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The 7 - Print - The Llakor Project Year Two: Day One, Chapter Zero
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From: Montreal, Quebec, CANADA

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#1 Posted on 1.11.05 2021.26
Reposted on: 1.11.12 2021.45
The Llakor Project - Year Two
Prologue: This is your life when you are dead.

This is your life when you are dead.

The alarm on your cheap clock radio goes off at quarter to six in the morning. You have no where to be; no reason to be awake before the sun rises. And yet here you are, padding down the hallway, idly kicking away the empty couche-tard plastic grocery bags, to get to the other bedroom in your cluttered Montreal four and a half so that you can turn off the fucking alarm.

You shuffle back and turn on the alarm of your microwave oven and set it for thirty-three minutes and thirty-three seconds and then carefully, in the dark, you make your way to the fridge stepping between empty plastic bottles of Cherry Coke and glass bottles of Mystique and aluminum cans of Guiness Draft.

(And they say that it as good as from the tap, but they lie - oh do they lie. Oh sure there were taps and plenty that promised Guiness and delivered some dark syrupy mess instead, so these cans and the bottles of Guiness draft were merely a matter of mediocrity triumphing over disaster - nothing more.

And you know that that there were rumoured to be two taps in the city - and one in the suburbs - with true Guiness and women who knew how to pull a real pint. The equal of Belfast people said with a straight face. But you are in no position to confirm this rumour what with being dead and all.

So it was the mediocrity of the aluminum cans or the glass bottles... or nothing. And even dead, especially dead, you can not - could not - take the nothing.)

Having threaded the obstacle course to the fridge, you grab a bottle of water from the freezer. A perfect bottle - not quite frozen - just cold enough to make your teeth hurt and your eyes water. And you swallow back the water with two extra-strength Tylenols from the bottle on top of the fridge.

And then you lurch back through the minefield of plastic and glass and aluminum to the washroom and you piss...

and you piss...

and you piss...

and you finally figure out how to end that novel that you have never got around to writing...

and you piss...

and you piss...

and you work out a peace settlement for Jerusalem that might actually work...

and you piss...

and you piss...

and reflecting on the hierarchy of needs, you consider (and not for the first time you realize) that it would be smart to hang a pad and pen to the bathroom wall to jot down notes for moments such as these...

and you piss...

and you piss...




and you piss...

and you force out the last few drops letting go of a massive fart in doing so...

startling the sleeping pigeons outside your window...

and you piss...

and you piss...

and that is the truly the end of it and you shake and then refreshed, you do a Flair Flop onto your bed and sleep like the dead. The microwave oven draws barely - nothing more than a grunt and a twitch. But then the alarm clock in the other room goes off again and this time you are up for sure and certain.

You fill your upright kettle with water from the Brita and notice that you should change the filter. You fiddle with the plug to start your kettle boiling and stalk off to take a shower while the water boils.

You are out of shampoo so - not for the first time - you lather up a bar of Ivory. Stepping out of the shower, you consider shaving, but why bother? Why would you shave? And who for?

Water boiled, you search for tea. No Irish Breakfast, no English Breakfast, no Earl Grey, no Prince of Wales, you are down to the perfumed schlock of Lady Grey. Well, better perfumed schlock than nought at all. Your brown sugar has congealed into a rock-solid mass so you add a bit of boiled water to soften it and scoop the flakes of brown sugar into a massive cup - adding milk first and then tea.

Walking down the hall, you pause to listen to the local rock station’s 7:20 comedy bit: Revisionist History. The joke is terrible as usual. The joke translator is funny - also as usual.

And these are all the rituals that you use to keep yourself dead.

Not quite awake, sipping your tea slowly, taking short sharp shots of heat directly to your brain, you turn on the TV...

London is burning.




London is burning. The Underground is burning. The red double-deckers are burning.


On NewsNet.


On Fox News.


The mug of tea falls to the floor shattering.

The rock station begins playing “London is Calling”

The Clash. Oh God. The Clash.

They carry a woman out from the Underground - out from hell - and she is covered in blood.

You look down at your hands and they are covered in blood and you realize that you didn’t drop the mug for it to shatter on the floor. You ground the mug into pieces in your bare hand, cutting your palm to shreds and the shattered pieces fell to the floor.

There is blood on your hands.

You realize that you have already figured out three different ways to get to London without passing through customs and you can’t quite figure out where you can find peroxide and bandages.

There is blood on your hands.

When the pain finally hits, you are ready for it. This is pain you can work with. This is good pain. This pain calls you back to life.

London is burning.

There is blood on your hands.

This is your life.

Damn it all. You liked that mug.

Chapter One:
His Name is Gideon

(edited by Llakor on 1.11.05 2359)
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J. Kyle
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#2 Posted on 6.11.05 0136.39
Reposted on: 6.11.12 0141.57
Davis Jones and the Toaster
Scene Uno: Enter the Toaster

The office of Davis Jones was empty. Not just in the sense that were no people but in the sense that there was indeed nothing within the walls of the office. No phone, no curtains, no ceiling fans, no desks, there was no door (merely a doorway), no windows, nor did there happen to be office supplies of any kind. The only noun that ever occupied the space was Mr. Davis Jones himself.

And those occasions were rather rare, on account of both Davis’ business not exactly booming and the man’s tendency to fall prey to distractions that prevent work. But on this day Davis was indeed in his office.

However he was not the first thing Geraldine noticed in entering his office. The empty space was almost always where the eyes went. Of course, Geraldine Perkins would have a fair amount of empathy for Davis’ jealousy of his attention grabbing non-furniture. She was an incredibly mousey girl with an incredibly mousey name wearing clothes that a Quaker Librarian would describe as “dry.”

“Your room is a void Mister Jones,” Geraldine pointed out plainly. She’d heard of insults and did not truck with them.

“Many things are a void, Miss or Misses Whomever-You-May-Be,” Davis analyzed her voice, attempting to detect any indications that she was a cat person.

“Quite drab,” she examined the white walls, floor, and ceiling, in the hopes of spotting whatever held Davis so entranced.

“They say if you stare into the void you may catch a glimpse of ultimate meaning,” Davis had not slept for eleven days. He had felt in his cartilage that a job was on the way.

“Have you?” Geraldine fidgeted with the wrapped box she was holding.

“Have I…” Davis began counting in his head, German for odds, and Swahili for evens.

“Caught a glimpse of ultimate meaning,” Geraldine had been warned he would be cryptic.

“I can not say I have. I did see a bit of mildew last week that needed a good scrubbing,” Davis smiled on the inside. He had gotten quite a deal on the scrubbing soap.

“Why then, are you standing with your back to the doorway staring at a blank wall Mister Jones?” Geraldine stepped through the doorway, lightly clamping her skirt in the hand not holding the box. She held the skirt tight against herself to avoid causing any rustling sound.

“Because I will not abide the anticipation of wondering if someone will come inside,” Davis stopped counting.

“What if it were a beautiful woman?” Geraldine held the box with her opposite hands.

“Perhaps you make the implication that you yourself are a beautiful woman.”

“I’ve been told I could dress better and find a fine husband,” Geraldine cleaned her glasses with her newly free hand, thus ending its short freedom.

“But not a rich husband. A movie star or a prince.”

“I’d say my best bet would be a doctor in a field that pays well but not exceptionally,” Geraldine found herself in remembrance of a stuffed owl she had had as a child. She’d received it for Christmas from a friend and named it ‘Eye Ron E’. She’d never told the friend who gave it to her she was a Jew.

“So you are not beautiful,” Davis recalled an owl he had once seen in a place he only went to once for a task that he had done for seventy-five cents Canadian.

When two brains synch up the result is often a deep bond such as love or respect. When two brains miss each other by centimeters and therefore are forever denied the chance it is often disorientating.

“No, merely asking,” Geraldine shook her head in disoriented manner. She never had random thoughts and for a moment pondered what that one was.

“About beautiful women who are both theoretical and not you,” Davis pulled her back to reality by staying in the moment with no effort. His mind perpetually hopped tracks like a locomotive that had ignored a ‘bridge out’ sign so it was his guess that the only thing that could throw him off balance would be a lack of tangents introducing themselves and leading the way through a briar patch of unfinished thoughts and vague notions.

“Yes. What of the chance these theoretical females may appear?”

“All the more reason not to look at the doorway. It is rather nerve-racking. You start by asking if a goddess will appear. Or you think that is all you ask. But there are many questions you skip. You assume you’ll have a guest. And making assumptions is merely overlooking questions that may indeed be very integral to the understanding of one’s environment.”

“That’s one assumption.”

“That it is not a man.”


“That the aforementioned guest is attractive.”

“But you don’t skip past these inquiries.”

“No. I do not think it is in my character,” Davis began counting in his head, Gaelic for odds, and German for evens.

“Your character is very odd Mister Jones.”

“This conversation aside, please state what would cause you to draw this conclusion,” Davis requested. He acknowledged his own eccentric manner but had met many people much more peculiar than him.

“Your office is a void,” Geraldine, like most, did not deal with the vagabonds and questionable characters in Davis circle, so he was as strange as they get in her experience.

“I am obsessed with autobiographical stories and writing them,” Davis confessed.


“I am beyond mediocre at expressing scenery through my pen. My lack of skill kisses the realm of awful.”

“What kind of kiss? There are quite a few varieties.”

“Second date. Perhaps third. I haven’t attempted scenery in a long while. My memories of having done so have been blocked by my subconscious.”

“If it were indeed your subconscious you wouldn’t be as aware as you are,” Geraldine corrected him. She’d been warned that a prerequisite of procuring his services would be to prove her acumen.

“If it makes you feel better I have been told I could not find a wife to save my life. I have been found to be slightly above homely yet intolerably abrasive,” Davis confessed. He’d once proposed to a woman that he’d become quite fond of. Of course, it was part of a ruse to execute a job but he had been willing to go with it for a maximum of two kids. Fortunately he’d been able to complete the task without reproducing for the sake of a charade. Also, the girl had been married already. It was then Davis really surrendered to the concept of background checks.

“You changed topics.”

“It is my prerogative. You came here so I would do a job for you. I am now ready for this job. The small talk portion of this introduction is over,” Davis stretched his fingers with great caution, as to avoid anything as crude as cracking his knuckles.

“You never learned my name,” Geraldine reached into her pocket for her card.

“I have no need for that. If you brought my fee I will be going.”

“How will you know what the job is?” she sighed a little in disappointment. Geraldine had printed business cards especially for this occasion. And the print shop only worked in bulk so now she had three hundred extraneous cards as opposed to the expected two hundred ninety-nine.

“People in my line of work have ways.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“So you’ve heard things about me. I might find them interesting, depending on their validity.”

“Well it’s been said that you’ll almost certainly fail at this job.”

“True,” Davis removed a small pocket watch from a pouch he had on his belt. He reasoned that if he’d kept it in his pocket it would be too cliché.

“That your success rate is not laughable because a laugh like that would likely cause loss of bladder control.”

“On the money,” Davis checked his reflection in the watch to inspect his teeth.

“You are the only one sane enough to attempt this.”

This was mostly true. That is to say, parts of the sentence previous to the sentence previous to this sentence contained grains of factuality.

“Right as rain and two-thirds as wet,” Davis turned around in a decidedly non-elegant manner that still managed a slight air of grace, if grace had done a Whiskey and Coke at the same time as a Dayquil caplet.

“Here is you fee,” Geraldine handed him the box.

“You are just as attractive and short of comely as you previously mentioned. Your fee is paid. I will ask you to leave by taking the elevator to the eighth floor, walking down the steps to the fourth floor, and catching the elevator at the opposite end of the complex down to the back entrance,” Davis produced from up his sleeve a letter opener and sliced open the box’s wrapping.

“We’re on the first floor.”


“Ok then,” Geraldine walked away in the manner of a woman who was not aware a stride could inspire lust.

Davis meticulously removed the wrapper without damaging it, taking great care not to crease the edges or make a single tear in the paper. He then folded it neatly into a swan before placing it on the ground, bowing politely, and stomping the living hell out of it. He picked up the crumpled ball and threw it out of his office where it hit a rotund fellow passing by.

“Ex swan eh?” the man walked on without looking back, projecting his voice AWAY from the room.


“Try a frog next time.”

“I’ll look into it, but I’ve been practicing the rooster quite a bit you know.”

Davis shoved the letter opener back up his sleeve only to hear the pained and surprised cry of a small mammal.

“Well if you’d hide around my ankle like I requested in the forms I sent to your secretary that wouldn’t happen.”

The sound of snoring told Davis he was being ignored. Davis loved being ignored. It meant you weren’t being misunderstood.

He stood in complete silence for four and a half hours while staring at the ceiling.

Having done this, Davis removed the contents of the box. It was a shiny, metallic, toaster in pristine condition. The toaster was an old friend. All toasters were. The social chemistry between Davis and toasters was evident early in his life and the relations had never been strained.

Davis gently shined the toaster then put it on his shoulder like a parrot, wrapping the cord around his ear. He shuffled his feet, leaning back and forth, left and right, calculating how the mass of the toaster would affect actions such as running, jumping, and the Foxtrot.

“There is a job to be done. Fill me in on the way,” he whispered to the toaster.
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