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Existential Executioner vs. Boris Vian

July 22, 2012

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Boris cooled. He looked over at his trumpet, which stood on the floor of his apartment, lamprey mouth clamped down.

The thing he was doing with that trumpet was forgetting how to play it perfectly.

The next thing would be forgetting the forgetting.

His tie (like a black seaweed) dangled against his pale blue shirt (which needs no simile.)

He smoked, chest-pumps bringing it in to the cold and buzzing cavity then letting it out again. In his little notepad – polymath cradle – he had designs for rust cigarettes that would perhaps be a little more realistic for him and his kind. Then he’d forget that project too…once everyone was smoking them at le Chat Noir.

Then he would forget that forgetting.

He got up and was cool. He walked to the kitchen and was cool. He looked in the mirror and totally forgave himself. Forwards, backwards and sideways in time he forgave himself. As he did so, forgiveness from every other time he stepped in front of a mirror coalesced in a hologram around him. Angels sang. The real ones, who hide between seconds but DO stick their heads out just a little.

He looked at his face and saw it moving. He saw it vibrate and tremble as oils and nanomotors conspired. In and out. Different and same. Or Same and different. No time. No age. Two pulses. In and out. Camus and Sartre. Sartre dead. Time wobbling like a tire that got rolled too far.

And what of Vian? Would he now just play his trumpet?

With his coffee, his portable black mirror, he went back to the chill out room. He went to forget how interesting were the clicks and grinds and distortions on the LP that was spinning and to start to just groove to the music. And then – yes – make the required adjustment.

Twenty years of this already.

It wasn’t really working out for him.

Now…

There was a man in his chair all of a sudden. A beefy gent, with ill intent. All flesh. Scars on his face, wrinkles that were just going to get worse. Landslides that one day would reach tipping point and pour all the flesh off his face and expose the timeless whites beneath.

The man wore spiky brass knuckles. Externalized metal. It made a robot feel funny to see that, even when the robot knew this to be the intent.

Vian drank the coffee. Like a human, he drank in such a way as to flash off little signs, sparks in the big night. But he basically just drank it.

“I am feeling very alive right now,” he almost let slip.

Who is Existential Executioner? He’s the guy from Automatic Assassin, but in pseudo-Paris

Who is Boris Vian? The coolest Frenchman. 

What is al this about? It’s part of a Work In Progress novel coming from ZizekPress soonish.

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