octogenarian uncle in singlet and Bermudas faces the Old Man, his mouth open, his hand extended to shake. The Old Man’s gaze at the proffered hand is wary and anxious, as though recalling the fate of Mr. Massimo Dutti and the other expendable bankers.
30. Close-up on a tight handshake, the skin of both hands creased and liver-spotted, yet the muscles and bones underneath still convey power and confidence from both men.
31. Tight on the Old Man’s face, his expression full of surprise and relief. The elderly in view behind him relax; some begin to smile.
32. The entire perimeter, and the Old Man, sit down directly on the ground. The old uncle speaks. The Old Man leans in to listen.
33. Over the shoulder of the Old Man as he calls to the other limousines parked next to his, the assembled crowd consisting of his son, the entire Cabinet, and various other members of Parliament, who lean forward to catch every one of the Old Man’s utterances.
34. The suited government figures spreading out in all directions, each man and woman headed toward a different occupied area, not entirely comfortable but unwilling to contravene the Old Man’s dictum.
35. An Indian woman in leg braces shakes the hand of the Old Man’s son, whose smile is practiced yet genuine. The woman’s sari is faded, its colors dulled with use and wear, yet it glitters in the fading sunlight, throwing sparkles onto her interlocutor’s face.
36. A longer shot of the CBD, displaying more double rings, inside which sit each Cabinet minister and the other members of Parliament gathered for this summit, each locus of political power straining to hear the quiet, yet firm, voices of their constituency.
37. From far overhead, the thick orange rays of the setting sun illuminate more than two dozen perfect circles, each circumference glowing a light gold, a color endemic of hope, acceptance, and optimism.
Bachy Soletanche
Bachy Soletanche. Bachy Soletanche. Bachy Soletanche? Nah. Never heard of him.
What? Ten? Only ten? Ah, fifty, good. Hundred, even better. Oh, yah, Bachy Soletanche . Yeah, we’s acquainted. Followed his exploits, cheered on, lent an occasional hand. Hands holding huffily hilarious hornswaggles, Horatio.
Look, we never actually met. Don’t know what he looks like, him, hum, higgeldy hero. Got some emails, sure, but never saw. His face , you see? But oh, oh, oh did we have us some fun, we did. A man of smoke he was. Could sneak slide slip into anywhere anywhen then vanish without leaving behind a fingerprint or scuff on the floor. A djinn? No. No. Maybe, who knows. Sneak sneak sneak, them local superstitious supercilious silly sycophantic slumberers think of him a ghost, sure, seeing ghosts everywhere, them, in the trees, in the sewers, in the toilet water, nowhere to hide, and weren’t nowhere he couldn’t get.
Yeah, saw the headlines, the naughty nomenclature naming him, a terrorist, they said, hah. These fat flatulent fucking philandering photo-whores spreading that filth, them. No call for that, no sir, no, not necessary nor niggling nighttime lovers of laughing lascivious loneliness, no, wasn’t fair wasn’t right, they. Terrorists spread terror, but Bachy. Bachy. Bachy spread art, spread snark, spread satirical dissatisfaction and they can’t have that, no, them with their hands around the throats of the populace, wiretapping, scunts, search-tracking, IP monitoring, analyzing buying habits, determining nationalism, do you love this flag enough ? Nation-building, how committed are you?
But Bachy Soletanche, Bachy Soletanche, ripple, float, fly, infiltrate all the nooks and crannies, yes. Can only tell what I know in person, but yes, it was him hacked the local broadcasts, replacing sad stupid silly serial soap dramas, them with the crying eyes and dramatic wide eyes and squinting eyes and the bad bad bad. So bad, the writing, the acting, the cheap production, but yet the locals eating up with a spoon, this mind garbage,
30. Close-up on a tight handshake, the skin of both hands creased and liver-spotted, yet the muscles and bones underneath still convey power and confidence from both men.
31. Tight on the Old Man’s face, his expression full of surprise and relief. The elderly in view behind him relax; some begin to smile.
32. The entire perimeter, and the Old Man, sit down directly on the ground. The old uncle speaks. The Old Man leans in to listen.
33. Over the shoulder of the Old Man as he calls to the other limousines parked next to his, the assembled crowd consisting of his son, the entire Cabinet, and various other members of Parliament, who lean forward to catch every one of the Old Man’s utterances.
34. The suited government figures spreading out in all directions, each man and woman headed toward a different occupied area, not entirely comfortable but unwilling to contravene the Old Man’s dictum.
35. An Indian woman in leg braces shakes the hand of the Old Man’s son, whose smile is practiced yet genuine. The woman’s sari is faded, its colors dulled with use and wear, yet it glitters in the fading sunlight, throwing sparkles onto her interlocutor’s face.
36. A longer shot of the CBD, displaying more double rings, inside which sit each Cabinet minister and the other members of Parliament gathered for this summit, each locus of political power straining to hear the quiet, yet firm, voices of their constituency.
37. From far overhead, the thick orange rays of the setting sun illuminate more than two dozen perfect circles, each circumference glowing a light gold, a color endemic of hope, acceptance, and optimism.
Bachy Soletanche
Bachy Soletanche. Bachy Soletanche. Bachy Soletanche? Nah. Never heard of him.
What? Ten? Only ten? Ah, fifty, good. Hundred, even better. Oh, yah, Bachy Soletanche . Yeah, we’s acquainted. Followed his exploits, cheered on, lent an occasional hand. Hands holding huffily hilarious hornswaggles, Horatio.
Look, we never actually met. Don’t know what he looks like, him, hum, higgeldy hero. Got some emails, sure, but never saw. His face , you see? But oh, oh, oh did we have us some fun, we did. A man of smoke he was. Could sneak slide slip into anywhere anywhen then vanish without leaving behind a fingerprint or scuff on the floor. A djinn? No. No. Maybe, who knows. Sneak sneak sneak, them local superstitious supercilious silly sycophantic slumberers think of him a ghost, sure, seeing ghosts everywhere, them, in the trees, in the sewers, in the toilet water, nowhere to hide, and weren’t nowhere he couldn’t get.
Yeah, saw the headlines, the naughty nomenclature naming him, a terrorist, they said, hah. These fat flatulent fucking philandering photo-whores spreading that filth, them. No call for that, no sir, no, not necessary nor niggling nighttime lovers of laughing lascivious loneliness, no, wasn’t fair wasn’t right, they. Terrorists spread terror, but Bachy. Bachy. Bachy spread art, spread snark, spread satirical dissatisfaction and they can’t have that, no, them with their hands around the throats of the populace, wiretapping, scunts, search-tracking, IP monitoring, analyzing buying habits, determining nationalism, do you love this flag enough ? Nation-building, how committed are you?
But Bachy Soletanche, Bachy Soletanche, ripple, float, fly, infiltrate all the nooks and crannies, yes. Can only tell what I know in person, but yes, it was him hacked the local broadcasts, replacing sad stupid silly serial soap dramas, them with the crying eyes and dramatic wide eyes and squinting eyes and the bad bad bad. So bad, the writing, the acting, the cheap production, but yet the locals eating up with a spoon, this mind garbage,
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