[Issuing from a vortex beneath Deplancher's desk and twisting up from said like the defiant boy into Dee Schnider from the MTV video (back when it was still Music TV and not a dumpster fire of unGodly social engineering and dystopian propaganda) janevc makes the scene upon the floor with a new batch of capital offered up in her small hands]
Alo little missus,
[She hands the sheaf of papers to the mystified Carol, who solemnly accepts them as she glances down at the seeming infinite blackness of the wormhole swirling dangerously close to her feet]
Hopin' this 'un has that POUND, POUND, POUND you was talkin about with the govnah. Tally ho.
[and with that parting shot of, possibly, insinuated promiscuity, janevc is sucked back into the black hole from whence she came with the aural glug of a flushed toilet's final slurping]
[Sturgeon wipes the algae from side of his tank. It had built up so thick that he had forgotten there was a room on the other side. A room full of cantankerous, anarchistic capital managers who seem incessantly to switch between self-loathing and bubble-headed arrogance. Oh yeah, that was why he's left them mostly alone.]
Hey guys. Uh... long time no see. Any good caps lately? I feel like I haven't had a feed for ages.
[Carol grabs at her shirt's neckline and twists it. She curls up in the pilot's chair.]
She gave us some capital, David.
[Carol looks at the pages resting in her hands]
Fucking spirits. And hey, fish guy, we get capital from the man, what the fuck's his name? Rorschalk? Something like that. Borechalk? I forget. Dang, fuckers.
[Carol spreads the fresh capital out on the desktop of DePlacher's desk]
We will see what the fuck is up, cousins. But we must gird ourselves against what is a'coming. We've a President of the United States that, besides revealing himself as an idiot, has pegged himself as a fucking person that does not in any way speak the truth. So that's tough. For us. I mean, hmph. For the supporters of said person, I can only feel sadness. Like when you see a meth addict rob a 7-eleven. The addict needs juice, sugar, and he must put the gun to the head of the shop clerk, right? He has no choice in the matter. This fella is the orange guy's cliental. God Christ, I want to hug the folks that support Trump, but I can't because those folks are so beyond nasty. I mean, wow, the smell. Folks, Trump folks, you need to shower. And please stop smiling. Your teeth..fucking wow, sisters. Brush.
Yeah, Trump pretty much reflects the worst of what makes you guys human. But you've had it bad before (I'm thinking Nixon, or Harding, or Buchanan) and managed to climb back towards some semblance of decency - so have faith and keep fighting the good fight.
I mostly hang out in British waters. We have a Mini-Me version of Trump. A privileged fumbling blonde bigot who can't figure out what kind of lying he loves best - the type you do with a big mouth, or the type you do with other people's women.
Anyhoo, Rorschalk delivered. A fresh, shiny piece of capital. At least, it was, until I used it to clean my behind after a particularly stubborn bowel movement.
[Carol grabs the current capital they'd been examining for days from the desktop. She rolls it into a tube. A fucking tube!]
You cannot let this ruin your fucking day, the most dude of dudes. We will get some god awful shit on the line here at TQR. Some bad clothes will be hung on our line, Dave. When it comes, just except that it is shit. Do not think how awful it is to toil and sweat over the typer for months typing a narrative that the crafter believes in, for all the crafters believe what they're crafting is real fucking real. They, the crafters, are making worlds, savvy? Some of those worlds are dumb as broken harmonicas. Nothing we can do about it. When a broken harmonica comes our way, we's gots to just dump the shit into the fucking toilet. And so, Dave calm down. We are tossing Mark Geatches's Tile of Tears out the fucking Porthole.
[Carol tosses the capital out the Porthole. She walks over to Boligard's cherrywood and rests her left asscheek against its edge]
We are allowing Connor a last edit, folks. This is not often done here at TQR. But there's times you, me, we see a promising capitalist thrust some stuff in our general direction, submit to us, hah, and we just have to call dibs, or fucking not. Right?
[Carol wraps her arms around her shoulders]
We'll hopefully be sober enough to admit brilliance.
You go, fish fella! Nice to see you tackling a capital, wrestle it on it's back, pound the shit out of it's stomach, see what comes of it all. Really fucking excellent.
[Carol turns her gaze to DePlancher's desktop, the warm capital laid thereupon. She sparks a doobie, sucks in deep, chirps. She taps her forefinger-tip on the currently desked cap. She lowers her chin, opens and tightens her lips]
You know, typing, that's what Boligard calls it, is an art. Like sculpture. Stump carving. Origami. Finger puppets.
[She grabs up the capital off the desktop and winds it up, twists it]
Lisa Shapter's My Husband Blenheim has been Portholed.
[Carol pulls out her box of Swan Vestas and strikes one on the edge of the match box, making flame, orange and blue wiggly stuff, and she puts the fire to the page. The unwanted thingies go all blaze, right? Ash wafts downward, like some sort of reverse ski-lift. Carol sighs]
Let's find better shit, hombres. Fuck, I really want a taco plate.
[Carol stubs out her joint in the gigantoid, triangular marble ashtray. She holds the smoke she's inhaled in her lungs, holds it, holds it, and then she exhales. She tucks the blunt into her bra, exciting all the boys lined up out front the stage. Carol tosses the current capital up into the rafters. She eyes it, the capital, watching for it to rebound, bounce back, land. It rises up. Very cool]
Motherfuck. Alycia Quaker's capital has been tossed up. Best of luck, cousin. I have good feelings about this one. Good feelings.