Conversation · Noid

"Fame is a false existence. It doesn't happen inside the head." He nods mysteriously, then lets go of the suspenders and they hit his chest with a slap.

"Yeah, they hate this, too." (Point to yourself.)

"Well, they loved her. They put all their love in her and forgot all about the rest of us." The young man lets go of the suspenders and they hit his chest with a slap.

"Mhm, she was a player! She played us all! It's just a game to her."

"Uhm, yes." He lets go of the suspenders and they hit his chest with a slap.

This speedfreak does not quite understand the sudden escalation of emotion in that argument, but he agrees nonetheless.

"Ha!" The young man stretches his ribcage made of suspenders. "I like this question, cop-man. She did not live the life of a human. She lived like someone who is playing a game. The life of an operator..."

"Alright, I'm done talking about her."

"How do you like the glasswork?" (Point to the stained-glass window.)

"I don't." He looks over his shoulder. "Fucker giving me the evil eye."

"You wanted to get inside the church and now you don't like the stained-glass window."

"I didn't know it was in here." He cracks his neck. "We have to get rid of it. Dismantle it. Can't dance with a giant mass murderer lookin' at you. Not a good look for the club."

"Mellow, man! Mellow!" yells his friend. "No one's a mass murderer, this is a house of love!"

"Mass murder on the floor!"

"That's Her Innocence Dolores Dei, mind your words."

"You defend her, law-minion." He cracks his neck. "She was a mass murderer -- what's up with that?"

"I'm getting some real negative vibrations from her too."

"No wonder." He cracks his neck. "We have to get rid of it. Dismantle it. Can't dance with a giant mass murderer lookin' at you. Not a good look for the club."

"Let's talk about something else, Noid."

"Sure." The young man cracks his knuckles.

"What style is this church built in?"

"A cop who's into building critique." He taps a floorboard. "Okay then. This is folk Dolorianism, lawmongerer. It's a subset of early Dolorian architecture."

"Yeah, enough architecture."

The church creaks in response. The speedfreak is too busy listening to it with a suspicious expression to say anything.

"Okay -- and what is Dolorian architecture like?"

"Total. Everything between an ancient concrete cathedral and a glass cube is Dolorianism. This is just a homespun version of it, folksy stuff, early mass production. They made thousands like this. Does that help you out?"

"What would a Dolorian building look like?"

"Like that woman there," he nods toward the stained glass window. "Vertical, thin, white, a false image of grandeur. The source of the system is up there, you're at the bottom. They really dug that power vertical."

"Liked to show off large and intricate structures, arches, spires. Put you down with them. They were really into painting everything white too. Virginal shit, you know. Marriage shit. Virtue and tyranny."

"This church isn't painted white, as far as I can tell."

"Stands to reason it used to be white on the outside." He peeks out of a small window in the dark. "Before the sea wind took all the paint off."

Year after year, flake after flake, white washed clean, then covered in green moss...

Slowly peeled by the wind... Your skin crawls from the sensation as you look around.

It was probably white and gold, with light red flower motives. Part of you -- assumed to be lost to nerve damage -- knows this style to be Ubi Dolorianism.

I don't wanna sound like an art guy.

Then why do you have all this cultural analysis up here?

"Is there such a thing as Ubi Dolorianism or did I just make that up?"

"Good catch, Art Cop." He crosses his arms. "The herdsmen of the Ubi Sunt? islands came here on the first boats. Their flowery version of Dolorianism could be what we're standing in."

The Ubi are known for their partiality to socialism and sheep. They come from an island called Ubi Sunt?, drifting in the pale off the coast of Vesper. It's the only place in the world that has a question mark in its name. Things are not well there: It's an island of poverty and entroponetic collapse.

The Ubi are known for their partiality to socialism and sheep. They come from an island called Ubi Sunt?, the only place in the world that has a question mark in its name. There's something else important you should be able to remember about Ubi Sunt?, but all that's coming to mind is the sheep.

"True." He crosses his arms and nods. "The herdsmen of the Ubi Sunt? islands came here on the first boats. Their version of Dolorianism could be what we're standing in..."

"Hey, marriage is great. Marriage is sacred."

"You're entitled to your wrong opinion." He inspects a pillar nearby, with a sharp gaze.

"Marriage is shit, yeah."

"Right." He takes a bolt from the toolbox and spits on it before shining it.

"I'm not just a cop. I'm an Art Cop."

"Hard of core." He nods appreciatively.

"I wanted to talk some more about this place."

"Dead body, spirit entered. What is there to talk of?"

Come up with a site for a mega-longwave radio antenna.

Close your eyes. Unfold your mental map of Martinaise. It's morning. You're standing on the plaza before the Whirling-in-Rags.

The wind pushes a piece of tare across the cracked tiles. From the north comes the malicious laughter of two children...

Turn to face the bay.

Your eye follows the tiles west. You see a bench and a few twisted, pitiful trees. Then, just water...

The voice again, more urgent now: 'Nay!'

Just a moment. That voice isn't human, and it's not saying 'Nay!' -- It's saying 'N-n-n-neigh!'

From behind you, a low, spectral voice whispers: 'Nay.'

Turn to face the traffic circle.

You turn around. The morning sun is blinding. You bring your hand to your brow and a great shadow materialises before you. A towering beast, frozen in mid-air...

"The horseback monument."