Conversation · Measurehead

"I don't know about the rest, but it's clear I should stop drinking the ancient Iilmaraan mind poison Al Gul."

"FASCINATING..." The phrenologic lines on his face move like a puzzle board: "THE REVACHOLIAN DEGENERATE SHOWS SIGNS OF RACIAL SELF REFLECTION. HOW DID YOU ACCOMPLISH THIS LITTLE FEAT?"

"I sobered up for five minutes."

"SO IT WOULD SEEM, THRALL OF GUL. ON ONE HAND, THIS PATHETIC SELF-THERAPY HAS LITTLE TO DO WITH THE GREAT MYSTERY OF LIVING ORGANISMS, THE RACE ENIGMA..."

"AND, OF COURSE, YOU WILL NOT BE ABLE TO FREE YOURSELF FROM THE YOKE OF GUL. IT IS TOO LATE. IT MAY BE LETHAL TO STOP AT THIS POINT, BUT STILL..." He pauses in heroic doubt.

Your willpower fires up. Directing you to speak...

"IF THE REVACHOLIAN DEGENERATE IS CAPABLE OF CRITICAL THOUGHT HE MAY PROVE A RACE ADVERSARY YET -- WAS I MISTAKEN TO SHARE THE ESOTERIC SCIENCE WITH HIM?"

"Jean, baby -- you did the heroic thing."

"I will stop drinking."

"THAT IS NOT POSSIBLE. THE GAME OF SHAH-MAT YOU PLAY AGAINST THE GUL'S TRICKS IS UNWINNABLE. THE DAYS, THE WEEKS, THE MONTHS WILL WEAR YOU OUT. THE OCCIDENTAL HAPLOGROUP IS INCAPABLE OF LONG TERM LUCID THOUGHT."

NO.

"You're wrong. I'll do it. I'm quitting!"

"YOU WILL NOT. YOU CANNOT WITHSTAND THE WASTE LAND OF REALITY."

"It's super hard Jean." The woman looks at her fingernails. "My mom couldn't do it either."

"Let's go, officer." The lieutenant puts his hand on your shoulder. "Let's go do some work."

"YOU WILL NOT. YOU CANNOT WITHSTAND THE WASTE LAND OF REALITY."

"You're right. Who am I kidding. Without party time, grey reality is devoid of reason."

"THAT IS RIGHT. YOU CANNOT WITHSTAND THE WASTE LAND OF REALITY."

"Perhaps we should go and do some work now?"

"THAT IS RIGHT. YOU CANNOT WITHSTAND THE WASTE LAND OF REALITY."

"SO IT WOULD SEEM, THRALL OF GUL -- I FIND MYSELF AT A CROSSROADS. ON ONE HAND, THIS PATHETIC SELF-THERAPY HAS LITTLE TO DO WITH THE GREAT MYSTERY OF LIVING ORGANISMS, THE RACE ENIGMA..."

"AND, OF COURSE, YOU WILL NOT BE ABLE TO FREE YOURSELF FROM THE YOKE OF GUL. IT IS TOO LATE. IT MAY BE LETHAL TO STOP AT THIS POINT, BUT STILL..." He pauses in heroic doubt.

Your willpower fires up. Directing you to speak...

"IF THE REVACHOLIAN DEGENERATE IS CAPABLE OF CRITICAL THOUGHT HE MAY STILL PROVE A RACE ADVERSARY -- WHY SHOULD I HELP MY ADVERSARY?" He looks at the red button, seeking council from his own ideals.

"Jean baby -- do the heroic thing."

"First of all, I will stop drinking."

"THAT IS NOT POSSIBLE. THE GAME OF SHAH-MAT YOU PLAY AGAINST THE GUL'S TRICKS IS UNWINNABLE. THE DAYS, THE WEEKS, THE MONTHS WILL WEAR YOU OUT. THE OCCIDENTAL HAPLOGROUP IS INCAPABLE OF LONG TERM LUCID THOUGHT."

NO.

"Now open the doors, I need to talk to your boss."

"VERY WELL, YOU MAY ENTER ONCE." He punches the emergency button with his fist. "OUR CONVERSATION HERE HAS CONCLUDED."

"Well done." The lieutenant impatiently gestures toward the door. "Let's go."

"You're wrong. I'll do it. I'm quitting!"

"YOU WILL NOT. YOU CANNOT WITHSTAND THE WASTE LAND OF REALITY."

"It's super hard, Jean." The woman looks at her fingernails. "My mom couldn't do it either."

"YOU WILL NOT. YOU CANNOT WITHSTAND THE WASTE LAND OF REALITY."

"I imagined a woman, laughing at me beneath her pity. Terrible and beautiful."

"I imagined the pyknic face of the desert pygmee laughing at me, crooked teeth grinning."

"It's always been 100% clear to me that the answer to the race enigma is: I should stop drinking."

"This dump is ready to be superseded by the Areopagite superstate. I can serve as a clerk in your administration -- maybe you need a cop."

"EVERYONE CAN SEE THAT. IT HAS LITTLE TO DO WITH THE RACE ENIGMA."

"Baby, don't be mean," The woman pleads with Measurehead. "Give him another chance."

"ANYTHING FOR YOU, BABE." He looks to a space right above your head and gestures you to speak.

"It's shit. Let me into the fucking harbour."

"LOOK, BABE. THE DISCO DANCING DEGENERATE HAS RUN OUT OF COCAINE TO SHOOT INTO HIS ARMS. THIS HAS MADE HIM SHORT FUSED AND IMPOLITE. UNDERNEATH THE POSTURING, THERE IS DREAD."

"Coca has really fucked him over, Jean." The woman looks half-bored.

He turns to you. "IMPOTENT SUBJECT OF POP CULTURE, I TAKE PITY ON YOU. YOU CLEARLY WANT TO ENTER THE HARBOUR BAD -- LIKE A LITTLE BOY WANTS TO GO ON THE POTTY. I CAN PRESS THE BUTTON FOR YOU -- IT WILL OPEN THE DOOR."

"That's all I wanted."

"I don't need your button. I will enter the harbour on my own terms." [Leave.]

"LOOK, BABE. THE FOSSILIZED ROCK AND ROLL REBEL CHALLENGES ME -- A FIGURE OF AUTHORITY. HE IS TRYING TO REINSTATE HIS INDIVIDUALISM WITH SWEARWORDS TAKEN FROM ROCK SONGS FROM THE LAST CENTURY."

"Individualism has really fucked him over, Jean." The woman looks half-bored.

"Let's go over that funky race classification again."

"THERE IS NOTHING FUNKY ABOUT THEM: THERE ARE THREE CATEGORIES OF RACE: TYPE A, TYPE B, AND THE VILE C-F RACE CAULDRON OF PEDERASTY. WHICH ONE DO YOU NEED?"

"Type B."

"TYPE B ARE THE UNHEROIC RACES. AMORPHOUS NON-COMPETITORS OF THE GREAT RACE. THE KOJKOS AND THE VACHOLIERS, THEY ARE MUD COLOURED PEOPLE."

The Kojkos of Graad (Yugo, Zsiemsk, Shest et al) are what you would call, white, officer -- in a suspect description.

"Mud-coloured?"

"TO AN UNTRAINED EYE THE KOJKO APPEAR WHITE AND PINKISH. LIKE A HAM SANDWICH. BUT LOOK INTO THEIR EYES AND YOU WILL SEE..." He squints, full of sage wisdom: "THEY ARE OF AN INDISTINCT, MUDDY COLOUR. AND SO IS THEIR SKIN: UNHEALTHY, SWEATY AND ASHEN..."

"PINKNESS IS A RACIAL QUALITY THAT HAS TO BE EARNED THROUGH CENTURIES OF ADVANCED BALLISTIC WARFARE AND CULTURAL DOMINATION THAT THE GRAAD PEOPLE HAVE UNDERGONE FOR DRINKING AL GUL AND SMOKING THE DEGENERATE TABAC HERB... AND FOR EATING POTATO..."

"THE KOJKO -- THE COUNTLESS MICRONATIONALITIES OF GRAAD -- ARE ALL INEXPLICABLY OBSESSED WITH POTAAT. THE ONLY THING THEY LIKE MORE IS DIVIDING INTO MICROSCOPIC ETHNOSTATES. LIKE POLITICAL AMOEBA."

Wouldn't he be one for ethnostates?