02:00; They gave me their Two Cents (2 rings, each bearing an American cent in the setting), a Helium 3 Credit Card (a master of all other credit cards & visa to great spending), & my name in The Ledger …
02:10; … which should keep me off various watchlists, for buying … interesting items. As adverse as I am to the Internet, E-Bay provides far superior yellow cake uranium than the Russian mail order varieties.
02:20; A provisionary membership, all the same. They will turn their surveillance upon me. In many ways the induction was an overture to inspection, making sure I patiently allow them to observe & research.
02:30; Should they discover the manner of my new abilities, & the means to replicate them for resale, I will be briefly snuffed out. Most of the movers & shakers were shielded, but not all present, thankfully …
02:40; I wander into the back garden, in the company of inebriated fellows, behind the urban castle of Tally Ho’s. Intelli Gents, appealing as a stark-dark perfect cube is, it cannot compare to this white castle.
02:50; The lawn ornaments are quite lifelike – those that do & those that do not move alike – & we sit upon the bench whose other occupant is a man of stone, frozen, in the interesting position of mid-scream.
03:00; The Chipmonks of Doomtelling scurry as pack from their nearby warren. Filthy little vermin, looking for treats. One of my drunken band brought a plate of fried potatoes covered in sourcream. ‘Treat?’
03:10; Apparently a cutting of the World Tree grows somewhere, unknown, in the garden. Chipmonks nibble on the roots, giving them futures, to regurgitate at a will. Feed the rats spud slices, & hear dooms.
03:20; Mine tells me the future; of someone called Rogeline d’Ansible. Something, something, ‘world’s greatest dancer’, something, something, ‘dreadful misunderstanding, of the heart’, something, something …
03:30; … ‘dies alone & unloved. Penniless, in a Fugit City boardinghouse. Of ‘macrogangrene’, after a double leg amputation’. Well that is interesting. Macrogangrene eh? Nonsense word, as is Fugit City, but-
03:40; -who knows? Perhaps UNDEAD, with the principles of infection & rejection amplified a thousand fold! Still – it is good manners to write down the prediction, & I owe Rogeline for the boost of spirits.
03:50; ‘Dear Rogeline; IF YOU EVER DATE, YOU WILL END UP ALONE & LEGLESS IN A DOSSHOUSE. SUGGEST YOU START NAMING THOSE SPINSTER CHILDREN-CATS NOW.’
04:00; The chipmonks give past & future dooms quite randomly. All are collated in a little office just off the garden, where their ‘intendeds’ can pick up the prediction. ‘Intendeds’: patterns in chipmonk’s vomit.
04:10; I ask at the predictions office if anything has come in under Lord Daftwager, or Doctor Von Quatloo. Yes, predictions could come in under those names for others of my family – that is why I ask, yes?
04:20; Nothing for me. No future. & that is exactly how I like it. There was something under Dr Von Quatloo; Dr Divinia Von Quatloo cures macrogangrene to world applause. Cure! For free!! 1 of Alan’s!!!
04:30; Munching starch & salt, I activate the teleport.
04:40; Too much wine. I expectorated stomach contents over a barman. True, I could have just walked here, but that would have involved asking for the drawbridge down or flying over the moat … tiresome.
04:50; Also, the opportunity cost of not disappearing, before a crowd of stunned watchers. They wish to keep me close, the better to watch me? Fine. I shall put on a hell of a show, or be angelically invisible.
05:00; At the end of the week, I attend the monthly general holder’s meeting. I will be put to a general vote. That should give any real enemies of mine, who are in this Market wink-&-nod club, time to attend.
05:10; They may very well also have time to assess that I’ve never been of the House & that my entry info was perfect-purloined from the mind of a fool. I could go from holding stocks to being held in stocks.
05:20; My life could easily be over by the end of the week, so I’m in the mood to ruin a few others as I go. This therefore, was the worst moment for the Bank Robbers to enter The Cask of Amontillado Bar.
05:30; The Bank Robbers: dressed as a ‘wunch’ of bankers (bowler hats, suit-coats, pin-stripe pants & carnation in every button hole), carrying bags marked £ & $, these faux-financiers rob small businesses.
05:40; They intend to rob the bar – fine. Intend to rob the plebs – fine. Intend to rob me – not fine! They are crisp, fresh & gun-wielding. I currently am not. Mind-state projector: uses that fact against the BRs.
05:50; Unbalanced, dehydrated & uncoordinated: at least their brains think so. Then: I’m invisible, kicking them, in ways that make them sluggishly suspect their partners. I leave, as guns roar upon each other.
06:00; My bags brought from the Agnate Club await in the train station. Unfortunately: the train service will not be on in the forseeable future – an apparition of hell has appeared at Piccadilly’s principal station.
06:10; Not as bad as it sounds. It isn’t as interactive the shaft of Heaven. The ground simply becomes transparent, to the region of Hell below. No holy voice calling people towards; just their morbid curiosity.
06:20; This place is personally accurate, unlike the chipmonks. One sees the deceased of one’s acquaintance who merited Hell. As one can imagine I see a lot of dead people, from friends to family to victims.
06:30; People crowd around; not one takes a step. It is perfectly safe – afterall, it was always there, merely revealed in the shaft aftermath. As the only clear way to the station, I vault a barrier & stride across.
06:40; Not even warm. Various figures, far too decrepit to identify. Except for Lord Thaddeus Daftwager; forever set & kept alight, by spectres of those suffragettes he immolated. I have his nose, you know.
06:50; Get my luggage back from the stationmaster. Walk back the way I came, & don’t even notice when I step off the transparency. Why should I? I am always on a feather’s-breath/depth bridge over Hell.
07:00; Standing on a bridge over ice-cold waters now. Bag in hand, containing the brain of a dead man wired with the soul of an unborn machine. Certainly hell bound heresies, all of them. I step off –