Reply #72: The anger and curiosity that flared from the eyes

[bleever]

of the armed interlopers aroused the instantaneous attention of certain KOEB painter/bathroom contractor/security/concierge members.

"Why, ladies; so delighted you could make it. Good thing that an alb has a little extra fabric, eh what?"

In unison (which caused one EDV to giggle because she immediately thought of Fembots as their heads snapped around), the dakinis of the "higher wavelengths where fascism can make no purchase or headway" looked to the one who spoke.

With all their gazes focused into one beam upon him, he smiled, and with a relaxed readjustment of his toolbelt, he took his moment to deliver the perfect: "Hi, I'm sparky. And we're glad to see ya."

The atmosphere still crackled with the electricity of animosity as sparky said, "I know exaaaaactly what y'all are thinking here, and though hardly anyone knows it, we're all in agreement."

Gasps (and hiccups) from the regulars; angry looks of confusion defended by ruthlessness from the media vixens. Bleever, up in the plentrum rewiring some monster cable, chuckled as quietly as he could.

"Look, we don't have time for this, blog-boy."

The EDVs looked at each other. Frankly, as a put-down, "blog boy" seemed kind of lame, but they could see the gals were on the spot.

"Give it to us, and nobody's gonna get hurt!" said Allison.

A flicker of good-humoured doubt, and some good come-back lines, clouded sparky's brow for a millisecond before he drawled, "Well I'm sure you mean 'him' and not 'it', even though this room's no stranger to a little...constructive objectivization."

Now it was the turn of the media vixens' brows to wrinkle, though they never took their gaze off sparky, as Mon shifted in a pair of her favorite two inch heels and slipped out a spontaneous "Say what??"

Sparky's eyes were the source of all answers as he replied, "All right, ladies. Forgive me for delaying your gratification (in this case). What you seek is with the garden tools. In fact, it's wadded up in newspaper."

It wasn't one of the media vixens, but one of the EDVs who was quickest out the door to the tool shed. It wasn't competitiveness, or even desire, that propelled her on the fastest line to the prize.

And no one could tell whether it was one, or two, or four pairs of hands that ripped open the bundle; the ululations of joy were too loud for such a moment.

It was only a few minutes before the light gray suit had been deeply and ferociously trampled into the mud; and had there been a flaming bonfire and a full moon, the joy of being rid of an impediment to the unfettered joy of open space, of truth, and of beauty could not have been greater.

The sky showed no limits.

The constellations weren't definitions, so much as the intimations of future possibilities.