Conversation · Klaasje (Miss Oranje Disco Dancer)

"Conference centres. A lot of them."

"What happened to the old New World?"

"It turned out to be a tzaraath-infested third-world slum."

Called Iilmaraa. And it didn't. Even after the Mesque colonized it seven ways from Sunday it's an industrial power house.

"Here in Martinaise."

"I heard this is where the washed up disco has-beens go."

"No. This is Sassytown. It's where the future of dance lies."

"If you say so, officer -- if you say so."

"You came to the right place."

She looks at you and nods.

"You're too young to call yourself a disco has-been."

She smirks. "I'm really not."

"Here in Revachol."

"I always wanted to see 'The Only City in the World' in the worst time of the year. It's a tourist thing."

This is by far not the only reason she's here -- and she isn't really hiding it, either.

"How long have you been wintering?"

(Look around.) "Hate to say it, but you've got Sad all over the place."

"Yeaaah..." She draws out the vowel. "I've contaminated it pretty bad."

"Is that why you're out here?"

She nods. "The Contamination spreads from room to room. First I escaped upstairs. The Sad got that too. Then I found the handle for the summer door..."

Oh my...

"What exactly is the nature of this 'Contamination'?"

"For me it's a mix of me with a lack of cleaning services. How about you?"

"Talk around the establishment is you have an industrial Sad-spill in there." She taps the roof with her heel.

Somewhere below, military-grade Sad is dripping off the walls... you should say the first thing. It's honest. It will lead to introspection.

"I hate objects. I am part of the Anti-Object Task Force."

"That's pretty hard core," she nods. "I'm part of the Anti-Human Task Force myself."

Brother, blast a ziggy now! Press that pleasure button, let the pain recede!

Sheer terror. Panic and screaming.

"Something is bad," point to your head, "in my head. In the past."

"That's where it always comes from, isn't it? From the head -- and from the past."

"It's a feeling. White and filled with doom. Gaseous. Invisible. Deadly. It's everywhere."

"Sounds like an advanced form of what I've got. With a bit of old love sprinkled on top."

"Doesn't feel like love at all."

"Are you sure? Love is terror..." She breathes in a large billow of menthol-infused smoke, savours it, then lets it out slowly.

(Nod.) "Anyway."

"Yeah."

That yeah is the kind that consoles and sweeps under the rug at the same time.

"Probably, yeah."

"Love is terror." She breathes in a large billow of menthol-infused smoke, savours it, then lets it out slowly...

"It's a feeling. Acidic and crawling with doom. Gaseous. Invisible. Deadly. It's everywhere."

"For me it's alcoholism, miss."

"Cool. I think I'm developing a pinch of that too. It hasn't done wonders to my taste in interior decoration."

"It's a demon who smells of betrayal. And apricots."

"I love apricot chewing gum!"

"So do I."

"Betrayed by the things we love -- what a rotten deal..." She breathes in a large billow of menthol-infused smoke, then lets it out slowly...

"I hate apricot chewing gum. It betrayed me."

"I don't know what it is."

"Mhm, it's a mystery." She takes a drag. "An alcohol-related mystery."

"Don't be alarmed, but Mr. Garte implied there's an industrial Sad-spill in there." She taps the roof with her heel.

"What if you contaminate the this too?" (Spread your hands.)

"The World?" She looks around.

A squall of seagulls under the low-hanging sky. Distant machinery from the harbour. It's wide open and cold.

"It's hard to contaminate such a wide open space -- even for me. At least I hope so. If I do..." She smiles a quivering smile. "Where will any of us go?"

"Got it."

"It's mostly about the lack of cleaning services. And an abundance of me."

"I have other questions for you."

"All right." She takes a long, pensive drag of her Astra Menthol.

"Okay." She takes a pensive drag of her cigarette.