for the cause, either as an analyst and when required he can play the part of sniper which is what he was trained to do. Litigatti also had an in with several prominent people in the entertainment industry. This made Litigatti more than just an asset.


Onstage, a pianist mindlessly tinkles ivory. The illegitimate music hangs in the atmos like worthless atonements for unforgivable sin.

The sins include ones against humanity and Mother Nature mostly. Envy and coveting thy neighbours’ nothings in the end will be quashed if she is called to answer for the deepest sins by her heart not by mind.

The cattle call for the chosen ones is less intimidating than first thought. Everyone present regardless of how talented they were had sinned and that was the leveller which Aleisha clung to for precious confidence she needed if she was going to play the most coveted role of Magdalena. Mary Magdalena.

Aleisha looks down at the travel mug in hand it had green tea laced with Manuka honey for her throat.

In the atmos a more cultivating and more obvious music floats through the astral-like ether…Eminem in another GUIOERA anthem here to reinforce with permanence the fact that it was that time of year. In the northern sector it was an erotic fall in which nostalgia is rewritten for the die-hard. It was the story of John Lazoo and Genisis Jones. In the southern sector, the biorhythms of spring vitalise life. New love and the true, tried and tested a testament disseminated in the story of our times.

The LATEST UPLOAD cavorts frivolously on tongues while it plays on minds everywhere around the world.

To the music of Eminem of course…

“Look, if you had, one shot, or one opportunity
to seize everything you ever wanted. In one moment
would you capture it, or just let it slip?”



“5, 6, 7, 8…” Skylah counts to ten at which point she will join him at the water’s edge. Her mind is already made up.

On a whim? Maybe…but wasn’t it time she thought about finding herself a boyfriend anyway? Imogen was always on at her about it. Even took advantage of the situation by setting her up with sons of her friends so she could get closer to someone. In fact come to think of it, it was Imogen and her relationships with the opposite sex, which played a huge part in why Skylah kept well away from the opposing sex. Ms Bonbon’s limited experience with the offensive sex dated back to when she was in primary school and El Turdo Pigsruffené III tried kissing her. He met with the same fate as his predecessor Conrad Kuntunéllis Jnr from preschool. Both received a swift and deft backhand to the side of their puckered-lip faces that branded them reddened and embarrassed possibly scarring them on the inside for that and any other incarnations they may karma-up in their miserable lives.

Maybe there was a more meaningful and fundamental reason for Skylah’s disinterest in boys? Or maybe she wasn’t at all uninterested in them?

Regardless of reason as to why there was no male love interest in Ms Bonbon’s life, she was now keen to explore the possibility of amour and those types of matters. Maybe even an investiture of her heart in a ceremony of intrigue-liaison with the male figure who cuts a decent enough prototype of what it is that a girl may want?

And so with that thought and the ocean as her witness Skylah steps forward to be by Johnny’s side.

The realisation is memorable and made even more bodacious when music appears out of the blue.

Jazz music…


“Is it you?”

Jazz funk floating on a breeze pacifies a yearning momentarily. Lee Ritenour serves up summertime in Central Park.

4th of July celebrations were in full swing. Families surrounded by their picnics, couples and their poetic romance extended for all to envy upon the many blankets that quilt the lush domain.

In the middle of an open space between the trees and where the sun seekers lounge, a huddle made up of Afra, Haze, the homeless guy and Lazoo. “Find me, okay man?” Lazoo tells Jimmy. And then he pushes the football into Afra their quarter back in hope it exclaims how important it was that the play goes according to plan.

Without giving anything away, Lazoo checks where the blonde with the brightest blue eyes he’d ever seen was sitting. He could see her out the corner of his eye. The most beautiful woman. Five years in a row, she appeared on this day.

Lazoo finds his place as a wide receiver on the edge of the field marked out with clothing. He finds himself closer to her than ever before. And he is even more bereft of anything remotely interesting or witty to say to her like “come here often?”

He is sure of it, that she had noticed him….

Since arriving in New York in ’91 Lazoo had managed to keep out of trouble. First by completing his parole without violation. Then by building a healthy clientele of wealthy women and men he’d escort out for special occasions in return for a handsome ransom.

And until he laid eyes on the beauty that looks the other way, when she senses his awareness of the space around him, there was no real reason to want anything else but the money he got paid to look into someone’s soul and pry open their mind so they may voice their fears and parade their dreams in confidence. It was an amazing scheme. He was illiterate and they were articulate. He was cunning and they were running from something to somewhere. To find him! Is what Lazoo would propose and they accept immediately on meeting a potential mark, as it were. And once in a while, on very rare occasions, saliva and other bodily fluids were exchanged for a fitting fee.

Admitting that this woman who he sees once a year from a distance had some kind of orbital pull on him was saying something. Maybe it was just the occasion or the atmosphere? Summer day in the park where everyone else was paired up in couples, families doing their thing. Maybe it highlighted the idea of loneliness for the James who last saw his mother and only relative on his eleventh birthday. Since then it had been just him against the world behind bars. First juvenile hall from the age of 9, and then at 16 he graduated to prison. At the age of 28, after being on the outside for 7 years he was slowly starting to feel again.


The seasoned campaigner feels it in his body. It was no longer the physically draining process like it used to be. He had gotten used it, being “hit.” A “hit” is the term in the GAME, when a subject or person is the mental target for haters to hate on in unison. To be honest, life wasn’t the same without getting “hit” anymore. The wily character who continues to absorb all that is thrown at him, switches to what he calls State of Ezn, his take on Zen. Soon the perspective is a serene outlook, focusing on what there is to be achieved rather than the aches and pains that holds one back from giving to the universe. JRA’s humble offering, the work in progress which will be amplified for the sake of Peace, followed by Prosperity through Positivity from Patience.

It was definitely spring time in New Zealand and the GUIOPERA ‘15 was beginning to take shape. In the northern sector, an ellipsis of the heart with the retelling on LAZOO’s mission. JRA’s 2006 eBook JOHN LAZOO which was such an incisive mechanism in the outcome, still makes the Cut-Throat-Creative grateful for the time he invested in the project. The GUIOPERA, the cloaking device which now acts as truth, or bible for the believers out there, its roots are in the inaugural eBook.

The radio in the SUZUKI Swift goes haywire. John Reyer looks around and then the other way, in case someone somehow witnesses a taste of the weirdness that is common place in his everyday life.

He can feel the response in his veins, like shooting up icicles as the LATEST UPLOAD propagates servers on the internet. The critical data—tiller slithers of love, packets of scintilla, Emotional Techno Fiction, call what you want—devices wait for the penultimate instalment of the SASBWAH from the streets of CHURCH.

The radio stops scanning and a familiar tune resonates feelings of nostalgia. Some, melancholy and others reaffirming his decision to create the current platform the GUIOPERA in which he disseminates word-matter, or as it’s commonly known data, for the consumption of many around the planet. The feeling as his offering is being received by people all over the planet is insurmountable even after having gone through the ritual over three-hundred times, during September and December every year since 2008.

Lee Ritenour’s Jazz Funk from back in the day cavorts with memories abound. The mitigation of the work is in the perpetual nature of the story about the story. And the reward for the time spent, is how the work will stand the test of time.



Johnny looks out over the Purple Sea given its name for deeds and feelings that it inspires. The tranquil yet thought provoking body of water moves in sedate fashion to awake dormant passion. It is known to conjure admirable aspiration of goodwill in the retro and future-sphere of the Dream Dimension. Karma intensified by the sandman in trance-torpidity as one falls into sapid sleep behind the 2nd Horizon.

“It’s called the Purple Sea for a reason,” Skylah’s voice lingers as it delays and comes again in time with the waves that wash their feet.

Shawshank not an overly talkative type finds reason to add to, exclaim and uphold her thought. After all it could well be the result of her thinking, maybe?

“You can feel the transformation, in an instant…” Johnny confirms and then he goes back to where he was, thinking about what it is he must do to make his life worth living?

In the uncompromising world of a REPRO the likeminded need not say too much to each other in fear of losing their uniqueness to their surrounds. Actions are lauded and dialogue better be concise!

Johnny feels the back of her hand brush against his. If the Warmth’s will is that he become one with her? Then so shall it be. He had heard that the act is more loving and giving than heroic like he was used to in battle. As a soldier you’re only trained to do one thing, everything else is in support of that one thing. To fight so as to conquer… The sound of Frank Ocean over the seas helps calm his nerves and cultivate an aura akin to amorousness….

“A tornado flew around my room before you came
Excuse the mess it made, it usually doesn't rain
In Southern California, much like Arizona…”


Genisis stares off into the bluest yonder. A perfect summer’s day in Central park. Her best friend Danielle from back home was here. She was giving one hell of a commentary on what the “Player” their nickname for the guy who’s showed on the same day for the past six years is up to. It’s so hilarious it’s impossible for Genisis not to look.

Last year, the player was playing touch football with a group of guys. This year he’s it appears he’s collecting food from families and people picnicking in the glorious sunshine.

For Genisis, life was pretty good on her own. She had made new friends and came back strong and in a big way following a few disasters.

Danielle a lawyer in their home town continues to harass her about the handsome stranger. “Your honour, he’s rubbing oil all over that sandwich. You know that could be your tush. Right? You know that?” Danielle starts poking at the girl she went to Vegas with when they just sixteen. “You know who he reminds me of?”

Genesis knew exactly who she was referring to and nods her head.

“The fucking PIRATE. And I mean the FUCKING PIRATE…” Danielle’s laugh says it all.

“You heard from him?” Genisis ignores the question, as she tries to fathom recent events….


Strolling along New Brighton beach Aleisha marauds memories as she contemplates what the future may have in store.

The sea air cleanses pathways to her mind while the setting sun is still able to dry the tracks of her tears before they touch the ground.

Somewhere on the New Global Realm, the LATEST UPLOAD is ready at the gates of servers, but still it swirls around the corners of Aleisha’s mind one more time.

The rekindling of Genisis Jones’ heroinism and the introduction of Skylah Bonbon, a rebirth of the cool that launched Emotional Techno Fiction into another stratosphere, and keeps it there. For at least another year anyway. The writer she loves to channel cares about the things that matter most to Aleisha and her co-stars and cohorts everywhere.

Music by Frank Ocean reminds Ms Smith of the pending departure of the POETSOLDIER.

Alas it was announced, leaked more like it—JRA’s return to WELLY—his hometown. The event will see spark added to the verve and new found energy already oozing from the pages on which the POETSOLDIER affirms penmanship, nous and leadership in the story of our times.

His job here in CHURCH was complete.

Eloquence and strength blended perfectly, the way it was and the way it will always be. He speaks to her in so many ways.

“I've been thinkin' 'bout you
-You know, know, know-
I've been thinkin' 'bout you
Do you think about me still?
Do ya, do ya?”




“Twenty seconds on the back time
I feel you're on the run
never lived too long to make right
I see you're doing fine…”

A band called Texas serenades the citizens of Neon City. A feeling of déjà vu circumnavigates the optimism that befalls the locale apparent, where the musings of a maestro will take place according to the script that transpires in the sky above for all people to read. Letter by letter and then word by word the locum tale continues to administer hope of longevity in prosperous times when every nation on the forgotten planet would pause to breathe, a sigh of relief for life that was spared from war and its totality.

Imogen stands on the tips of her toes in hope she would be able to catch a glimpse of couple—Skylah and Johnny—as they pass by the adoring followers that line Neon Strip.

For Skylah this was metempsychosis for her. The realisation of her dream to become someone else, someone other than the unworthy person she was.

On the other hand, for Johnny it was the completion of the man he could be.

For Imogen it was a shedding of sorts. The shell she had given birth to, now doffed of her. The entity she was the marrow for now free to inhabit a shell of her choice.

The bitter sweet sensation that flows through Imogen's body a corrosive orgasmic current that tosses her about for a moment or two till she accepts post-comprehension status of extreme halcyon. The juncture of pleasure exclaimed in euphoria, is lionised by song…

“…Well, you can say what you want
but it won't change my mind
I'll feel the same
about you…”


Fall’s arresting nature becomes all that it shades with its esoteric flora. Its amiable mood enlightens all those who bask in its orange hue of necessity at this time of the year. New York, a picturesque landscape of art deco and colonialism mashed up, and brought up into the heavens by capitalism’s need to aspire, inspire and conquer. The leveller in us, the need to be heard in this gluttonous and covetous hollow…Metofeaz has heard the rhetoric before. And to be honest it’s not that different from the alternate spiel that the less affable, from his perspective aspire to….

Beneath the trees, Litigatti, the son that Jon Pierre never had is hard at work as a homeless man. He has his eye on Lazoo, the new kid on the block. LAZOO is the new prototype for the Network. “Grown” in the wild and then harvested at the right age and put to work in the field, without any training or even a mission to guide him.

Lazoo’s radar is incredible. In a city of 7 million entities he has found affinity with the one entity, that together they could change the course of the GAME forever.

John Lazoo’s target, whether or not he agrees with the terminology is Genisis Jones a previous prototype. Ms Jones was identified as a brilliant teenager in the mid-eighties and instantly recruited and trained by the Network as covert operative to work on the fringes of a project with long term goals.

Finding each in the line of duty, is a rather romantic notion for such a wretched vocation. But weirder things have happened.

The peculiar Lazoo at work was a sight to behold. Fully dressed in a black Armani suit he lays down in the middle of the area he christened the Promising Patch in Central Park. A name he hatched for the place he first laid eyes on Genisis Jones.


Luminous spheres dance along the golden mile. The coloured bubbles of light buoy the atmos as they bounce and bobble upon the highly held heads of Wellingtonians in the afterglow of another spectacular day in paradise. The moment is in accordance with music in this heavenly sphere, Texas is also are here in the MMD, loud and clear.

Everywhere, famished minds, starved of fabric that is the SASBWAH wait with baited breath to see if the POETSOLDIER will celebrate his return to his hometown with a renaissance of writing akin to the stuff which made him the biggest name on Planet Earth.

Overlooking the Golden Mile from the Embassy end of Courtney Place, Lunar Bois raises a glass of Merlot to the streets of WELLY. It was the playground on which he and the POETSOLDIER carved out their reputations and characters for the story that enriches life for so many around the globe. And still his good mate chooses anonymity over recognition. Irony is, that only exists in his mind, which is enough for the former confidence man to do what he does without fuss or any bother from the admirers and their accolades.

The theme to the LATEST UPLOAD drowns out murmurs of writer’s block and rumours that the POETSOLDIER was now using Facebook to inform operatives out there of what the NETWORK required from them.

Atonement for eternal condemnation is a hapless undertaking, which no one in their right mind would aspire to. But maybe the foil is not the guise but the humility of repentance and not the grandstanding some accuse the novice of. Either way, the followers will receive the data they crave for no other reason than it was written in front of them, for them by someone who cared about them…

“…Well, you can say what you want
but it won't change my mind
I'll feel the same
about you…”


“How Do I know?”


Johnny leads the procession made up of well-wishers up Neon Strip. Next to the proud groom a contented looking Skylah, her smile from ear to ear says it all. The leisurely amble of the chosen ones becomes a staccato strut full of vigour when in distance the happiest couple in the Dimension and their loving followers can hear music by another maestro.

The Bieber?” the whispers gather and in no time, Justin appears in the sky above them. The hit song “What do you mean?” meanders in the well tillered minds of the benefactor/champions of the newest craze to sweep Neon City—the amicable union of Johnny Shawshank the son of a pauper and Princess Skylah the heir apparent to a fortune left to her by the matriarch of the SFD….

Imogen looks down at her tattered wedding dress, a metaphor for the shame and lowliness she has been branded with. And tears begin to swell in the bluest eyes in the forgotten planet.

“What do you mean?
When you nod your head yes…”

The lyric a limerick of Imogen’s life.

Just then the procession with her daughter who wants nothing to do with her mother passes by. The whirling crowd that carousels around the newlyweds shielding the youngans from sanity and reality blur her vision of the child she bore….


The world is a kaleidoscope of clouds, a maze of deeds and regrets that will not go away…Lazoo ponders the meaning of life as he waits, laid up on the turf of Central Park, dressed in his best and blackest suit. The wind neither howls nor does it chill the airs of expectation that swirl in a chaotic harmony around his head. Out the corner of his one working eye, the radio stands in the way of doubt and any misgivings he may have about what was going to happen on this day, and sooner rather than later. For it had been two and bit hours by his reckoning since he lay down to wait for the babe with bluest eyes to show. Come to think of it, what if she did show up? What would that mean? It would only mean something if she came to the Promising Patch with the same intention as Lazoo. And what exactly was the intent behind his little masquerade?

He ponders prerequisites and premeditations of meditations, and sanctioned and unsanctioned motives. The difference between a stroll in Central Park on Sunday and a visit in hope of an intimate liaison…the variables become fixations and the fixations become obsessions till the obliqueness of an argument is lost in the acuteness of the obscurest of angles, which his hinged neck aches so his eyes can ponder way beyond the reaches of what’s perceived as normal.

Luckily daydreaming has its merits, conjuring Inter-Dimensional assistance, music is the sustenance required to alleviate any further anguish. Justin Bieber on the silver radio in the late '90s begins to play….

“…What do you mean?
What do you mean?
Said we’re running out of time
What do you mean?...”


Aleisha reads over chapter fourteen of the GUIOPERA on her iPhone 6. She has mixed feelings about the appearance of Lunar Bois in the story. Up ahead the southern hills of the Wellington coastline rise up out of Cook straight. The journey back to WELLY her adopted hometown she now realises was an easy one.

The bow of the ship is filled with tourists taking in breathe taking views as the Ferry enters Wellington harbour.

On the shore, the Coolest little Capital in the world is brimming with energy as the maximum number of bars is provided by Vodafone for the release of the LATEST UPLOAD which the theme song begins to echo from devices that simultaneously download the essential data required to round out the day and another weekend.

Aleisha feels a shiver run down her spine, her arms wrap themselves around to welcome the smile of relief that the POETSOLDIER has not and never will forget about her and her plight in this sometimes challenging world that is life in the second decade of the twenty first century.

Luminous spheres haze her vision, while euphoria traces the depths of her thankful soul.

“…Don’t want for us to end where do I start
first you wanna go to the left and you want to turn right
wanna argue all day, making love all night…”



Milli Vanilli eternalise fabrication of a different kind in the SFD. And the fans are none the wiser. Accelerants and condolences for misleading the masses, but the tune and the melody was catchy enough to immortalise moments in time…Out the corner of his eye Shawshank can see the bag-lady who he noticed for the third time today as he and Skylah visit the burbs on the skirts of the city. The woman in her thirties lingered on the fringes of the multitudes that came to support the unification of “Promise & Purpose” the name given to their campaign.

The female-vagabond, her dress was torn but still wearable. Maybe it was a uniform of some sort? Full of grime, it definitely was too robust to be off fine fashion.

There was something reminiscent about her. Maybe it was just Shawshank’s empathetic side? Or maybe it was the optimist in him that could see the best in everyone he came upon? Maybe he had met either her shell or entity in a previous scenario? Or! Maybe it was someone Skylah knew and the kindling of his and his new amour’s entities allowed him to sense, feel and assume her past experiences?

Just when he thought he would grab Skylah’s arm to tell her about the woman, the raggedy but somewhat pleasant looking person vanishes.

“What hon?”

“It’s no one…I mean nothing babe…”

And with that the happy couple surrender all misgivings to the Dimension.

“…Girl you know it's true
I love you
Yes you know it's true
I love you
Girl you know it's true…”


Genisis walks without a care in the world. Central Park is alive in autumn. Nature’s bustle is evident, the foliage underfoot, a wonderful carpet upon which one could imagine all kinds of marvellous and whimsical ideas. Like love and madly in love. Or fulfilment in spirituality from inner peace and acceptance of all that one is and will be. To be honest she walks to assign and to sync biorhythms with the lunar cycles that change.

“LAZOO” she had heard the name before. The last place she’d heard the name was under the trees at the edges of Central Park.

Maybe she was walking towards that area of the park? Maybe she was being drawn there by some higher power? Who knows and frankly who cares? It was her favourite time of year. And if she was ever a character in a STORYBOOK, this was the setting for her to make her appearance.


Monday morning on the streets of WELLY and the vibe was more than cordial. The ALL BLACKS quarter final victory at the Rugby World Cup eased the minds of the people and gave them something to smile about till next week.

In and amongst it, the buzz, JRA crosses the street. The act of pretending to not know about being the centre of attention had become cool again for the Cut-Throat-Creative who came close to throwing in the towel a few months back. The renewed vigour with which he approaches life and the GAME is to do with changes in his personal life.

The LATEST UPLOAD hits the internet and the faithful respond to their favourite author. The famous Wellington wind swirls as it stirs the seas of emotion that were once inert in each of us. The SASBWAH, an escapade of the heart continues....

“…Girl you know it's true
I love you
Yes you know it's true
I love you
Girl you know it's true…”



Skylah’s mood had never been better for longer than it is right at this moment…regardless of the weather, state of the nation, the price of commodities, those with their tits in a twist, those with a less than spectacular take on life in the Dream Dimension. Irrespective of her disposition and the meanderings of her wayfaring modular mind—for most of the time—she felt like a princess. Even with the lingering thought that somewhere out there hidden in the vast crowds of followers, was Imogen just waiting for an opportunity to spring a surprise that would seriously rain down on Ms Bonbon’s parade.

Finally, the sun peeks over the top of the crater. In the absolute centre of the latent volcano surrounded by a moat of crimson blood waters is the palace made of polished granite she and her husband Johnny Shawshank call home. Daybreak was a special time for her and Johnny. Any moment now he will wake and together they will welcome the new born day. Their ritual included loving the day at hand, loving each other and loving the land on which they loved all that their love afforded them.


Metofeaz takes a swig of the bottle. The tequila numbed the skeletal ailments this mission had caused his ailing body. He was physically fit, and could probably look after himself against most men in a tussle, but living under a tree for nearly a year dampened the zest in a man and in turn spent what life was left in his limbs.

Less than a hundred yards from him Lazoo in his Sunday best lay still like a corpse in the middle of the Promising Patch.

Suddenly, the day became overcast. It was as if someone’s mood had changed. Grey clouds plumed passively, shrouding fall’s failure to ferment or fallow the day. In fact, the wind joins the murky masquerade. Out from the bushes popped Squirrels that shuddered at the thought that winter may have come already…the swelling elements briefly climax in an orchestral stab that fades as fast as it came to pale what was meant to be a poignant moment.

And then out of the corner of his eye, Litigatti recognises someone amongst the indistinct and the non-coherent that muddle his mind in a laborious façade that is the GAME. Genisis Jones was back. She was heading for the open spaces off the beaten path of the morons, idiots, clowns, extras and rats (MICERs) who overran the backdrop of what was meant to be a serene and caring interlude for the sensitive ones to cherish.


A booming thud followed by chains clanging, feet shuffling and a speed bag being thoroughly tested lead us down and into a place where peace of mind is sought in an alternate mode. Stale sweat and liniment oil, the sweet smell of success for those who made it along to LUNAR’S today.

In the farthest corner of the modest gym under natural light from above, a lean young man cuts a dedicated and anointed figure in front of a swinging punch bag—the heaviest kind. Circling the focused character with only one thing on his mind, a middle aged man with shaved head who talks elaborately to kid about expressing himself on the canvass he lunges forward at…HONE hits the rib cage of the bag hard with a thundering right hand, and then a lightening left hook that connects with where someone’s head would be, makes the heavy bag do a zig zag in the air, again.

“Less stress about it and more fluidity will give you the speed you’re looking for…” Then LUNAR BOIS steps back to gauge Hone’s response. “Be snappy about the way you connect, and then hit through the sweet spot when you really feel the need to make a point…”

The door on the other side of the gymnasium opens and Aleisha steps inside the humble environment hidden in one of WELLY’s inner city burbs.

It’s as if the force had been disturbed when the dozen or so people training, mostly young males stop what they’re doing to check out the female in their midst.

The silence is broken when outside on swooping swift northerly, music akin to this—clan of Aleisha, Hone and Lunar reunited for the first time in over two years—begins to play….



Johnny wakes to sparkling light that quivers on a woman’s lips. Skylah lays on her side, her arm propping her head up. The sheerness of the silk sheet, she pulled up to cover herself with, thin enough so he can see her nipple irrepressible and hard. Her lips come closer till he can feel their heat on his. He appreciates her scent at this time of day. And the look in her eyes, he will never forget he decides as he traces the side of her face with his fingers. He lets his hand roam down the contours of her body, another feature of her he will memorise and etch in his heart for his hands to define. As he reaches the lower regions of her body, the sheet slides down as his will to know the woman he’s vowed to love for the rest of his life, better than anyone will ever know her, rises. His touch will command her body to respond in a way which only he can summon her body, mind and soul to do….


LAZOO lay stiller than ever. Footsteps neared the place he had pronounced an area of—Elysian beauty—for it was where he laid eyes on her for the very first time.

A few feet away, the silver radio begins to rattle as if it were in an earthquake. Then it starts to tune itself scanning for a frequency bypassing the idle talk, leaving static waste behind in search of something special, one would suspect and definitely hope.


The forgiving sun engenders an accustomed feeling of reminiscence within the people on the streets of WELLY this Saturday morning.  Strains of a familiar tune in the air necessitate emotion which the POETSOLDIER swallows for the sake of his own inner peace as he makes his way along Riddiford St Newtown to the markets.

There, the cornucopia of fresh produce laid out in sprawling stalls is a festival of colour. The town’s people, merry as they go about their Saturday morning ritual knowing that the POETSOLDIER was home, amongst them.

The feeling of community rings throughout the borough and is resonated on the internet when the casual morning affair is documented for all to experience in the LATEST UPLOAD.

The feeling of #GRATITUDE prevails as JRA makes his way through the plentiful markets. His First World Problem this morning was finding the cheapest produce in a minimal price and quality spread amongst an exceptional array of choice. This morning’s FWP is not in context of just the third world alone. John Reyer spent the previous seventeen months working for his friend Benoit Petit’s company Solutrades in Christchurch as a part of the rebuild for government social housing. And what he found was the effects of the 10 and 11 quakes on CHURCH had rendered the city broken. The city was still broken in pieces, and as far as the concept of a city in the terms of town planning—there was none. Fundamentally the place is still shattered. Any sense of community down there, is a thin fabric sewn together from the resilience of very brave people who remain there…

JRA finds his vegetables for the next week and makes his way home. The nagging thought, or the native message repeater on the F3quenZor keeps alerting of partial cell semblance in close proximity of his location. On a whim, he’d written in the previous chapter a spatial scene or placeholder/pipe dream in which Lunar, Hone and Aleisha had found each other. And now they were waiting for him to walk in so life can carry on from where they left off, a couple years ago.

A familiar tune begins to negate any reservations the POETSOLDIER may have about whether the systems and methods he once taught young recruits in order to have them fit for the field in limited time were real and effective. The receptors were receiving and transmitting. Nodes were accepting and decoding the quintessential data. The Three Pillars of the Semi-System were in sync and on song. The telepathic relay known as F3quenZor was rebooting as we speak….



Aotearoa comes down from an almighty high following celebrations nationwide to welcome home their greatest sports team in history…while Richie McCaw’s men bask in the golden weather of their accomplishments commentators continue to scavenge for superlatives to commemorate the ALL BLACKS of 2015. The crowning moment had been at Twickenham, but the naming of the greatest ALL BLACK team of all time following their successful defense of the Rugby World Cup was still a work in progress. The “Inconceivables” for being the first team to win three and back to back rugby world cups, would sit nicely upon the mantelpiece next to the Web Ellis. Their inconsolable opponents would think so of the ABs’ and their awesome feats since winning the cup in ’11 which includes an unbeaten international test season in 2012 against Australia, South Africa, Argentina, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales and Italy. All of this success culminating in an unbelievable 83% win rate. According to sports historian Ron Palenski the ABS have surpassed the Brazilian football team, Montreal’s Canadiens ice hockey team and even baseball’s New York Yankees or any other professional sports team in history. All in all, regardless of whether you’re a fan or not, captain of the ABs, McCaw is a special sportsman and unique character for having played so many matches (148) in such a physically demanding sport in the most demanding position of open-side flanker. And to have captained the ALL BLACKS to its winningest era within in an illustrious history says something about the guy…anyways, to McCaw and to the other retiring greats—Carter, Nonu, Smith, Mealamu and Woodcock—it’s inconceivable that in my lifetime I witnessed all six of you guys make history in one ABs team…your presence immortalised an already gargantuan achievement. Maybe the “Immortals” would do you and the rest of this team justice?


Outside the open window a Monarch butterfly flutters aimlessly. Its kinetic-like energy is faultless, harnessing all that is possible in the palatable regions of plausible to insinuate that everything was fine in the upper echelons of existence in the Dream Dimension. Palpitations of her heart simulate transience of the insect’s wings before it vanishes into the thickened and opaque ether they had just created with their love. Skylah’s breathing and body oscillates and heaves till it finds a plateau on which it can descend from, proper and womanlike, gently on the genteel tip afforded her as Princess of the SenFenide Dimension.

With her at every stanza of her coming down to the ground that still moves beneath them, is Johnny. He holds her so close, his arms will always be the instruments of bliss and contentment she dreams of. The morning breeze on his broad back, fresh and fervent in off the crest of Alchemy Alps exhilarates life back into Johnny’s reigniting embers. His hand still holds her hand. In an effort to control their chemistry, they clasp at each other tight in an effort to rescind the tremors that run through them as a reminder of what they had just achieved, as man and woman…


Down in the MMD, where dreams are conjured and nightmares are fabricated from dust and other impurities that infect the after effects of a meticulous mind…the silver radio ceases to rattle like a condemned and demonically possessed charlatan practising illegitimate quackery. The grating sound of static subsides and then momentarily white noise blocks out all else till redeeming music replenishes the soul. As if by order, calm is restored and the equilibrium is re-established.

LAZOO shuts his eyes again, as the moment he had dreamt is commemorated on earth. The intangible, the obscure and abstract concepts he thought that no one would ever grasp becomes the favoured fable of the day, somewhere in time. Janine his mother had taught him that when great things occur, they will inspire and transpire throughout time as truism or aphorism for the faithful to follow.

He had grappled all his life with the idea that he was conduit for the maxim axiom, LOVE, TRUST, HONESTY & RESPECT. Imagine dealing with his gift in the environment he grew up in, jail. Even now on the outside, where he still felt different from everyone around him. Being one of the Three Pillars of the F3quenZor meant he would always be on the outside, or inside looking out but never the same as those around him.


The order of assembly within the Network was a delicate web of intricacies that relied on the universe’s natural scheme of justice to adjudicate all things, big or small. It was that intricate balance which a POETSOLDIER relied upon and not his own cunning to settle outcomes with far reaching ramifications.

JRA looks down at the banana box full of vegetables he carries out in front of him along the busy street. It reminds of when he was a kid working in his father’s shop. A taxi cab passes by another reminder of his old man…the F3quenZor begins to hum, the signal that close to a maximum number of nodes had logged on. The sensation from having that many operatives tune in on your frequency is a bit like having a millions of followers on social media, only difference is the buzz is pure, clean, unadulterated energy willing their seasoned leader on to write what he thinks and what they’re sending him to disseminate in the GUIOPERA.

If ever there was a time that the Network needed direction it was now. In times of Partial Peace, which is the best that one can hope for it was important to reaffirm and manifest an operative’s stance in their everyday life. And that is, ALWAYS! Trust your training. Live in the truth or the moment. In any given situation always take control and lead the way for the welfare and wellbeing of all concerned, and not for the glory. And if life ambushes you, ride it out till you can tame and reclaim the situation, for the sake of the cause and the lives that depend on you.

As the LATEST UPLOAD circumnavigates certain sensibilities, the rules of language, and the law of averages, the ALL BLACKS fan can at least reference something similar to the phenomenon he is responsible for….



The look on the faces of the citizens of the Neon City and throughout the SFD as they hold their collective breath span the various iterations of meaningful—from wide-eyed and fascinated to worried and concerned…in the sky the reason for their yearning and the pining looks on their faces.

Behind closed doors of the Magisterial Mansion in the crater of Mount Mercurial volcano the regal couple. It had been days and nights since Johnny Shawshank and Skylah Bonbon vanished behind the titanium gates of the palatial manor to consummate the physical and spiritual union of their shells and entities.  

Pundits and punters offered up theories and then their counter theories to cover all possible variables to predict a most likely outcome for the incorporation of the planet’s most eligible man and woman into the Dimension’s most enlightened couple.

The Echelon Trekker MK Z, an advanced form of drone takes an orbital view of itself and the palace using a myriad of its Atmos-Spores that surround the site giving a prolific profile of the landscape and close up of every speck of dust.

Imogen’s view of the mansion glitches and so she turns her head and zooms in on one of the many screens on offer on the sKY-GRId. She chooses one in which you can see a figure standing at the window. Hell, it could be anyone, probably a servant but it sure did beat the close ups of the ground, which Adco were using to sell off every inch of the planet.


Looking through the binoculars Jon Le Mac likes the idea that someone is most likely watching him as he watches Litigatti who watches Lazoo. The story thereof is layered, multi-faceted and so rich, if anyone was brave or smart enough to dismantle each account and relay their assessment in coherent and succinct fashion it would warrant a Hollywood franchise and definitely a place in the hearts and minds of those who came it across it.

Le Mac a graduate from UCLA film school, which was his cover, knew how convoluted the story was and that any cohesive rendition of the many angles from within the untold amount of stories spawned of the events he’s witnessed as part of LMLA-ink would pale against what was going down. And the story that mattered most would be a paltry means to an end. It really depended on whose perspective the audience would care for the most in the end.

And at this moment time as Genisis Jones who holds a doctorate in psychology makes her way across the grass to where convicted murderer and bank robber James Elton from Wisconsin lies on his back in a suit waiting for her, based on a whim and story from a book his mother read to him when he was a child, which is also the reason why he unofficially goes by the name JOHN LAZOO, the lead character from the book, you can almost bank on the fact that his story will be the one that will resonate eternally.

The New American Dream had been bandied around as a working title for the concept when JRA first pitched the concept to the NETWORK back in ’86. Since then the idea, which is primarily a training manual in the form of a cloaking device for their Semi-System (another name for faction of the Network) has had several iterations. Still, in a nutshell it was all about love, the most inspiring idea known to man. Boy meets girl. They fall in love. In the course of their epic romance villains or scary clowns emerge as antagonists and the good guys and their pals triumph over fool's evil. The new recruits assume the role and traits of a character and follow the storyline for their next move in the field…For years LMLA-ink and their associates went about their work sending the next installment in headlines and via popular culture. Newspapers, TV, Film, music, LMLA-ink garnered support from some of the world’s most prominent stars offering their art as vehicle for The Kid From Nowhere, the Guy, DJ, Whimsical, the Cut Throat Creative, and LAZOO to name just a few, to spread the word in the name of the cause.


John Reyer reads through what he’s written in parts 1 and 2 of the current chapter. He then cross references it with the eBook JOHN LAZOO he wrote back in 2006…in 2002 JRA knew something big was about to happen in the way we communicate and connect with each other. And that soon, mainstream media would lose its grip on the dissemination or distribution of information due to the openness of the internet. Something had to be done, a platform had to be designed and created to differentiate his heart seeking illicit-datum for the NETWORK nodes or operatives from all else.

A partnership with a powerful entity had to be forged. And he had to come up with enough content which equated to about three months of meaningful data on every other day each year to keep the operatives primed and ready for action, and also satisfy his distribution partner with quality content.

A story!

One that would somehow capture the imagination of the world. Like all great ideas it had to serve a primary function, in this case, generate data. And secondly its purpose was to provide an escape from reality by offering convenience or fantasy. The rest would take care of itself, perpetuating momentum as self-prophecy fulfilled the wheel of sustainability in the context of art—performance art—to be exact…

For years, the code was strewn across billboards, headlines, nestled in choruses of songs and hidden in snappy dialogue that was deciphered by the chosen few using carefully calculated parameters, with elongated contexts that yielded poignant morsels, personalised to the point that an operative could be watching a film three years after its release and unravel code that they had been waiting on for twenty four hours. Such was the expanse and the reach of the messaging employed by the Network that it could only have been devised by one mind and implemented by a single node as to not cross lines in the most intricate matrix ever conceived….



Imogen, fresher than the morning breeze skips to the rhythm of life that resonates all around her. Her long locks, a golden wave to behold, weaves its magic as it hangs in the eager air of youth that invigorates passion. Her white dress made of lace is pristine as it was on the day the seamstress of love wove the fabric to her yearning heart’s desires. And to this day, even when the hem touches the ground, its virgin appearance is maintained in an unblemished animation of life, if it were so perfect in every way.

From a distance, the ghostlike figure that graces the woods on the civilised edges of the Dimension Forks is a heavenly vision for the masses that watch the REPRO in the sky.

But then, unannounced, unscripted and unforeseen the picture begins to melt away. Curtailing clouds wrap around folding the screen back into the yonder. Maybe it receded back as far as the depths of the mind behind the 2nd Horizon from whence the fable foreran the foreboding omens of its demons, thereof…the cadence of feet in retreat, hastily and hysterically ices the corners of someone’s smile, somewhere?


Genisis feels the heel of her shoe sink into the grass. The walk across the less than sturdy surface, the same as the leap of faith she’s taking.

The messaging was clear as day. She has the vessel or carrier of the message in her handbag which she slips her hand inside. The silky cover of the book confirming that she is on the right track and for the right reasons. It gives her a much needed shot of confidence.

For years she had wondered about the handsome stranger on the 4th of July. And what his motives were? She knew he wasn’t a random encounter or fleeting affair that would end up on the scrapheap, right from the start.

Her character GENISIS JONES in the STORYBOOK (one of two hand bound leather books which supposedly exist) was prim and proper. The outline for GENISIS in a handwritten letter back in ’86 from which she takes her cues was inspired by Jon Pierre’s STORYBOOK (written between the late ‘30s and early ‘80s) was quietly rebellious and wistfully guilt ridden for no reason. Her character had been spun indecently by an inexperienced writer to enthuse a muse who was far from being amused.

The rarefied air upon which Genisis begins to float is made pure by the appearance of music in the ether.

Even on his back, dressed in a black suit which would instantly cast a veil of insanity over any poor normal guy, he was perfect for her….


In a week of turmoil, unrest and sadness the best we can do as the human race for the sake of mankind is count our blessings. Take stock of what we have, the things that are truly precious to us, things that are irreplaceable. The stuff that really matters to us, that money cannot buy or replace.

Listen up…if every person on this planet stopped for just a minute to make a list of the things that they can be grateful for, imagine the peacefulness, gratitude and happiness that would create…imagine it! A minute of peace…#minutepeace

Meanwhile, the streets of Newtown, WELLY, a melting pot and diverse acquirement of beliefs and counter-beliefs hum to the unchartered foray into a brand new periphery of awareness as it taxis along the runway….

Hidden away on side-street off Riddiford, ALEISHA closes the heavy door behind her. The rusty hinges grind in the hush of inactivity. All eyes are upon her like there was a curse cast that second. It’s a relief for Aleisha when she spots her son’s profile in the farthest corner of the gymnasium. HONE a young man now, the only person not looking at her. He does that familiar guy thing that they do when they’re lost for words or are lost in a myriad of excuses as to why they did what they did. It doesn’t matter that he hadn’t done a thing wrong. And that she misses him dearly after being down south in CHURCH for over a year, he had inherited his father’s guilt…on cue, the LATEST UPLOAD which had been mulling around in the collective ambition of many begins to pulse at the gates of the internet. Music by which this increment of his story will be absorbed begins in the background.

Out on Riddiford St the POETSOLDIER meanders pavements, he and his mother, whose birthday it was yesterday used to walk along—he in his pram and she like a proud mother pushing him on—stopping every so often to see if her only child was listening to his mother. He can still remember her telling him about what he is currently experiencing. “John, you will cope. But if you do what your heart tells you, you will change the world son. When you’re ready. Only when you’re ready, son…”

And with that, a load is lifted and the next chapter is rendered into the essence of humanity.

The missing rhetoric for the disillusioned and disheartened hits the internet. In the words of the Isley Brothers the moment is abridged for all to enjoy. And maybe one day #minutepeace will be realised…

“Are you ready for the time of your life
It's time to stand up and fight
(It's alright) it's alright (It's alright, it's alright)
From the highest mountain, and valley low
Well join together with hearts of gold…”


“Biggest Part of Me”



The needle on the convertible’s speedometer climbs steadily. The white lines in the middle of the road become one. The driver’s grip on the steering wheel firms as the wind begins to ruffle his hair. The light on the radio comes on, lighting the grim reality of it all…METOFEAZ LITIGATTI had read each tale from the STORYBOOK and all the fan-fiction posted by the POETSOLDIER John Reyer on the internet at since 2006. As a matter of fact, Litigatti was reared by POETSOLDIER Jon Pierre who headed up their Semi-System or cell of the NETWORK from 1938 to 1984. And personally read to Litigatti, John Page and Arley Lévon the stories or cloaking devices he penned during his tenure.

But being here in the subterfuge layer, the Dream Dimension, the SFD as it is commonly known is an experience to behold. Imagine if air had the density of water and your body movements were a direct function of any cognitive activity void of your own body’s motor neuron control, whatsoever. The slightest inkling and you’re off. Arms, legs pulled in that direction and then lucid thought takes over and immediately you assume an upright posture to fulfil a command. Add to that imbroglio or entanglement of mind over limbs, the unforgivable fact that the mind that controls your actions in the SFD could be anyone’s. But that’s not all, there’s more…throw in the variable that most candidates cannot fathom let alone execute. Collective Percipience or CP a form of shared dreaming first introduced by the NETWORK at the close of World War I. It was used to coordinate an infiltration mission which brought the war to a close…Anyways, in CP a cell is dispatched a command. The leader of the Semi-System assigns each operative a role from one of the stories in the STORYBOOK of course. Every cell has a storybook or playbook some adapt famous films, novels, and even sitcoms and songs…the cell headed up by Jon Pierre Solomon also a novice writer used his work as their cloaking devices. The purpose of CP was to bind the unit as one on every level imaginable and unimaginable so in the course of their everyday lives the nodes would seamlessly be able to implement and carry out the plan as it were. The real magic of CP was in the fact that no one, including the unit leader knew what the outcome was, unless of course the mission was a direct hit on a target. This minimised any leaks or contamination of detail and information regarding…At the age of fourteen Metofeaz Litigatti graduated top of his class from the academy…

The radio continues to scan. Static and then white noise bleeds the air of any life. The terse directive as convoluted as it was, screams for order!


JOHN LAZOO gets up off the ground. He brushes the grass from his backside and then he decides to take his suit jacket off…

GENISIS JONES can’t help but laugh. The cool, cavalier exterior had been extinguished and LAZOO was flustered all of a sudden.

On the peripheral of the Promising Patch, the team come out of the woodwork. JON LE MAC shakes hands with TONE HORROH a lookalike for the leader of LMLA-ink who was somewhere near Antarctica.

In the distance NYPD disperse. On a walkie talkie “the ink still wet, these boys just walked off the page and into I don’t know what? Not sure if it’s a nightmare or dream for all and sundry, Hannibal?”

“Never you-mind, what kind of fiasco these boys about unleash, just stay on them…” Hannibal Ammer a proxy of sorts for the establishment’s southern drawl is as wicked as ever, it frames that famous crooked snarl of his just fine.

Back in the epicentre of a silent but salient storm Lazoo gathers his thoughts as he tries to collet himself. His mind races faster than his heat can beat. “Man, she came here just like in the book.” The internal dialogue is simple, the effects though has the fast talking conman speechless for once in his life.

Genisis looks around as chills pend to steal her mind away. And then a calm feeling comes over her. Maybe this is what it was like when the POETSOLDIER penned the STORYBOOK? The role of GENISIS belonged to JANINE ELTON’ Lazoo’s grandmother back when the Jon Pierre crafted his poetry and spun each one into the web of intricately woven myth, mayhem and memoir that it is now. Out of the corner of her eye, something grabs Genisis’ attention. It’s Metofeaz Litigatti, as usual in the background, toiling for the cause.

“Metofeaz Litigatti, Desert Storm Special Ops, the son Jon Pierre never had…homeless like many of our vets.”

Lazoo sounded more like an Analyst than the hustler come artist he is here to portray.

But it was a lapse, most definitely a transgressional ire to show Genisis he was here to play his part.

“What captures your eye?” Lazoo begins to recite as he puts his jacket back on.

“And captivates your mind?” The maestro as he has been cast lunges wholeheartedly into the role of roles he has been gifted.

“And catapults your heart, above its flat line, beyond the possibilities you have felt?”

Genisis watches him walk off. She waits for him to do something other than just walk away from her.

“I have the POEMBOOK!" He calls out, looking over his shoulder at her to exclaim truth.


There's a new sun arisin'
--In your eyes--
I can see a new horizon
That will keep me realizin'
you’re the biggest part of me”

Sunday morning and WELLYs, the coolest little capital in the world is awash with blessed sunshine. The sounds of Ambrosia in “Biggest Part of Me” floats on a pleasant breeze, that touches every soul that reads the words that begin to flow from the WORD document, most read. The affluent aspirations of a simple writer exemplify hope world-wide.

On a balcony at the Embassy end of Courtney Place, LUNAR BOIS squints as the forgiving sun momentarily blinds his view of the GOLDEN MILE on which tourists and locals mingle just for the sake it. And so they can say they were there when the Cut-Throat-Creative scripted a scene for the world to see, what life could be like in an altruistic and benevolent society…Below, a pearl Suzuki Swift zooms by. Lunar a close friend and confidant of JRA growing up does a double take only for another Swift to pass in the opposite direction.

“More coffee?” Aleisha’s voice from inside the suave but not overly sophisticated apartment cuts through the theme song for the chapter that will no doubt be the LATEST UPLOAD and offering by the POETSOLDIER to universe later today.


Driving down streets his dad used to drive as a cab driver, JRA turns up the radio. The music and the atmos combine to determine what he must do and more importantly what he must say, given the platform he has been gifted, like one else, before him or after him.

The meaning of this instalment is, after every storm there is calm. The question is, do we live in fear of the storm or do we celebrate the calm? Make a list and then a wish! This one’s on me…

“…Make a wish, baby
--Wish and it will come true--
Well and I will make it come true
Make a list, baby
--Make a list of the things for you--
Of the things I'll do for you…”

Create your list for #minutepeace




“…I’m a loser
and I’m losing my belief…”

The Phoenix Foundation lyrics foretell as they prophesy things to come. Stuff so grand that one can now afford to forego their wasted dreams and assume the role of lonesome loser that they’ve always wanted to be. Litigatti also known as Whimsical, feathers away any residue of worry or doubt that may linger to thwart his entry into the story that has been recant so it can be told by a more thoughtful and caring narrator. He had been written in, or more accurately inserted by way of dream with a specific purpose to fulfil. Now he must find the seam of the fabric, through which he will enter into the melee of minds, a supreme conflict of consciousness.

Metofeaz lets his arm hang down the side of the passenger door as he pulls up to the gates of Neon City. Next to him, a lass by the name of IMOGEN, he suspects. The pretty lady makes Metofeaz want to smile for some reason. None more so than the fact that she wears a wedding dress. She had appeared out of the woods on the edge of the Dimension Forks. He stopped. She hopped in. And not a word had been said, shared, or sifted in filters applied in courteous times between strangers, feeling starkly naked and unravished without the comfort of acquaintance to lubricate events, in a social sense.

In the sky, Johnny Shawshank and Skylah Bonbon continue to enthral audiences across the dimension. Clips of Johnny carrying Skylah over the threshold of their new palace dominate the montage of the most famous couple in the land.

“Not bad for a freewheeling free for all.” Metofeaz comments on the REPRO that grips the nation as the guard, a hulking Roman Centurion sporting Ray-Ban Aviators and wearing NIKE runners, scans the length of the convertible and then Metofeaz’s head with unlawfully modern looking apparatus, that resembles the love child of a blow dryer and Chihuahua. Unimaginable? I guess so.

“Incredulous aspiration aside, you and your time machine are hereby granted a license to enter into the capitol of the SFD, more famously known as the Neon City.” The official welcome sounded energetic and not the least bit rehearsed or laboured.

“Imogen?” Metofeaz takes a stab and turns to his passenger.

“Whimsical?” Imogen’s smile is a welcome reprieve for Metofeaz who previously dreaded having to face his groundhog day yet again….


Pedro Picasso’s father’s father was an immigrant. The derogatory remarks and the endless innuendos even on the Police radio, he and his partner Steve, short for Stevenson listen to, have become laughable for the son of an immigrant. “Male, Hispanic or African American under the influence. Pcp, so he knows he can fly…” Stevenson Tait was decorated cop, which made everything that more interesting for Pedro his partner.

“Who’s Hannibal?” Every now and again the crap got to Pedro. It was during those times, when Pedro’s conscience automatically switched itself on, that Pedro made full use of the guilt he suffered from severely, fleeting as it may be, Pedro son of a cop used it like revenge on his crooked partner. He was well aware of Tait’s association with Clarenta, the arms dealer. But this new name, “Hannibal” which Tait had mentioned a few times over the last month was on a different level. They communicated openly, brief, but openly in the course of “business” as Tait liked to call police work.

“Hannibal’s a patriot.” In Tait’s eyes, you were either onside or you were the enemy. There was no room passivism. The lines were drawn in Tait’s mind, it helped organise a whole lot of shit that would otherwise cause his kind a great loss of sleep.

They’d been parked up for a while now watching the Tribeca eatery come playhouse for the wickedly and horrendously immoral. It was only now in the unravelling way the universe dishes out reward for the vigilant and less villainous of its citizens according to Tait that things were starting to happen. “Seek and ye shall find, ask and ye shall be rewarded, but if the son of bitch ain’t playing the game, then you got to lead the horse to water and drown the animal therein…” Tait sounds excited. In fact he sounds a little too excited for someone who condemns the sorts of people that populate the place across the street. “Faggots, niggers and nigger lovers. It’s God’s way of reminding us, how lucky we white folk and friends are…”

Across the street, James Elton a delinquent who had graduated from juvenile hall and went straight to the big leagues enters SIL HOUSE Café, one of Harry Clarenta, property tycoon’s esteemed addresses that litter the sidewalks of New York.

Inside, Clarenta himself who has a thing for tight bodied boys waits at the window table beneath the arched logo. Behind the counter Simon Campbell manager of the exclusive joint, a convicted rapist from Canada.

Filling out the foreground of the refinery of evil and snobbery, Jimmy Afra small time hood with his bleached afro and Mick Haze drug dealer and pimp.

Around them, a particular set, handpicked by Clarenta for the scene at hand. Med students, out of work actors, strippers with real breasts and mothers who neglected to breast feed their young. And of course pretty boys who like clothes. All of them quiet as James Elton looks for the only available seat in the house…


The wet WELLY morning is spiked by the fibrously quirky sound of the Phoenix Foundation. Their apathetic sweet-sour hit “Give Up Your Dreams” aerates aspirations of a loser once again. The air is suddenly astute with such fine and dandy shit like this.

On the corner of Courtney and Taranaki, party goers on their last legs shield eyes from the murky grey that seeps through low hanging cloud. At the back of the small multitude waiting for the little green man to strut his stuff, HONE, tufts the collars of his leather jacket. The rain spits in his face as he kicks his chucks to a different beat. The street gleams, reflecting mocked then savaged and in the end—neglected dreams of a would-be rock star.

Hone quickly makes his way through the throng of those heading home, to work or shopping. They consist of those who are munted, the munters and muntees. The munted are truly fucked. They were truly fucked over by the munters, whilst the muntees just watched. To avoid getting munted, one must de-munt their lives. Munt is like lint. Eventually one day, your life will be an unliveable-unwearable crap munted, lint ridden sweater…Hone quickly detaches himself from the narrative in his head that makes him smile for no apparent reason. A car passes by and the Phoenix Foundation escape into the ether which the blessed sun has come out to tease. He can almost smell the munted smell of decomposing leaves on the way to school as a child…or was it one of munted’s sweaty arse?

News that JRA was back in town, resonates with the young guy who possesses both aspiration and ambition in that particular order. Since uncovering the truth about who is mother was at the age of seventeen, life seemed to have nosedived into a traverse of disorder and freedom for Hone a stellar student raised by his grandparents up north. It wasn’t all bad. But he hadn’t succeeded at anything he had attempted.

Ideology and mythology are opposing ideas. One is about ethics the other is about ego, never shall the two meet. Being a fan of someone who is combines these two concepts as an art is a dangerous pastime….

"Give up your dreams..."




“You may not remember me
I am the girl with the tear in her eye
and I never expected a call from you
but thinking about it now
I guess I did…”

Sunday morning in the SFD and orchestral string lines pervade past tense as they perpetuate a new purpose and meaning of life for Imogen. The birds chime in and the young ladies that line the sidewalks with flowers in their hair spread goodwill and loving memories of her former shell…fading in the distance, the convertible as Metofeaz drives off to find where there was a tear in the subplot for him to tempt his followers to follow him with his sublime skills as a performer for the sake of the cause.

Imogen waves out to Metofeaz. She can still see his smile in the rear view mirror.

As she turns to walk away something tells her it won’t be the last time she will see his smile.


“…Cos I have all these dreams in my head
of you and I together waking in each other’s arms…”

Across time, space and conceptual dimensions of emotional techno fiction…

ANIKA MOA’s “Dreams in My Head” helps feelings circumnavigate hardened hearts and weary souls that lean against walls waiting for someone fall head over heels, so they can so, “I told you so!”

Genisis closes her eyes as she lets her head fall back in submission. It was the last day of fall and winter’s iciness nips at her every sense and sensibility, alarming all parts of her to stand guard.

“So, can I call you?” Lazoo’s sincerity is astounding, even for a player of his calibre he was more than believable.

LAZOO waits for Genisis to say something. Behind her, her apartment block in Greenwich Village. He didn’t much fancy the village. Maybe it was because in the village, there were real artists with a craft, an art in which they expressed themselves. And the audience responded accordingly in a mutual appreciation of that “art.” Or maybe it was because he came to the Big Apple to live in in the city, not a village where unkempt people with overzealous expressions jumped out at you. He had enough of weirdoes inside. Over a decade of them…

“You can call me, if that’s what it takes…” Genisis tosses a line into the blue and then she abruptly turns and walks away, leaving Lazoo to figure it out for himself….

“What’s your number?” Lazoo calls out in the dense atmos filled with doubt and a decent doze of self-loathing, his normal state of being, not that you could ever tell looking at Lazoo. GENISIS JONES was definitely the most alluring, appealing, captivating, desirable person he had come in contact with on God’s earth. And to quantify what it is he wants from her, depends on a couple of key factors which he hadn’t yet thought through in detail. Of course he would love to fuck her in as many different positions he could come up with and what was anatomically possible…but there needed to be more than that—the male who had no role models whatsoever to rely on—for a clue about what it is two animal humans do after mating, muses. She was too hot to just fuck the shit out of and then leave. Far too fucking hot to just fuck and leave!


Lazoo’s eyes glaze over in a warm feeling he’s never ever felt before and from his standpoint, he doubts if he will ever want to remember anything quite as touching as is the moment he just help conjure…for the sake of the cause! Of course.


“…But it's just a dream
—I have in my head…”

The recurring nuance of lost love still aches in the depths of her heart. Remnants of his touch, his fingers will forever pleasure her skin, for her own accord and concert of dreams at night regardless of what she dares admit…

Aleisha looks out the grand window of her apartment that overlooks Oriental Parade. The equally grand view of the sparkling water, which the sun kisses endlessly makes her grateful for all that she has.

It was good to be back in the place she now calls home.

Precepts of a follower aside, Aleisha was comfortable in her new skin, the shell she inhabits. Reaffirming her decision to give her entity to the Dimension or universe was the right thing to do.

The LATEST UPLOAD, a luscious delectable morsel for the followers to consume in a manner of their choosing playfully teases the open mind with countless possibilities and endless opportunities….mobile phones ring out around a world cluttered with gadgets and devices vying for your touch. All of them redundant without the critical-data from his WORD file and desktop….

You see "faith" is all about your capacity to commit to an idea, person or “belief.”

And belief is all about your ideals versus your experience, aspirations and ambitions. The sum of which should be deduced and divided by how your belief makes you feel with the least amount of effort and outlay or sacrifice. What you’re left with is essence of what you intrinsically and extrinsically believe in.

Believe this, you’re far better off believing someone you know rather than someone you’ve never seen in action. Trust me!



“Midnight, you come and pick me up
--No headlights
Long drive, could end in burning flames or paradise…”

Back on the highway, Metofeaz heads for the 3rd Horizon. Taylor Swift on the radio, the convertible’s one headlight shines on all manner of hell on the roadside. Apocalyptic wastelands to the east, futuristic cities rising from out of the lush lowlands and palaces emerging from the hinterlands. On the 2nd Horizon Shawshank and Bonbon still in the honeymoon phase, and Litigatti can’t bear to watch anymore of their free for all. Unlike the web there was no escaping the REPRO. It was there every waking moment. Inescapable and in your fucken face—unreal, inhumane torture. That was how a human felt about the REPRO. It stood for Reprogram. It was supposed to be a mechanism for change, a quick fix for new recruits who needed attitudinal realignment on the fly so they could carry out difficult and challenging missions with minimal training or experience.

And it worked, as a part of the Collective Percipience, the shared dreaming initiative by the Network.

In ’91 a mission during the dying days of Desert Storm proved pivotal to the success of that war. Twelve UN scientists were escorted through the desert and out of Egypt by three young men with little to no training at all. The crash course delivered in seventy-two hours by a civilian key to the ease of which the dangerous operation was carried out.


Jon Le Mac didn’t need binoculars to see what Tait, a bent out shape racist cop and Pedro a kid from the old neighbourhood back home in Compton were up to. Two cars behind and diagonally across the street from where Le Mac and Horroh were parked, facing in the opposite direction—Tait and co were watching the queue outside Mr Pink’s,—a famous haunt for the stellar set since the close of Studio 54.

Tait and Pedro, had been on Lazoo’s trail ever since Genisis kick-started the mission of all missions for LMLA-ink.

It was late 1997, Metofeaz was in France undergoing surgery after completing his role in the lead up mission. JRA was working for IBM in New Zealand and John Page was contracting to Microsoft in Silicon Valley. Basically the crew was all grown up with day jobs and real life in motion.

At the Chateaux in the Valley of Vineyards in the south of France, Sharon Smith AKA The Tourist a Travel Agent and tour guide was waiting for Metofeaz. At the Chateaux he will undergo rehab under the watchful eye of Ms Smith who will assume the role of Rozelle Zofen, co-ordinating a European sweep and confirmation of past and present operatives and assets.

For the current mission to be deemed a success a host of tasks, tangibles and intangibles had to be delivered, realised or indemnified. The least of them as far as Le Mac was concerned was bringing Hariss Clariss, a name Lazoo had come up with for Clarenta down. There were injustices more pressing as far as Le Mac was concerned than catching a clown.


Monday morning in the coolest little capitol in the world…On the side of the road, JRA checks Facebook. the Facebook page where the LATEST UPLOAD is distributed has received another view. It was the third in as many days. The little known page remains a well-kept secret for now.

According to Wiki Oneirology is the scientific study of the dream process, different from the analysis of dreams. Now, if you had the ability to systematically conjure dreams of a certain nature, content and meaning, especially—meaning—for most people you came in contact with, what would you do with this ability? The fundamental ingredient in sharing a dream is cohesion of thought. The more simplistic the idea, the more fertile the mind and the more vivid the dream will be. The idea that instilling belief in the dormant mind would allow the person to override the acting mind is possible. Hypnosis which works on the premise that there is power in suggestion is a mild form of reprograming someone instantaneously to carry out a mission. But anyways, in the meantime consider this. Within the last fifty years we’ve increased processing power of the computer millions of times and we’re still at least a decade away from going close to the processing power and efficiency of the human mind. The world has seen some incredible characters some good others bad who have possessed the power to influence thinking on a mass scale. The question is when the time comes and the much vaunted and feared rise of the machine actually happens who will control them?

The narrative, rather coercive if not provocative, if he were a robot maker or care giver in an asylum for lunatic scientists makes him laugh quietly, similar to vomiting and then swallowing it.

Meanwhile Tay-Tay on the dayo reminds John Reyer of the job at hand. The LATEST UPLOAD—machinations and conspiracies—of a quiet guy with a savage need to pull pranks on normal everyday people whirls around in JRA's head till the manifestation of all his dreams amalgamate to redeem any ill advised decisions on how to get ahead in life.
“…Cause we never go out of style
we never go out of style…”


“One Call Away”


In my humble opinion, the state of the world—why it is the way it is? Is due to the possibility that we’ve actually forgotten or lost sight of the idea of Peace. I believe as a society we’ve actually given up on Peace. We don’t see it as a viable option in our future anymore. And we’re resigned to the fact that war, terror and mass shootings are just part of civilisation. Granted that war has been critical and even a necessary evil in forging the world live in, please consider that history has only been over ten to twenty thousand years or so. And in the context of the earth’s age (millions of years) civilisation, evolution’s timeline we have the opportunity to eradicate war and install a system of Peace. Just like early civilisations implemented agriculture and town planning, we can fade war out for good and implement Peace as our contribution to mankind.

It’s a given we’re going down in history for the advent of the Internet, wouldn’t it make sense that we maximise that advancement in technology and implement Peace. Let PEACE be our legacy.

#minutepeace it’s a start.


Quietude, serenity and tranquillity momentarily soothes the citizens of the SenFenide Dimension as in the sky, Johnny lays Skylah’s head down on a pillow.

A tear drop clings to his cheek as all the life in Skylah’s face seeps out of her body and into an abyss that no one can comprehend—its vastness or spiralling depth. If eternity is ever and love is true, surely that means love is forever…Johnny tries desperately to reason with death’s pain and the veracity of its reach, its power. Death’s totality is all there is to salvage at this time. The numbness with which he fumbles his way through motions that his body must carry out is blinding and it is deafening as it is crippling….

Outside the window, candlelight vigils, clusters of mourners throughout the dimension radiate a warmth and a glow in the darkest of nights. Johnny realises that he had reached the end of the fairy-tale. Behind the 2nd Horizon, a dreamer had woken up. Or, the architect of his happiness had suddenly fallen foul of fortune and fair weather, goodwill and redemption. Which meant, Shawshank either had to inhabit another shell, or die at the hands of the star of the next REPRO. Both options immaterial when you consider Johnny’s listless state.

The last thing he remembers as the director behind the 3rd Horizon calls “CUT!” Is music. A piano playing. The sensation leads to euphoria someone told him. A heightened sense of awareness before the rug is pulled out from under your feet and you cartwheel till you surpass dizziness and find bliss in the eternal abyss…at least he will be with her for ever, his Skylah Bonbon.

“I'm only one call away…”


Polina Rada stands at her window, the tree with snow on its branches resembles a person holding their hand out to Lina a 7 year old who had grown up in an orphanage in Russia for the children of Cold War operatives.

Lina, as her friends and teachers call her looks beyond the winter landscape that she traces for signs of life. An echo rebounds off the walls of her mind, and her feeble attempts to suffocate the sadness are outwitted by a call for help. Somewhere in the vast scape of life, past, present, parallel and inverted relativities, the sound of yearning pulls at the sensitive child’s heart.

Lina had her own wishes, non-more pressing than her dream of being adopted. Her birthday was in twenty days’ time. And she dreaded the thought of having to face the other children again, most of them new comers and babies who will no doubt be gone before her birthday next year.

The signal from the F3quenZor that there was a need, great enough, that those in other dimensions and times were in desperate need of help is a humming sound. For such an important event in the universal schema, the alert for her help was so surprisingly soothing. At least it was for Polina Rada.

All of a sudden, music that transcends the dimensions and time, begins to fill the cavern or grotto in Lina. The unreplenished chasm of feeling—unwanted, unloved—replaced, replenished and redeemed instantaneously…the damning thoughts of ill regard, vanquished. The music grows, as Lina senses something greater than she had ever imagined waits for her on the lip of the horizon, bleak and snow covered for now. But soon it will reverberate real warmth and goodness for her sake…

“…I'll be there to save the day…”


HONE waits…ideas on how to kick start #minutepeace fly around in his head. Another sunny day in paradise and the POETSOLDIER has scribed what he believes is the proclamation or statement of belief on which a platform can be founded to unite those that grieve and the rest of us that feel their loss but cannot claim to know just how deep the pain is. Acknowledgement is the first step towards empathy.

Across the street JRA watches…a protégé is someone you can be proud off. Not because they remind you of you. Or you were involved in their development. But because of your experience, they will exceed all that you were ever capable of…Hone, a good kid had managed to weather the storm. Which John Reyer feels responsible for when he wrote the Maori boy into the story three years ago.

Regardless of life’s injustices the exercise had proven a success. Now there was someone, relevant to the landscape and its people. Someone who had endured the hardship of the streets like JRA did as a youngster, yet Hone did not succumb to neither drugs nor crime like his mentor had.

The Cut Throat Creative one of the many names the narrator is known by accepts the fact that many will condemn his offering as propaganda and self-serving. But living proof that his work has changed the way we think, especially of ourselves and what we are capable of is there. Across the street in the window of a WELLY café, excited about the prospect that he is the next in line to save the world…just like Charlie Puth says,

“Superman got nothing on me…”

JRA, looks left and then right. Puth escapes from a passing car. It gives us hope, don’t it?

“I'm only one call away…”





Neon City has been transformed into New York City in the year 2045.

The lights and neon billboards are dominated by one thing. GLOBALL ATTACK (GA.)

Johnny Shawshank waits in line. In front of him, hopefuls just like him, lined up for their shot at the big time. The alleyway the perfect width for a fight against the odds. The basic premise of such a skirmish would be two or more cocky sons of bitches bouncing of the walls till they submit and Johnny takes the purse. But today that was merely a fleeting thought. The walls of the alley were lit up by larger than life posters of the stars of GLOBALL ATTACK. They were the new heroes and role models of the world. A far cry from Johnny and his friends. ALFABET captain of the Southern Sector and GRAM captain of the Northern Sector, brothers cloned during the 2020 Project. They were the premiere players in GLOBALL ATTACK the sport that nations now play instead of declaring war on each other. Other captivating figures for the masses to worship, SKY-BON the top woman player in the world a lighting Receiver for the Southern Sector. RUMORED ALI former world boxing champion. JAH-LOMU the colossus Rugby player and now the GA’s record breaking Wing-Block on offense for the Northern Sector. But it was SKY-BON, which Johnny Shawshank who qualified for parole this season was most captivated by.

“Move it!” The guard at the front of the line calls out and everyone shuffles forward. The ICs or invisible chains worked like the old ones only difference was they inhibited sideways and twisting body movements, only allowing for forward movement. To turn, you shuffled your feet, as they were the only parts of the body allowed sideways movement.

Something lands on his nose, he could’ve sworn it was a raindrop. Shawshank moves as he’s told. There’s a sound, like the sound of chains clanging. But these were invisible chains…


John Page reads through the shabby looking screenplay he had received in the mail. Page was no thespian but he had enough experience as a Perl programmer to know when he saw poorly formatted code…the idea though was great. The amalgamation of various sports, Rugby, Gridiron, Australia Rules and more to create a worldwide sport that would replace war….

“What you reading?” Santina San Fé whom Page had been seeing for over a month takes a seat next to him.

“Flight VA18 to Heathrow has been delayed…” The LAX intercom advises the couple.

“The POETSOLDIER’s new vision for the NETWORK…” Page also known as the PIRATE finally responds then checks his phone.

“Fancy that, Feeaz wants to meet us in Chinatown.” Page, not the bit surprised by the coincidental message from his big brother Metofeaz Litigatti and their flight to London being delayed.

“We have three hours to kill,” Page gathers up his laptop. Ms San Fé collects her belongings…

As Page gets to his feet he pauses as he swears he can hear something.

“Can you hear that?”


Lunar Bois watches as onscreen the guy he used to know continues his march towards the end of another game-changing, mind-altering and earth moving feat. Just him, his old mate John Reyer and a WORD document.

JRA goes over the finishing touches for the LATEST UPLOAD.

XMAS was definitely in the air, people around the planet waiting for another climatic finish to the GUIOPERA as the Cut-Throat-Creative throws off the shackles that previously hindered passion and stifled the energy he is renowned for…Lazy Sunday afternoons in the coolest capital in the world are spent creating, theorising and coming up with new ways and methodologies to sell peace to the masses, abridge and abate hate, which mainstream media love to spread. The issue we have is, if you ain’t cool, then no one is going to want to taste your offering. And being cool simply equates to being real…hence the reason why you now have all these different assholes holding court, when previously it was who mainstream media told us to like or hate…I’m one of those assholes, lol. LUNAR BOIS continues to channel the POETSOLDIER and his work. The message and its nuances. The morsels and its meanings. The lessons and its rewards. But above all, it’s his passion for what he does. Infectious! In fact, a new client, had called Bois in the middle of the night asking for a campaign along the lines of #minutepeace after reading Chapter 26 of the SASBWAH…and now Lunar flexes his own muscle for creativity, with his good friend as co-conspirator and inspirer as Bois edits the copy which he will pitch in the morning.

In the very near future…Peace is a relative state of existence while chaos is a condition of that existence…it doesn’t matter where you exist there will be to a certain extent chaos due to two main factors—social and biological divisions. Sociologically the classes battle it out in silence, keeping each other in check. Whilst Mother Nature divides the masses up into those with and those without access to exclusive havens of peace…

The brief from the Real Estate company was, make it fantastical, make it like John wrote it.

Outside the French doors, people down on the Golden Mile look up at the balcony on the 7th level of the Art Deco building. Velvet drapes swing in the breeze and the people wonder wistfully if not wishfully, if it’s there, behind those curtains? Where the magic is conjured as it continues to happen, on call and on point…

Christmas chimes in unison express hope and highlight frustrations for those who feel powerless—without a voice or an ear that they can bend their way. To see life from their perspective and to witness hardship as they have.

This year, Christmas is the gift. It’s a time when we can give ourselves. In short, be there for each other this Xmas. There is no other gift more valuable than you.

Lunar feels the swelling inside, as he reads the ending to another chapter of the GUIOPEAR. An irrepressible urge to join his friend in reminding the world of the value of human life comes over him.

The theme song a prelude no doubt to the finale in 3 weeks from now…All I want for Christmas….



Metofeaz ponders the possibilities yet again. Ahead search lights of Neo New York, the new capitol of the SFD in the year 2045 scour the heavens for the stars…truth is they walk among us.
Semblance of greatness smeared on the face of it all. The inaugural finals series of GLOBALL ATTACK was nearing its peak, the final between the Northern and Southern Sectors.

SHOWAN SAIL, GA’s director of communications was a personal friend whom Litigatti had been meaning to catch up with. There were other connections in the biggest game in history but Whimsical suspected that his calling, or his purpose in this edition of the end-to-end saga was obvious one, which will hatch as old acquaintances reacquainted in the course of action, as it were.

Litigatti slows down as he nears the gates of the city, the guard steps forward with the scanner and does his thing.

In the sky, towering over the city SKY-BON points at the horizon. Next to her ALFABET the game’s premiere player smiles for the fans.

Residual memory is impossible to erase from a shell’s mind and neuro system. And when residue happens, the glitches can either be mind-altering or they can be debilitating.

“Your free to go Sir.” Litigatti can hear the words, but the sight of SKY-BON in the sky holds his attention and his body’s will to move…

“Sir, your free to go…”


Genisis Jones waits by the window where she can see the road. Santina San Fé had kindly accepted the other role which the NETWORK had wanted Genisis to play. It was a long term gig and involved a child, Polina Rada an asset of the U.S factor of the Network. Lina had been languishing in a Russian orphanage since she was baby.

It would’ve paired her up for a second time with the PIRATE Johnny Page, which is always a hoot, but right now Ms Jones wasn’t quite ready for a gig so serious with so much responsibility.

A yellow cab pulls up to the curb and out hops LAZOO. Handsome as hell, but also dangerous—whichever way you looked at the guy. It was his first job and his training was 7 years in juvvie and 5 years in the pen, not exactly what you’re looking for in your partner when the mission was to bring down the biggest arms dealer on the black market, Harry Clarenta.

As Lazoo strides up the pathway to the apartment block, down the street a non-descript Cadillac pulls up. She recognises the occupants as the same two plainclothes at the park a couple of days ago when she went to complete the ritual as prescribed in the STORYBOOK and by doing so accepted the role of Lazoo’s partner.


HONE steps to the theme song by Alabama Shakes “Don't Wanna Fight.” Monday morning on the streets of WELLY and the POETSOLDIER’s message resonates as it reverberates around the planet.

Hone slows down as he reaches the bottom of Willis.

Young men find a reason to be who their mothers wanted them to be and #minutepeace begins to find traction as a possible answer, maybe even the ultimate solution to all the issues around the planet.

Hone waves out to ALEISHA across the street at the junction of Lambton Quay and Willis St. The narrative begins to form a real impression upon him and his friends. The inner voice with the global appeal in a time when the common denominator seemed so low and clichéd, cuts through the fodder and the noise…Pacifism not only opposes war and violence, but most importantly it forces us to think of solutions. Ideas and concepts that not only address the issues at hand but fulfil a mandate of much deeper and wider breadth of understanding for the human race than just retaliation with brute force.

The theme song for the chapter rings out at the intersection as LUNAR pulls up to the lights in his brand spanking Lamborghini Huracán, Spanish for “Hurricane.”

The bright yellow vehicle shines as the stereo belts out the Alabama Shakes.

Lunar smiles to himself as he imagines the looks on the client’s faces when he shows up to the pitch with both HONE and ALEISHA from the WELLYSTORY and now the SASBWAH—GUIOPERA VIII…

“I don't wanna fight no more…”

“…I don't wanna fight, I don't wanna fight!...”

“…I don't wanna fight no more…”



“Who shall I tell Mr Sail is here?”

“Metofeaz…ah Feeaz. Litigatti! Tell him it’s Metofeaz Litigatti.”

The giant gates to GA HQ swing back and with them the convertible moves forward. Metofeaz feels a little out place in the motorised self-driven 100-year vehicle. And also with what he’s wearing. He lifts his left arm and then right and takes a quick sniff to see if he smells as bad as he looks in the mirror, both of them, the rear view and the side one.

“Christmas week and of course GA Final week 2045…” the announcer on the dayo reminds Litigatti how long he’s been driving around, in search of whatever it is he’s been looking for. Thirty years give or take a week or two. And it was only by chance that ended up back in what used to be Neon City.

When Johnny Shawshank did the unthinkable during a Significant Transformation back in 2015. He corrupted the Convergence of Sequential Essence and sent the dimension into disarray. Basically everyone involved in that REPRO had literally been floating around since the implosion of the story.

An elevator, a glass box opens up and Litigatti drives into it. Once inside, the car is out of his control and the lift drops quickly and opens again in what seemed like a blink of an eye revealing another world.

“Tropicol” the name of the fantasy island, complete with mile wide lake beneath the streets of New York, is written in the sky. The crowd, a cultural mosaic opens up and out of the colour and diversity steps his old pal Showan. He doesn’t look a day older than thirty which was the last time the two caught up.

This was all happening too quickly for “Feeaz!” Who had been drifting in the outer skirts of the dimension for such a long time that even his name was a chore for the whimsical one…


Lazoo’s heart races as he nears the steps of her apartment building. This was his first date. At twenty-eight years of age he was yet to sit across from a female of his choosing and break bread, share conversation and open up about stuff which endears a person another person. Lazoo was aware and au fait with the artistry when it came to endearing someone. Of course there were tricks, he used them in his everyday life at work and play. Getting someone to like him immediately or making someone trust him on the spot, or getting them to sleep with him, not a problem at all. But John James had decided he was going to let fate pave the way and destiny take control. Even his imaginings as a child playing in the willow by the brook back in Wisconsin fell short of the world that had opened up for him since meeting Genisis. New spheres of thought and a strong sense of responsibility which included issues he previously did not care about arose and aroused a different person in him.

Lazoo lunges forward landing on the second step. At the top of the steps a doorman has appeared and waits for the bounding lad to reach the top.

“Genisis Jones?” The guy’s English accent makes the question sound kind of sordid for Lazoo. Why the fuck was this guy asking if he was here to see Genisis? Did an unusually large number of men come to visit her? So the doorman was playing the averages? Or had Genisis told him to expect someone? Or maybe the English was some sort of comedian come psychic come cunt?

“Ah…yes Sir, that would be correct Sir. Genisis Jones, is who I am here to collect….”

Admirable aspirations, dolphins from the blue lagoon, pygmies from the amazon rainforest and perfect sunsets save the day. In fact, listening to himself, Lazoo almost sounds like a free man, at last.

“Can you hear that?” Lazoo feels obliged to share with the Englishman the moment he is having as the doorman turns and walks inside the hallway to the intercoms…


Friday morning and the streets of Welly are abuzz. Threads of the SASBWAH were starting to become more defined, their salient points were beginning to burn holes in people’s minds as they found traction in quarters that were previously unimaginable even unattainable. The essence of it all rising to the surface. #minutepeace was now LMLA-ink’s new year’s project and resolution.

Hold up somewhere on the city limits, JRA does a quick edit of the LATEST UPLOAD.

More importantly it was the realisation that in order to live a life of Pacifism we had a lot of work to do. Peace may be a universal concept which opposes war, but interpersonal violence and hate were also going to work against the ideal. Add to that the type of organisation the Network is and the significance of LMLA-ink and the reasons why they were recruited. Acknowledgement that we are far from perfect, is a start to changing tack for a better course for humanity. Embracing challenges ensures we will be better equipped to face changes required. And ultimately Peace is the prize.

Back when the POETSOLDIER began the GUIOPERA one of the axioms was Prosperity through Positivity from Patience. And now there was Pacifism for Peace…

In the atmos you can almost hear affirmation and confirmation of a consciousness…




“Shawshank!” Maddy Sineque, GA’s recruitment manager calls out his name. WOW! The sound of someone saying something to him let alone his own name, the symbol of who he is. A confirmation that he exists, and that he wasn’t just a fabrication in someone’s farfetched but awesomest lies of lies, sent shivers up his spine. Johnny still in his thirties stretches his neck muscles left and then right. This was it! His audition for a new life and maybe even the big time. He was enlisting with GA as a spare, but in his mind of minds he knew he had what it takes to be as good, if not better than ALFABET. He had the speed, the step and the heart. Even though there was no such thing as a fast track for a spare, which was the equivalent of a private in the military back in the bad ol’ days, in the world of GAME-SPORT, Johnny who came on the streets of Neon City as a street fighter with a rep fancied his chances of making it. Of an estimated three-hundred spares used in GA’s inaugural season only one had made it onto one of the named teams. Spares made up the numbers and usually ended up on a recycling heap at the morgue after twenty games or less and were only known by a number. They came from all over the planet, mostly supplied by the world’s leading security contractor PIFFT. Once in a while, a spare can rise up through Hope-Media a Content Networking News Feed system made up of Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and G+.

Shawshank who had done hard time, momentarily ponders the credence with which he is armed as he steps forward. If they knew my real motive would they have accepted my application? Two of the trick questions in the profiling, “Would you kill again?” “And under what circumstances would you kill again?” Let’s put it this way, it ain’t a quiz, right? It’s a profile. So in the end who-the-fuck were you kidding?

“Five” Sineque a pleasant enough looking woman whose job it is to know and understand each person within the organisation from the janitors to the CEO and Head Coach of GLOBALL ATTACK, GRANITE ALTITUDE hands him his key for his locker. They still did some things the old way. Having your own locker at the GA HQ, was more than a step up from the prison cell he remembers and not including the cryogenic tube he was stuffed in for the last decade of his sentence….


Genisis checks him out in the recently installed security cameras. The monitor in the corner above the fridge still bothered her. Metofeaz had suggested that it should go there.

Lazoo, even in the small screen oozed appeal. There were no signs of his upbringing behind bars. Just a level headed operator with a keen but quirky sense of humour and even more heightened awareness of his environment. Working with the new boy wonder wasn’t easy. Catering to his ego and being the perfect damsel in distress for the hero of the story to save from whatever it is the he says it is…oh it was a Lion was it? In the bathroom? Ok, let’s go with that one…

The doorman who was such a gentleman makes his way over to the intercom, as Lazoo continues to suss out the former SAS soldier. Now that would make for an interesting scenario…Lazoo from the street and a trained soldier….


“Hold me darling…”

Music, funkdafied and which satisfies the soul flows throughout the locales where the words from his WORD.doc are read and then slowly absorbed for the morsels that they are…. the apt backing track for the LATEST UPLOAD—the sound of ivories being tickled, ecstatically behaving in a magical manner is FKJ which stands for French Kiwi Juice, a DJ from France—populates the already enlightened atmos with music that makes ALEISHA smile as she hops out of her SUZUKI Swift. To her delight, but not surprise the corner of Cuba and Vivian Streets are ablaze with smiles as locals realise that the real life representatives of the new belief system were in their midst. Music in the atmos like in the story circumnavigates the humdrum of everyday life and beckons one to live a little. Across the street HONE and LUNAR in the window of one of their favourite haunts wait for Aleisha to join them.

Further up the street, JRA makes his way through the Saturday morning shoppers, sight seers and city dwellers in the mood…

Cuba Street vibes out to the ecclesiastical verbiage of the POETSOLDIER who has become desensitised to matters of religionchoosing to be responsible for his own spirituality, in light of the carnage and bloodshed in the name of religion. Like it or not, when you look at the history of war, oil is the only other instigator of death, people being displaced, forced to flee their homes or propaganda, that is as damning and as responsible for loss of life as religion is. The fact that on one hand you have the converted claiming that religion is the best thing that’s ever happened to them, and then on the other hand you have people dying because of it and in the name of religion, makes the concept absolutely implausible for any reasonable human being with hope of life. It’s pretty much the same when it comes to oil and fossil fuels in regards to the environment.  How’s about you name me one other institution in the modern civilised world with so-called merit that has a such a negative spin or edge to it like religion has…Education? Medicine? Sport? The time has come to expose this antiquated evil for what it is…You can pretty much put religion and oil in the same boat. One kills people the other is killing the environment…In summary of this rant, those souls supposedly saved by religion do not come close to making up for the lives lost in the name of it!

Anyways, it was time for the POETSOLDIER to sit down with the crew in WELLY and see where everyone was at. There was every bit of a chance that this was going to be the last GUIOPERA penned in his city of birth….

In the air, a feeling of acceptance…a corroboration of thoughts that equates to a consciousness, I guess?

“…I’m begging you please
take me in your arms…”

The idea is in the air, for y'all to grab…

“Hold me darling…”



“It’s up to you Sky…” Maddy her best friend’s words sink into an abyss. Down in the Tropicol, which Sky looks out over. A leather clad Metofeaz Litigatti who looks like he just stepped off one of Fury Road’s MAD MAX steampunk vehicles is shown the royal treatment by his former colleague at the 2020 project, Showan Sail.

Maddy wanders over to see what had caught Ms Bon’s attention.

“Oh, I see. Mr Litigatti. Showan must be feeling the pressure. Metofeaz is the best creative in the Dimension, and for Showan to call on him, is like conceding that Metofeaz is number 1…”

“I don’t think that he’s here for that. I think he’s here for a greater purpose than material matters…” Sky, softly spoken, almost fragile in appearance and who looks to be in her twenties ruminates something other than the final game of the season later on in the week.

“You know it’s probably a good thing that you have other things on your mind other than the game this Friday?” Maddy’s comment makes Sky smile.

The oasis beneath them was a paradise. But somewhere Sky knew that someone was looking for her, she just knew it. Maybe Litigatti, a known programmer of REPROs and a narrator of note was here to instigate something far more touching than a finale to a sporting event with global importance?

Somewhere it was Christmas…somewhere it is snowing…


Lazoo walks back down the steps of the apartment building after hearing her voice on the intercom. The atmos had thickened somewhat, yule tide maybe? The yearning of hearts and souls that pine for lost love and memories that live on in the dark?

And then reality strikes as on his left he notices two distinct figures. He tries his best not to look, but then again he’s gotta. Fucking assholes, Pedro and his oaf of a partner…a boy scout could make them out. Lazoo motioning with his head and eyes bulging out in an attempt to let the lazy motherfuckers know that they were so obvious that it wasn’t funny.  It was times like these he wishes he’d worn the wire so he could tell the cunts, Picasso and Sasquatch to act right. Somehow though, the angst and anxiety from the subpar performance of supporting cast subsides. And it does so quickly when he hears the sound of heels behind him.

“Have a good evening Ms Jones…” even the sound of that cock on the door being all slimy and fuck knows what towards Genisis is nullified by the thought that she is now officially following him down the path. Towards the cab which is waiting at the curb…behind him the woman of his dreams. There’s got to be a name for such an occasion! There was valentine’s day but that’s a money making scheme by flower growers and chocolate makers. Birthday, that’s to keep little cunts in check for half of the year, and Christmas was for the other half…he could be forgiven if he was starting sound English himself…ah! It must be love! And since it was so close to Christmas it can be likened to a gift, of sorts. One that keeps on giving all year round…

The remnants or residue as is the case in the dream dimension, which he could well be the dreamer of, or the artiste with the touch or the brush stroke which illustrates the unseen, the unheard and the forsaken is overwhelming for LAZOO to say the least….

The propensity for lavishness. And the frivolity of the high life he was not born into, vanquished. In an instant! A snow flake finds the tip of his nose as he imagines a scene where he could sing like Mike Buble with an “e” acute as in café…and his will is done, in this dimension and other dimensions where love is still the currency of choice…

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Let your heart be light…”


Another lazy Sunday in the coolest little capitol in the world…Christmas was on everyone’s lips. The sentiment of giving and helping each other is the gem, or essence of Christmas. Or so it should be.

ALEISHA puts the finishing touches to the table for lunch this afternoon.

On the SONY sound system, a feed from the POETSOLDIER’s dayo, or radio.

The writer who turned fifty this year had rejuvenated the online saga by including thoughts of his characters, italicised and raw as it came out of each of their heads, he recorded and documented the blah, blah, blah that makes the fans, followers and even the haters laugh, cringe and sometimes leave, or tap out in wake of his new stuff….

Aleisha watches as the feed changes to JRA staring blankly at the screen. His thinking transpires on the portal page for all of humanity to have, for nothing. Just a moment of their time was all that he was asking for.

You see everyone has been gifted a gift. It’s now about being absolutely shameless about your gift. We’re seeing this on the internet and it’s great. Because its only when you give your gift to someone else that it truly becomes a Gift…

Aleisha lets the message sink in. Her take on the morsel from the man who was really starting open up is, that we all have something to give someone this Christmas.

The theme song for the chapter conjures olden day values in a newfound land, in which harmony and values are once again heartfelt with unbridled feeling.

“…From now on, our troubles will be out of sight
Have yourself a merry little Christmas…”

PS. My only real dilemma as I round off the ends of the threads to each part for the LATEST UPLOAD was whether to use the Bublé or Vince Harder version of “Have yourself a merry little Christmas”? The indecision comes for the fact that Harder might be a Christian? And some of my crap is less than, let’s say “fit” for certain settings. Anyways here’s a link to both…


John Reyer

Michael Bublé: Have yourself a merry little Christmas

Vince Harder: Have yourself a merry little Christmas



“SKY-BON, she’s a miracle. She came to us via the #ReInventUrself Program in partnership with PIFFT…” Showan stops and in and amongst all the beautiful bodies and talent around him, he points out to Metofeaz an ex crim up in the glass tower.

“I want you to come up with something based around her. Target market, the human rights activists and the media. I want you to shut them up like the old man used to do in the MMD. You at a computer terminal like he did…”

Litigatti can’t actually believe what he’s hearing. But he’s hearing it and there’s no adverse reaction within him to counter act or propose something else.

Back in the early days of etfiction, he did anchor the team as scribe and so it wasn’t a foreign concept to him. It was more about doubts Litigatti had whether the people in this day and age would appreciate the simplicity of their art, which JRA introduced to the world via a loophole in the MSOS and over the web during the early parts of this century around mid to late 2000’s.

Litigatti didn’t want to look at SKY-BON. He knew she was aware of what he was here to do

On stage, a barge at the edge of the water, Ariana Grande and entourage. The lyric and music makes the hairs on the back of the seasoned performer’s neck stand up….

“I know what I came to do
And that ain't gonna change
So go ahead and talk your talk…”


From behind him, Genisis swears that Lazoo was signalling the unmarked cop unit down the road.

“Do you know them?” She figures she might as well clear the air.

“I’m an informant for Pedro, not the big guy.” Right from the start Lazoo couldn’t tell Genisis a lie. Well almost. Because in actual fact, it was the other way around. Pedro was the informant.

Lazoo leaked information about certain people he wanted dealt with, in return for information mostly to do with corrupt cops and whose pockets they were living out of…. Genisis was well aware of how the dynamics of the relationship would be in reality. Lazoo a talented con artist, so good at what he does that the Network picked him up and a then you had a dead beat cop.

Anyways, talk about shy. He hadn’t even looked at her yet. It was one of the things Litigatti stressed about Lazoo, was his shyness around certain people. The more Lazoo thinks of you, the shyer he tended to be. Basically it comes from an inferiority complex, it’s a trait or characteristic of most confidence men.

“Focus on me, f-f-focus on me…”

The music that surrounds the enclave has an effect on the way Lazoo walks…. confidence in the way he begins to strut makes Genisis want to burst out laughing. But in context of the song, it becomes captivating. Turning contradiction into irony and fiction to fact.

“Focus on me, f-f-focus on me…”


Monday morning. Ariana Grande provides “Focus” for the TRUFUNK Soldiers around the planet. John Reyer does one last skim over the LATEST UPLOAD, the critical data, his naivety, his crap or whatever you’d like to call it…

A Diversion and the Cult of Conspiracy Effect (CCE):

A diversion of great proportions is happening right in front of our eyes. And guess what? When it gets out, what’s happening watch the Cult of Conspiracy Effect (made up) further divert attention from the real corruption that’s going down…stay with me for a second…Let’s say, three rein deer are involved in a contest and towards the middle stages of the contest it appears that only two of the rein deer have any realistic chance of winning the contest—rein deer A and B. Rein deer C was not even capable of answering question, “who had a red nose?” His response was something along the lines of, “Hopeless homo was a homeless man, I was there when Nixon peed his pants on the Watergate…something or rather….” Now if deer B was to throw the race by being a total piece of shit and the news of his shady doings got out, in a certain fashion as theorised by a certain quarters of the internet, the conspiracy then overshadows the deviousness of the diversion itself—CCE in action :)…now also consider the standards of the event when deer B’s outlandish behaviour shrouds the entire stage and stuff that usually gets picked up or were previously scrutinised go unnoticed or are deemed unimportant now because deer B’s performance leaves everyone either too astounded to comment or, the commentators are busy with deer B’s latest bombshell…moral of the story? There is no moral, just an observation as to why deer B is so fucking effective at what he does—the more twisted and wrong something is, the more traction it’s going to get! Why? Because we have this shield, blanket thingee called the internet in between us and the reality of it all…we’re either sick of being nice in the comfort and privacy of our homes? Or we’re now totally comfortable with our internet alter egos to vote for the likes of deer B because he said something you only sometimes think but don’t really believe should be a founding principle in a manifesto. Anyways…That’s why come election time, it’s very important that we never, ever! As a democracy allow online voting as a total option. Get up off the sofa and get out into the fresh air and make your way to a booth near you. On the way, the fresh air will breath some sense into us. I promise…So! In the words of Jamie Fox and Ariana Grande

“Focus On Me!”

This is in itself is sort of like a conspiracy theory…only sort of…a hypothetical conspiracy theory using rein deer…btw no animals were harmed in this process, rein deer C’s ego and credibility…maybe?

“Focus on me, f-f-focus on me…”

PS. Happy birthday to my awesome neph KAKS RANNIS



“Turn your magic on
Umi she'd say
Everything you want's a dream away…”

Music from behind the 2nd Horizon flits and then it flows like a guiding hand that simulates the waves of the wind…It’s Chris Martin and Cold Play on a blissful breeze for an LMLA-ink special. One of those ones, that makes the girls of all ages heads nod and then their pig tails swing this way and that a way…the charmed and esoteric nature of the happening as prescribed in the writings of one so whimsical that the entire universe supports his endeavours to spread the joy he is able to conjure by each keystroke that he plays…

Somewhere something special was happening to someone. Litigatti knows that as he plays the keys like he did back in the day. The feeling was unbelievable. You cannot begin to describe what it’s like knowing that you had something to do with making someone’s day….


“…Now I feel my heart beating
I feel my heart underneath my skin…”

Lina skips down the hallway of the Orphanage, Chris Martin and Cold Play urge the little Princess on to a brighter day. The other children poke their heads out of their rooms to see Ms Rada, an inspiration for orphans throughout the world make her way down the corridor to the sound of magical music.

“Yay LINA!” one boy calls out.

“You go girl,” another young lady who remains hopeful because of Lina’s constant support and encouragement jumps for joy.

In unity and in support of their friend they all poke their heads out their doors (twenty rooms on either side of the corridor) one more time and then they step forth from their rooms and together they shut their doors and follow the future Princess of the New Global Realm downstairs to the meeting room where she will meet her potential parents and family, Jonathan and Santina Page from the Americas for the first time.

The parade led by Lina in her best dress makes its way down the staircase.

At the bottom of the stairs, Head Mistress, a strict but fair woman of German decent has a smile for Ms Rada, something Lina notices and it gives her even reason to be joyous about her chances this time. Never before had there been an overture of a smile from Mistress for Lina leading up to an interview. Of the six previous interviews over the last seven years, this was the first time Lina can recall Mistress smiling.

Once on the ground floor in the open hallway, Lina can’t help but feel the euphoria, almost of delirium. She has to clasp her hands to conceal the elation.

The semblance, an aura indescribable. And still the rudiments of a scene by Metofeaz continue. Chris Martin appends accompaniment in true GUIOPERA fashion for fans to never forget this day…

“…And I feel my heart beating
Oh you make me feel
Like I'm alive again…”


Tuesday 15th December 2015. The impossible had finally happened…JRA looks at the screen as the letters materialize and the words spell out a revelation come true. Somewhere in time, the whimsical one was at a computer terminal again, anchoring the attack in the name of love.

LMLA-ink—LAZOO, METOFEAZ, LE MAC & AFAMASAGA a collaboration of misfits with a purpose that exceeded each member’s standing when they first met’s most notable contribution to the Network was when they were able to successfully bring Polina Rada home to the US.

Politically it was a coup for LMLA-ink but personally for the POETSOLDIER it was the highlight.

The salient points in the operation for the POETSOLDIER was what it meant to Polina and John Page. Page the archetype of a bad boy or heartbreaker needed Polina for various reasons. Professionally he needed to prove to the Network that he was capable of completing serious missions and not just the quick hatchet jobs he was known for. Personally and this was only in retrospect Page hadn’t experienced what unconditional love was prior to meeting Lina.

On the other hand, Polina wanted to be adopted so desperately that her want was more than enough to match Page’s needs. These types of scenarios lead to the most nurturing and loving Parent-Child relationships. There’s less dependency and more caring, acknowledgement and taking care of each other’s needs…anyways, still hold up somewhere near the town belt in the Eastern Suburbs of WELLY, sleeping on the floor, the POETSOLDIER pulls the curtain back to reveal another pearler of a day in the capitol.

He watches as onscreen Dreamweaver opens up and the LATEST UPLOAD is formatted quickly and sent to the internet for distribution. Then he folds his bedding up and stacks it against the wall like his parents did back in the islands when they were young. He then hikes for a few minutes to where the SUZUKI Swift is parked. Inside you don’t have to be a psychic to guess what happens next….




A stomping and a clapping, a wailing and a cursing…. the atmos was thick with coarseness and edginess you’d associate with the hardened and the callous. From the rafters to the window panes the place was bursting with fever. Ungodly bodies clamouring for a view of the action. The unwashed and the disturbed like sardines in a rusty half opened can, their bumpkin and barbaric ways simmering for an outbreak of vulgarian proportions.

Outside Metofeaz deliberates whether or not he should enter into the infested joint? In the end, it’s not a matter of choice but a duty which he must carry out as part of his lot as storyteller. And so Litigatti enters the rowdy establishment, where news has it, Johnny Shawshank is relaxing over a drink.

Onstage Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats belt out their S.O.B of song for the fans in their favourite colours.

“I'm gonna need someone to help me
I'm gonna need somebody's hand
I'm gonna need someone to hold me down
I'm gonna need someone to care…”

In the corner, Johnny Shawshank spots Metofeaz at the same time.

Litigatti waits to see what Johnny does next. As far as Shawshank was concerned Metofeaz was either the redeemer in Johnny’s life’s story or he was the grim reaper, come to collect and tie up any loose ends in the plot which was frayed and left threadbare at the end of the Significant Transformation that went horribly wrong. It was all coming back to him.

Metofeaz considers his priorities and then the integrity of what is that they do…Johnny throws back a drink and slams the glass back down on the table for some more serum.

The buxom waitress standing at the end of the table with flask nestled in between bosom, cavorts with her eyes before she swings the flagon in the air to dispense more serum for Johnny….


John Page raises his glass as he toasts the picture on the wall—framed abstract art of a black man standing next to a wagon wheel, the backdrop is a forest fire.

Beneath the replica staring back at Page, Santina. “Still reckon, you’re ready for this?”

In the middle of the wood grain table a photo of Polina Rada who waits for them in Moscow, next to it a shot of tequila.

“It was either this or getting felt up by a scary clown with fleshy sweaty palms…tell me which you one would you prefer, Ms San Fé?”

“They tell me this Lazoo’s pretty damn cute.” Ms San Fé was exactly what Page wanted in a woman. But the oath, the veil or mantilla of professionalism prevailed acting as chastity lock. Well, that’s what he told himself. The fact that he hadn’t been with a woman coming up to twelve months was another story.

“So is a baby elephant. So what?” Page retorts and then he reminds himself, sooner or later they’re going to find themselves in one of them situations where the right thing to do is the wrong thing and the wrong thing to do is the right thing. It was bound to happen. Hell! They have to pretend to be an 8year old’s parents for fuck's sakes….

And with that the PIRATE as he is known throughout the Network, a nickname given to him by his brother Feeaz, the Whimsical Metofeaz Litigatti chucks the tequila back.

Santina, not to be outdone reaches for her glass and does the same. The sound of shot glasses being slammed down on the table simultaneously triggers a reaction and the ensuing song can be heard for miles around…a stomping and a clapping, a wailing and a cursing…

“…Son of a bitch, give me a drink
One more night escaping me
Son of a bitch
If I can't get clean I'm gonna drink my life away…”


LUNAR BOIS holds his glass of tequila up to the screen. The GUIOPERA was in its final stages for another year. The client had accepted his concept and signed an agreement for Lunar to roll out a nationwide branding campaign. Yet the words onscreen, which are still legible through the tequila cut a sombre figure like a searing watermark on his persona as portrayed by his good friend…a glimmer of hope glows incandescently in the body of the tequila. Purpose and bravery shine like mystic moons in a watery sky. To feel mocked is to be ungrateful. For it’s the juxtapose of a clown that he seeks, not the mirror image of himself….

Outside, ALEISHA knocks a second time. Inside a light comes on and then the door opens.

Lunar steps to the side for Aleisha to come in. They pass by the office in which the monitor is still on, the GUIOPERA onscreen, the black background and white text that glows in the dark. In front of the dormant keyboard, the shot glass of liquor, untouched…

“…Son of a bitch, give me a drink!”



“SKYLAH!” A reporter shouts above the rest. It's the name which the fans affectionately know her by.

SKY-BON turns to her left. At her feet, photographers snapping at her every move. Behind them, the press dictating to the world her every breathe. Meanwhile, No.5 still wreaks havoc on her mind. Where had she seen him before?

At the back of the auditorium, Metofeaz goes over Sky’s bio.

Imprisoned for a crime of passion when she avenged the death of her husband. Then as the prison champion of GUFC (Globalised Ultimate Fighting Championship) a feeder comp into GA, Sky took the world by storm when she won the game for the SOUTHERN SECTOR on debut.

“You and ALFABET! Is there any truth in the rumours?” A reporter asks the question on everyone’s mind. The thought only enhances Sky’s intrigue in No.5.

Litigatti looks down to his left and clenches his jaw. Back in the MMD the crew utilized a technology known as the F3quenZor, a telepathically powered network on which they shared information across distance and time. His time in the SFD was coming to an end. He was beginning to draw conclusions on matters out of his control let alone within his right. His entity was beginning to wilt. It wasn’t panic stations yet for the veteran, and so he calls on residue in the shell that he inhabited…somewhere across the vastness of the end-to-end-saga it was Christmas time, an event that’s still celebrated in parts of the city, but GLOBALL ATTACK was the main attraction on the streets of NYC in 2045.


The streets of New York City at seventy-thirty on a Friday evening are alive. Traffic hordes the landscape and the attention of the public transforming themselves from mundane workers, dronelike in appearance into fierce weekend warriors. Shackles and correctness are discarded on the sidewalk, where bars and restaurants swell with laughter and good cheer as beer and wine bend and aid the improbable into becoming true-blue believers for a minute as facts are stretched to suit, and limitations are overlooked till Monday comes around again....

From the backseat of a Yellow Cab, Lazoo absorbs the atmos created by a truly monumental occasion. If I were to die now, I would be thankful that I even met her. Even though I do not know her, sitting next to her gives me the most familiar feeling that I have ever felt. It comes close to how it felt being around my mom on birthdays and Christmas morning…Genisis’ perfume is now stored and it lines the rooms of my mind forever. Ready for me to remember if I ever stray from her side, for a moment longer than never…

“So where we going?” Genisis’ voice only adds to the moment. It takes Lazoo a few seconds to realize that it wasn’t part of the imaginings he was experiencing. If LAZOO were literate, he would have made the world his own. But he wasn’t. So all he could do was muse and meander in his mind the life that could’ve been.


JRA checks the folder “GO8” and chapter 35 has appeared. In life if something is too good to be true, it usually is. And you’ll find that the harder you’ve worked for something the less inclined you are to accept an unfathomable windfall which you were not expecting. Worth ethic is the foundation of all success…talent, passion and originality are interchangeable and sometimes not even required to be successful at something. But the hard yards as we call it down under (an analogy based on the work forwards in the game of Rugby do in laying the platform for a win) are essential in any success story. Whether the work should be posted as his own is not so much a dilemma as it is question of responsibility. The dichotomy of ethics and integrity for an operative living as an artist should never be the issue…

The POETSOLDIER’s role since launching the GUIOPERA at the beginning of the Global Financial Crisis in ’08 was to provide a diversion from the realities of life. Stunts made up a large portion of his act and to persuade the public to follow him, a story was hatched in the form of a serial or soap opera. The true origins of the GUIOPERA can be traced back to a concept of a process for low budget film making. Pliable as all great ideas are the online serial became a staple…

The trick to it was not to take it too seriously. And one of the ways of achieving the balance, the responsibility of being there for the people and providing material that finds a place in people’s hearts and minds without being preachy about it all, was to take the piss whenever possible. For instance, etfiction's Christmas story has carnage and cursing in it. Still, Love is most definitely the foundation, but with a sinister twist that makes it a dark comedy in the end, fingers crossed.

JRA smiles as he reads the disclaimer of sorts. Obviously Metofeaz thought the work needed it. Which must mean there was more to come. The folly of myth, mirth, mayhem and music coded and loaded is a medium to live vicariously through when the summer sun arrives for the beginning of the golden weather, yet again…


“I used to rule the world…”


Orchestral strings syndicate across all Dimensions, the fallout from a collective percipience reaching its peak radiates on the 2nd Horizon.

Johnny Shawshank ignores the pulsing light in the sky as he completes another set of power lifts. He tries forgetting what Metofeaz a scout for STREET-MMA told him about SKY-BON. But the news was unnerving, even disturbing. She was here because she killed Johnny for killing her husband.

Entities and shells that have inhabited each other tend to stay within a clique commonly known as a cluster. A cluster on average consists of around fifty or more shells or bodies. Each body is inhabited approximately three times so in effect each shell lives three lives, mostly in succession but every now and again, simultaneous inhabitation occurs.

Litigatti watches as in the sky No.5 begins to gain attention. It helps when the GLOBALL ATTACK’s leading player singles you out. Next to the montage of No.5, SKY-BON at yesterday’s press-con, “I like the look of 5. I look forward to working with No.5…”


“…I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word...”

POLINA RADA had not experienced the feeling of truly belonging. But at this very moment, it felt as if she belonged to every living, breathing, seeing and feeling being or thing in the universe…Chris Martin and Coldplay were back. Here to herald the moment she had been waiting for her entire life. The four little birds on the only branch of the tree outside her room chirped as they sang along with the music that encompassed planet earth, as told in the SASBWAH, the story-about-the-story—being-written.

Beneath the branch in a line, JON LE MAC, METOFEAZ LITIGATTI, JOHN PAGE and JOHN REYER. Behind them admiring the scene and capturing the moment on KODAK, was SANTINA SAN FÉ.

It had been eight years since the end of the Cold War. Eight long years since the collapse of the Wall of Berlin. Truth be known Polina was born in Hamburg in Germany in 1989 within twenty-four hours of the wall collapsing. Missy her dizygotic or fraternal twin lives in America with their mother Arley Lévon. Regardless of this revelation it doesn’t change the fact that John Page was responsible for Lina being here in the orphanage. So it’s therefore with great emotion that he waits for the opportunity to be her saviour and father.

“…Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own…”

The heavenly music continues…Lina cannot take the anticipation, she has to rush downstairs to be with her new family.

But then Metofeaz steps forward and raises his hand in the air. Lina wonders for a moment what he’s up to. She has to strain her eyes to see something in the distance. It’s a paper aeroplane. Down on the ground, Page her dad to be steps forward. He has a part to play in the unfolding scene that just keeps getting better. Finally, the paper plane arrives in Metofeaz’s hand. He studies the plane for a moment or two before he throws it up in the air, to Lina.

No sooner had the paper plane from Metofeaz arrived, Page produces a bouquet of flowers that he swings once, twice and then he lets sail through the air.

Lina jumps for joy as the bouquet finds her hand held out. Below, the crew were heading inside the orphanage. Polina rushes for the door…outside her room, her comrades for her entire life line the corridors of the orphanage. The smiles on their faces, well-wishes for Lina as she begins to skip down the hallway….


JRA waits for the lights at the corner of Willis and Lambton. The LATEST UPLOAD permeates the corners of the writer’s mind. Acumen versus Creativity joust for the right to populate all ends of the planet. In the end, emotion is the commodity most precious and most sought after in a world dominated by media and judged by individuals bereft of knowledge having been bombarded with isms nested in chasms of hate and or of fear….

At the top of Lambton Quay there’s a spot where the vortex of the F3quenZor is more concentrated than anywhere else in the southern hemisphere of planet earth. In the northern hemisphere it just so happens that the most concentrated vortex can be found in Central Park.

The F3quenZor a telepathic relay used for communication by the NETWORK, and mastered by the operatives of this Semi-System works principally on peer to peer triangulation. Three pillars anchor the relay and all nodes within the triangle are privy to the communication. JRA, LAZOO and POLINA are the three pillars for the F3quenZor. When two of the pillars are situated in concentrated vortices the signal is so clear that you can hear the millions of conversations by the nodes of the NETWORK.

Securing Polina Rada’s services was imperative for the NETWORK. Recruiting Lazoo was critical for the cause. But where it all came undone was when JRA was hung out to dry in the public eye. Luckily he was able to turn the situation around and make it to his advantage by creating etfiction and then the GUIOPERA. Anyways, pain is but a nagging thought in the face of what needs doing.

The lights turn green and the radio starts scanning. Intermittently it finds traces of Coldplay until he drives into the zone where the vortex is most concentrated…the orchestral strings begin to pulse as the ceremonial anointment of the third pillar of the f3quenZor is re-enacted on the New Global Realm.

As JRA pulls over to the side of the road across from Starbucks, the Cut-Throat-Creative wonders to himself what life will be like once the GUIOPERA is done.

“…I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word...”



“Close the door,” Maddy sounded serious. Of course it was her job to offer sound advice and so her demeanour was generally sincere and dour for effect. But as far as Sky was concerned today, she seemed sour. The timid Sky shuts the door, holding onto to the handle for as long as she could before she had to let it go, and she had to face conflict, front up to confrontation, look someone in the eye…

Instantly, Metofeaz comes to mind. Whatever this is, he has something to do with it. She was certain. She saw how he closely he watched her at the p-con the other day. She also spotted him in every feed of No.5. “It’s that Litigatti isn’t it?”

“Sit down,” Maddy maintains her calm.

Metofeaz continues to type. He chooses not to look up at the screen above him. Behind him and on either side, he feels imprisoned by the millions of spectators that pack Cameo Court on Neon Strip. They wait for what comes next.

Behind him in the middle section, Jonomy Ovatzé notices his son Johnny’s responses to what’s happening on the big screen. The boy twitches each time Sky even slightly becomes heat up.

A couple of rows back Imogen squeezes Ms Bonbon’s hand back when she flinches from Sky's angst.

Litigatti senses that anything impetuous, brash or audacious and the REPRO would fall down in sodden heap of discontent. So he continues to relay for audience nuance as he tries to suggest another reason why the REPRO began….


Lazoo was part of project that started before WWI, around the end of the 19th Century in an effort to head off the inevitable which happened anyway in 1914. His mother Janine Elton was one of the many applicants for an In vitro fertilisation program run by the NETWORK.

Fundamentally, the NETWORK was created to abridge war. The secret sect which connects the so called New World Order and the underworld can be traced back to 9 AD when the first POETSOLDIER roamed the planet, designing cloaking devices ushering the new world as it were. The second POETSOLDIER emerged around the same time as Shakespeare in London, England. And the third POETSOLDIER, Jon Pierre Solomon was at his prime from the later stages of WWII and was instrumental in manipulating the clandestine trade as a device by which the west and the east engaged in a Cold War and kept the Super Powers occupied for over four decades. The space and arms races between the USA and the USSR were played out as parts of the Cold War. Vietnam aside, Desert Storm in the nineties reintroduced the world to mindless war, in which innocents are needlessly killed.

Anyways, Lazoo’s brief in '97 was to get as close as possible to Harry Clarenta a rogue arms dealer. Genisis’ role was to keep an eye on Lazoo. A trained psychologist Ms Jones was the perfect support for Lazoo. As far as stories go, falling for a colleague is common place. But it was what the pair went through that made their story so endearing, engaging and made them so loveable. If they hadn’t fallen for each, they may not have found the resolve to see them through their ordeal.

Lazoo achieved his brief. Here’s how he did it.

Harry Clarenta fell in love with Lazoo nee James Elton at first sight and bought the café in Tribeca where he first met the “Illiterate Poet” a character Lazoo created in his own elaborate cloaking device. Lazoo then cast Clarenta as Hariss Clariss a flamboyant king with an evil persona of “Scariest Clown in Town.” In return Clarenta bought up every piece of real estate Lazoo stepped foot on. Including an apartment known as the white room gifted to Lazoo by a former client, named Mrs X supposed partner of Mr. Businessman boss of Hannibal Ammer handler of LMLA-ink. Things turned nasty when Clarenta found out about Lazoo and Genisis.

Clarenta then deployed bent cops Tait Stevenson and Pedro Picasso to harass Lazoo and make life uncomfortable for him and Genisis. Lazoo being Lazoo retaliated through the play in which cast Clarenta. Morbid as it sounds Lazoo’s intentions were always purely artistic, when he directed a scene at Clarenta’s house, a mansion in Manhattan known as the “Compound.” In the ghoulish scene, seven corpses were used as props. The plotline went, seven men who frequented a brothel were murdered and had their tongues swapped. A metaphor of some sort according to Lazoo. Lazoo performed the scene around the time Clarenta offered Genisis a job in a brothel which Lazoo had built for Clarenta, once again as part of this ongoing play/installation art. Clarenta who was by now totally obsessed with Lazoo wanted Genisis to be a Human Resources consultant in the upmarket escort agency Lazoo named MMESOL. Things went horribly wrong when a photo of the seven corpses all of them John Does ended up on the front page of the NY Times. Long story short, Clarenta’s body was found in a dumpster around the corner from his mansion on Christmas day later that year, solving a problem for the authorities and the arms industry. There are several iterations of the campfire story still doing the rounds. One of them mention the name of hitman Tone Horroh of Jules Winnfield, Vince Vega and Marcellus Wallace fame who were all synonymous with campfire stories. From the late ‘80s to 2010 Tone Horroh was the U.S stand in for the leader of LMLA-ink, till Horroh ended up on death row for the murders of many men, some of which are well documented in the Morbid-Mayhem phase of etfiction…


LUNAR BOIS looks out over the Golden Mile as he again channels the POETSOLDIER in a new brief which he’s received.

Three days out from the release of CHAPTER XMAS and there was still no clear pathway to the end, or even foreseeable moral to the story.

The twists were coming thick and fast, but were they gimmicks or were they actual devices used with purpose which will become clear in the end?

The summary of Lazoo’s story in NYC is plausible but was JRA actually part of it? And was he in Moscow at Polina Rada’s adoption? Who knows? Thinking back his good friend could vanish for days, sometimes weeks, and when he showed up again, he never actually gave any explanation of his whereabouts. As per normal, the standoffish person would just talk his way around stuff. And no one ever questioned him about it. Was his friend capable of concocting such a lie? With no education to speak of and a criminal record, JRA relied on his wits to get him through life. Bois recalled times when his pal used to be a chronic gambler and had to supplement his habit by fighting all sorts of characters in arranged meets around the city…Wellington had changed a lot since those days in the ‘80s when gangsters ran the city and everyone knew an undercover cop, only when you read about him in the papers of course. Or a spy in this case…

LUNAR likes the sound of his new character whom he will name Johnn with two “n”s for a comic strip. He will pitch the idea to a new street wear clothing label…Christmas bells chime in the atmos as he feels her arms slide around his waist. In one hand, coffee in the other his totem.

“Play me a Christmas song,” that’s all ALEISHA was asking for this Christmas…

CHRISTINA AGUILERA heeds the request, and down on the GM citizens and visitors to WELLY alike are thankful that they find themselves in this little corner of the world at this very moment in time as the POETSOLDIER begins toning down the chaos and starts to disseminate the yule tide feeling for the entire world to believe…

Hang all the mistletoe
I'm gonna get to know you better, yeah
This Christmas
And as we trim the tree
How much fun it's gonna be together, yeah, ha
This Christmas



Old Christmas songs intertwine GA action soundbites. And then they’re interlaced with droid gaga, not to mention the buzz of the crowds that converge on Times Square. The new world was like the old world, only difference was everyone hated droids now. Thank God they didn’t give a fuck and they lacked ability to hate us back….

There were robots everywhere, selling, singing or just being general nuisances and menaces to no one really…one falls over and has a seizure, sparks fly and before one could utter “fucking robots” the Replenishers were on the scene. And before you could say “fucking robots are awesome!” The spazzing droid is up on its feet offering free hugs and a pinch on the arse once more. “Hug and Pinch on the arse for free!” “Hug and Pinch on the arse for free!” In 2045, droid drone or gaga was one of the leading causes of depression a study had concluded.

In the epi-centre of the quiet ruckus that is life, two unsuspecting citizens of the SFD wander through the melee of minds in another dimension that dictate their existence. Arm in arm, the happy couple in their middle ages wonder through Times square. It was two days out from Christmas, not that you would know it. GLOBALL ATTACK was the only game in town. SKY-BON, sky-high on the Neon-Boards. One of her accomplices the recently discovered No.5, also from the PIFFT Cryo-Farms commonly known as the Crim-Silos in the Sothern-Sector. He stands behind her, like her own personal sentinel.

“I like that No.5.” Mr John Shaw who doesn’t usually go for that type stuff freely admits. Shaw preferred the arts over what they called sports nowadays. She, Mrs Skylah Shaw an ardent supporter of GA raises her eyebrows in amazement. “Is that right? I still have the tickets to the game, that nice door to door salesman, what’s his name?

“Metofeaz Litigatti, hon. And he wasn’t a salesman…” Shaw a former security guard gets mad when his wife says someone is nice. Usually it means they’re not!

Across the street, Litigatti checks his pulse. Time was running out. His beats per memory were beginning to sound like a blur.

Luckily he had managed to narrow down to a handful of shells, the ones that could be simultaneously housing the same entities as SKY-BON and No.5, the phenomena known as harbouring.


The sounds of Christmas float in on currents that circumnavigate sorrow and the burdens that weigh us down.

In 1998 Jon Le Mac, John Page and John Lazoo wave goodbye to the driver of the van as he pulls away leaving them at the side of the road, where the path to the Chateaux in the Valley of Vineyards somewhere in the South of France begins.

At the top of the dirt road a couple hundred metres up a decent climb, in the middle of the balcony above the Thinking Creature and the other eleven orange gargoyles that surround the art deco pool, is Rozelle Zofen, just like in the book.

John Page begins to recite the poem which his father Jon Pierre Solomon or JPS wrote here at the Chateau in the early 1940s “The crunching / Beneath these boots / The miles in them / The dust bites…”

Jon Le Mac, not to be outdone joins in on the tribute to the old man, “Bottled in mud / Marked prints / An earth long / A sky wide / A star high / Trudging – Sings / hugging notes / Tips of waves - Not even their peak”

Lazoo is still too chocked up after hearing Page’s plan to swap places with Metofeaz who a group of extremists have as a hostage somewhere in France. Nevertheless, he joins his friends in the meaningful memorial. His voice shakes and is croaky as he fears the worst…

“Mountainous moments and dungeons of regrets / Steeped in heaven, ends in hell / As an eye may cast, a mind will spread / Walk them all / Run them in /And having stretched them thin…”

Rozelle waves out to them, as they reach the part of the poem which mentions her code name.

“Rozelle is in a thieving frame of mind / taking words as she wills / Flower as Janine’s thinking, the naïve natives of the Americas / A Pacifican in wartime just sharing a uniform and some of his things…”

Page slows down for Lazoo and Le Mac to catch up either side of him at which point he places an around their shoulders, for the trio to end the poem in unity as they reach the famed wooden gate where JPS stood and mused at the sight of the Parisian songstress before he went on to write some of etfiction’s most poignant pieces.

“At sea! / On land! / floating out loud!


HONE reads through the pending chapter. Next to him in the driver’s seat of the SUZUKI Swift the POETSOLDIER. The designer of the cloaking device from which the NETWORK takes its lead, wants Hone to edit the chapter.

“According to your sense of the truth and what needs to be said. Not what you believe is right and what’s wrong…”

It takes Hone a moment or two for his instructions to sink in….

Minutes later the young man hands JRA back the laptop. The etfiction purist impresses the POETSOLDIER with his understanding of literary devices and the SASBWAH. When in PART 1, he inserts the middle age couple the Shaw’s to activate simultaneous inhabitation or harbouring, which Litigatti suggested a chapter ago in CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX. And then in PART 2 he kills two birds…first when he ties up a loose end from the Prelude by working in the poem which the young JRA recited in hope of it saving him from the bullies. Secondly he works in The Pirate Page, Lazoo and Le Mac in France cutting a clear track to the end.

“Won’t it look like your showboating?” Hone has a smirk on his face.

“Me? Showboating?” JRA keeps a straight face as he loads up Adobe Dreamweaver CC with the LATEST UPLOAD.

“What’s a song?” The POETSOLDIER waits for HONE’s choice.

“It’s one that Lunar would like…he told me you guys used to be into WHAM!”

“Is that right now?”


“Convergence of Sequential Essence”


John Shaw cannot believe he is back stage at what used to be Madison Square Garden again after all these years. GA HQ was built around and under the famous arena, where Shaw was a guard. He can hear the sound of his wife’s heels as they echo in what were now known as the corridors of power. In front of them, Metofeaz Litigatti leads the way. Up ahead a door opens and jeering and shouting escape from the privacy of the changing room. It couldn’t be? The players themselves, less than an hour away from throw-down. Surely they wouldn’t be this close to the most famous stars on the planet, just moments before they take the field to defend freedom and to affect civility in the name of justice.

And then a figure steps out of the room, its SKY-BON. “Oh my…” Skylah Shaw is beside herself.

“Calm down, we’re here for a purpose,” Litigatti turns his head to the side, reminding the ultra-conservative couple to stay alert.

From the stadium, Christmas music sails as it wafts through the complex. Out on the pitch the opening theme for pre-game celebrations and entertainment is XMAS—Emotional Techno Fiction style. The evergreen Justin Bieber does “Mistletoe” for all his fans around the planet….


"James, James." Janine Elton checked to see if her seven-year-old man was still awake. James was comfortable in the warmth of the night, his mother's poetry a fine replacement for the hot chocolate that she could not afford. Janine looked straight ahead into the rafters of her cottage with her hand-bound book across her chest.

Janine had been adopted by a wealthy Wisconsin family, the Eltons, after the baronial couple had found her as a three-year-old girl in a New York orphanage. She’d grown up as their housemaid and had fallen in love with her stepbrother of the same age.

The Eltons put her on a bus for New York at the age of 14 when she became pregnant. She gave birth to James Elton in a New York shelter for the homeless, and when James was 24 hours old Janine left New York for the heartland, hoping to change the course of occurrences and to give her son an earthy grounding away from the rot, dampness, and sleaze of the city.

Her teats, sore and tender from the hungry baby, immediately relaxed as she stepped down from the steel steps of the stuffy, crass, and crammed bus onto the dirt sidewalk of Pleasant Prairie. As far as Janine was concerned her new bundle of life, wrapped in white wool, had been delivered to her from God in the fresh country air, and not in a freezing New York City squatter hall.

Janine had not bothered to pack her meagre belongings into the shabby quilt knapsack hanging from her back. The sack contained wet rags made from her blanket. The new mother used the rags to clean the effects of James’s birth from herself, and used two single-bed fleece sheets torn in four as James's first diapers. Janine stood on the side of the road looking straight across it—at the vastness of farmland inside newly erected wire fencing, daydreaming a scene in which she and her baby shared a cottage on a quarter acre which a kind-hearted widower had offered her in return for housekeeping duties and bookkeeping work.

Janine stood and stared. A smile could be seen in her eyes, telling of her contentment. Even without an abode, she knew she would be all right. She had already made the choice to give James Elton the best chance possible.

Across the plains a resilient but gentle breeze carries a refreshing reminder for Janine Elton—Christmas music a gift for her and her baby boy.

“It’s the most beautiful time of the year
Lights fill the streets spreading so much cheer
I should be playing in the winter snow
But I'mma be under the mistletoe…”


The year is 1970. The place is the seaside village of Petone on the outskirts of Wellington, New Zealand.

The second-hand bookstore on Jackson Street looks like it’s open for business as usual.

Johnny wanders down the main street, proud of himself now that he is five years old. Johnny counts the hours until Christmas morning.

And then the humming sound comes again. Johnny is now used to the purring noise, which used to frighten the child. Of late, the humming has been followed by music. The song that fills the space surrounding the child is about Christmas…

“…Word on the street Santa's coming tonight
Reindeer's flying through the sky so high…”

Johnny hums along to the song as he peers through the window of the second-hand bookstore to see whether he can spot his friend “Betty,” who owns the bookstore. Seated in Betty’s chair is a man who reminds Johnny of someone the child can’t quite place.

Johnny knocks on the window once to see what the person’s reaction will be….

Jon Pierre Solomon, a traveller at best watches the child in the window. He has the same sparkle in his eye as do the other boys who form the quartet of minds that the Network will rely on for the next one thousand years to sort out problems in the “SystemSpectacular.”

Having been named “JRA” by his parents is secondary to the boy’s energy, which the POETSOLDIER sensed before the inquisitive child knocked on the window. Just to see what would happen, Jon Pierre takes a bet on the reason why Johnny knocked on the window when he didn’t know who was inside the shop.

Jon Pierre hears voices belonging to other children, who are out of sight; it causes JRA to move from where the Poet Soldier can see him.

Jon Pierre gets up to see where the one he’s come back home to see has gone. From inside the second-hand bookstore, Jon Pierre watches what’s going down.

Four boys older than Johnny crowd him, forcing him into the middle of the footpath in front of the shop next-door.

Jon Pierre watches Johnny closely as the four boys begin to push and shove Johnny, who holds something behind him. One of the boys grabs what Johnny was holding behind his back—an apple—and begins to toss it in the air to himself while the other bullies continue pushing Johnny in the back and from side-to-side.

Johnny didn’t worry about the pushing; all he was concerned about was the apple, which he snatches in mid-air from in front of him, and then he goes back to holding onto the apple as the boys begin to hit Johnny, at which point Jon Pierre steps out of the second-hand bookstore, his appearance causing the bullies to flee….

2015, Parked up on somewhere on the Golden Mile, the main stretch that runs through the heart of WELLY, sunshine on Christmas eve morning energises everyone as they put finishing touches to the year.

Justin Bieber and the theme song from the chapter JRA does a quick edit on, play on the dayo. John Reyer reads over the LATEST UPLOAD, excerpts from the eBook JOHN LAZOO in PART 2 and in PART 3 a rework of a famous scene in GUIOPERA IV back in 2011 a reminder of a strong and prevailing theme in his work and life—that bullies and then haters made him what he is today.

The POETSOLDIER clicks send with a smile a light hearted feeling that beats in time with the tune and Christmas message for the world…

“…It’s the most beautiful time of the year…”



“Yeah, it's been a ride / I guess I had to, go to that place, to get to this one / Now some of you, might still be in that place / If you're trying to get out, just follow me / I'll get you there…”

Marshall Bruce Mathers III AKA Eminem’s face is right across the 2nd Horizon, as the rap maestro talks candidly to his audience in the opening stanza of his smash hit “I’m Not Afraid.”

Behind the wheel of the silver convertible that flies through the night like a bullet Metofeaz and his cargo.

The Whimsical one looks in the rear vision. In the backseat SKY-BON, resting her head on No.5’s chest.

“Johnny!” Litigatti calls out above Eminem all around them, cocooning the car from elements of the Dimension Forks, a post-apocalyptic wasteland all its nasty surprises.

“Not you, old fella,” Litigatti leans forward to let John in the front with Skylah in between him and Metofeaz that he was only joking.

It was that close to dawn that on the 2nd Horizon around the edges of Eminem, orange light was beginning to seep through the black and white images.

“YES SIR! I AM FINE SIR!” No.5 confirms his status. The woman who he had killed for and died for, her head on his chest looks up at him. Her eyes, filled with feeling make his respond in kind…Litigatti nods at the soldier through the rear view mirror as the vessel continues towards the horizon at breakneck speed.


In a bedroom somewhere in NYC (the exact location is withheld for the safety and the privacy of the…well, somewhat fictitious characters) sitting on a single bed, 26-year-old Polina Rada can’t help but smile as she reads to herself the LATEST UPLOAD on her iPad. Next to the successful lawyer, is her brother Page age 16 and next him is their cousin Little Lazoo whose third birthday it is today.

“Okay! It’s readable and it’s also okay for you guys!” Polina exclaims.

“My dad said he made the GUIOPERA” Little Lazoo quips.

“Both your dad’s made the GUIOPERA. John Reyer merely writes it.” Lina explains to Lazoo a spitting image of his father.

“What’s merely Lina?” The pup fires back.

“Merely means only” Ms Rada becomes conscious that Page has gone quiet. And so she begins to read the chapter as she is also starts to think about stuff….

The music link loads and in the background Eminem begins to rap.

“You can try and read my lyrics off of this paper before I lay 'em
But you won't take the sting out these words before I say 'em
Cause ain't no way I'ma let you stop me from causing mayhem
When I say I'ma do something I do it…”


JRA reads through what he’s written. He has to stop when he reaches PART 2. How was this phenomenon, magic, this paradox of an anomaly that is starting to become a normal abnormality, still happening?

He begins to tear up as he goes over PART 2 again. Polina and Page, John Page’s kids…especially when Lina and Little Lazoo put everything into perspective. He, the POETSOLDIER only writes the stuff. John Page by all accounts was killed in 1998 only a year after adopting Lina when he volunteered to hand himself over to an extremist group who held Metofeaz hostage. It was part of a plan by Hannibal Ammer which was overseen by Tone Horroh.

The author takes heart from the fact that he has been able to bring to life in a cynical world some magic. The humming begins as he receives a txt msg from “HONE.” “Can rap this.”

As the F3quenZor kicks in. JRA admits to himself that life was pretty good, considering what he’d been through and caught up in.

POLINA and PAGE’s voices echo. The telepathic relay is rich and full of conversations about everything that mattered to him. And then LITLE LAZOO poses the question, “Why wasn’t he there to stop it from happening?”

JRA scrolls back up to PART 1. He considers rewriting the entire chapter. But then he asks himself how many times must he pay? How many more times must he write the same story, over and over again?

“I'm not afraid —I'm not afraid
To take a stand—to take a stand
Come take my hand”


“Driving home for Christmas”


The PIRATE, a name John Page had earnt, looks down to his left and clenches his jaw. Off in the distance, was his brother, not by blood but by hell-of misery, Metofeaz. He was disappearing into the yonder. Once he climbs those mountains onto the horizon he’d be gone forever?

“You gonna drive us or what?” A man who could well be Page’s dad calls out to him from inside a convertible parked in front of him with the door open. It must’ve been the car Feeaz was driving before he abandoned it. Typical, that’s how he was. Only for a short while, never for a long time.

John Page a libertarian ruffles his goatee as he takes stock of the scenario. In front of him, a silver convertible with keys in the ignition. But there were also passengers to contend with, one of them just tried making him responsible for his destiny.

PAGE looks to see where his brother was. METOFEAZ was a long way off in the distance now. He was at vanishing point.

In the back seat of the convertible, a couple, younger than the couple in the front but hellishly the same.

Page looks down the road, he can only just make out his brother waving out to him as he vanishes into the point of no return,

The women in the vehicle are extremely quiet but also very beautiful. And it’s as if they’re clinging to their men in fear of him.

There’s a noise. Static. The occupants of the vehicle ignore it. But Page wants to know.

“What’s that noise?” Page walks around to the driver’s door and gets in.

All eyes are on the dayo as it scans the spectrum for a signal. Meanwhile Page strains his eyes to find where Metofeaz had gotten to, as he starts the engine.

He gives up on trying to see where Feeaz is when the radio finds a station. And when the DJ announces “Chris Rea ‘Driving home for Christmas’” Page decides that it’s time he took affirmative action to remedy the situation. Just like he always does. The kid plants his foot firmly on the gas for the tires to start smoking wildly. For a moment the car is lost in the haze and fumes and then when Page decides, the body for that vessel that will take him to that place, fishtails before it hurtles down the highway faster than before, sending Page, Johnny and Skylah toward the 2nd Horizon. Maybe they’ll get another shot at what we “merely” call life….

JRA has one more act to fulfil as the POETSOLDIER before he signs off for the year.

He promised someone a long time ago, that once he figured it out, what it was all about he would let him know…

This is it!

Live it and Love it.


The novice writer clicks send one last before he heads out to pick up his nephews Teddi and Sano so they can attend the Room at the Inn to help out with lunch for the homeless. Chris Rea on dayo, reminds JRA that he’s still has some work to do for the song to come true.

Special dedication to my hon, Michelle Pillow. Next year baby, I will be driving home for Christmas. Promise!

John Reyer Afamasaga

P.S Merry Christmas

To be continued...

©2013 John Reyer Afamasaga