The Writers Voice
The World's Favourite Literary Website

Dog-Eat-Dog Universe


Ovidiu Bufnila

All summer long, some raving rumors have been floating over our big cities. Our informational layouts chattered.

Rumour had it that Manhada was about to come. She was coming to swallow us. She was coming to throw us into a cold dark universe. She was getting ready to destroy our encyclopedia. She was going to slink in our big cities.

She was bringing anonymous characters with her. She set her eye by the urban agglomerations from the bottom of the constellations. She used to send them a perverted message: “Watch out, I’m gonna fall in love with you!”

She was gobbling them. All our efforts made for the totality or for the furious values, are defaults of an equal number of liberties. Wondering about Manhada is like claiming for a release invoking an imaginary authority.

Manhada is an artifact or a fact of being. She is sitting on the working desk of the obsolescent philosophers to find her hilarious redemption. She sits in the way of the brightness produced by an addition process practiced within the body of the flexible communication, be it political or academic.

It’s all but idle talk about the limit in the heart of big cities as an absolute finite just as like about the revolution, seen as a ridiculous fact. It’s nothing but talk about the authority as a sign constrainer in the heart of the outskirts.

The obsolescent scientists are guided by the false argument that carries the human being beyond its truth and beyond its final sense. They are lead by the canonical and hilarious demonstration that carries the human being beyond its meaning, deriving it.

Thus, the empty words about Manhada, about the possibility of turning it into creation or into utopia or not turning it at all, claim to belong to the self boundlessness. They claim to belong to an arrogant concept. They claim to belong to an obsolescent scientist, self-content, centered and endless.

The self-boundlessness succumbs into such empty words consuming them but also being built on them. Claiming the intimate relationship with the authority, the academic self of the literary circle builds its own obsolescence. It aims for the observance of the pragmatism servants or of the servants of the actual philosophy that lies mockingly among unilateral truths and illusory truths about tumultuous life of big cities.

The tango of the furious elites from Takule Makune, searching for their entropy and hazard and enjoying the tired filigree of some utopist historical missions, spins the arguments about the capacity or incapacity of creating a new thing. One cannot perceive the creation of sense in the big cities.

The behavior eludes from the human being’s argument building obsolescent structures and systems. It’s on the verge of blossoming into the raving imagination of the candidates to philosophical and literary elections. It’s on the verge of retorting to the argument of the human being, putting it into brackets in order to find its deficiency of sense. But the human being itself is the argument. In its absence, or using it as a finite in the history, the obsolescence is built up perversely within the body of the imagination that produces the new thing to achieve a secret plan of the dog-eat-dog universe.

To require an argument about Manhada is like developing the human being on its directions to the miraculous, missing the splendor of the miracle, but invoking the authoritarian illusory. To require an argument about the creation of the new thing is like denying its existence, constraining it into a body lacked of entropy and thermally dead; that’s what the philosophers from Tamboree had said.

That’s how the endeavor to argue upon the Manhada’s evidence to produce grotesque or burlesque performances in which the obsolescent flexible people take part, making pirouettes, and the children of the authority in its entire perversity. Classifying the fields of human being, understanding its forms in terms of the nature of told things and matters seen as acts or facilities, stand for a waste of sense.

The beings of big cities cross the Manhada’s foundation in all directions, staying organized or, on the contrary, living in a pell-mell way and following hazardous models.

Quantifying the individual or reorganizing the masses according to an illusionary organization, by means of tax and passing pleasures is quite ridiculous, but it sounds good for the implementation of empty words about limit or about miracle.

The miracle announces the philosophers’ stray. It announces its own lack of horizon over the history and over the being. It organizes the horizon according to land criteria or to the income tax or to the vanity of the instruction.

Watching Manhada from under the wavy sails of capacity or of incapacity is pure madness or self-denial, as long as the new city is not an exteriorizing factor of the human being, an exterior, the human being is the argument of rewriting the narrative structures. It is a new city adequate for its hardships, just as the miracle, like a great event, it belongs to fractional simultaneity; this is not the limit of the neighbor worlds governed by a constraining Euclidian regime.

The miracle is neither a key of modernity, nor the lack of properties of the beings embodied into the new thing that might be the new situation. Nor can it be a break of the reality, as long as the development of the narrative structures are not alike, there is no connection, not even by forcing a metaphor or parable.

Manhada is not in the least a classical origin metamorphosis.

The modernity is not actually modernity, as it doesn’t really exist.

The Inquisition for example, having the legal right to claim itself a modern concept within its history, the morality has nothing to do with the encyclopedic instructions which waste the history in an apocalyptical manner.

Manhada talks about the setting of the new thing by a simultaneity exercise, by a sense of dissolution. “Manhada calls the human being not to join it, but to orchestrate the building of something else,” Bobolina shouted, flapping her tinfoil wings to satisfy the pharaoh Ku Ra Ra’s thirst.

Such a thing is claimed to be the metamorphosis of big cities, which is not like being a broken continuum. And this is because the fraction is neither between two solid bodies and nor does it trace an illusory barrier between the reality and the imagination.

Manhada seemed to be the fraction, as we understood, the magicians of mystery, those fabulous creatures of the big cities.

The trumpeters from Galeea have announced her towards the evening with strong long deafening sounds. The drummers from Cretona have broken their glass arms. The hussars from Goblena have tunneled the virtual fields in the horses’ gallop, wishing to find her in their imagination.

We have been seeking her for a thousand years without even suspecting it. The happy astrophysicists from Ehren, Adamville and Takule Makune could have discovered her dangerous presence in the ashes of the stars that they had been studying with such vividness.

It was just like we’d been throwing ourselves blindly into a virtual whirl without taking into account the dangers that were hunting us.

The reformed cachalots from Ehren were plotting to break down the wall from Takule Makune, whilst Obin Oba met vice-president Weinberger in secret, on the board of the yellow submarine that Abu Kadar had anchored not far from Puerto Rico, near to the Devil’s Isles.

General Baskaev argued with the august authority of Burbansk and the knights from Guaribo sent a letter to Sergeant Slatt informing him on the tragic events that would occur.

The pneumatic people from Ghile Ga found out that Petra Petronius had discovered an odd cell having a huge virtual pair. They said it was the very essence of the bizarre town, Manhada.

Bobolina from Tamboree had promised to the electricians from Susa Mabusa that she would find out the whole truth, but the lieutenants of Emperor Ogawa have always thrown sand in the wheels.

The werewolf from the arsenal in Galeea told everyone that he had a nightmare and that the magicians of mystery might just wrap a dog-eat-dog universe in a starry mantle. The werewolf dreamed himself on Haman mountain and for the first time in his life, he swore he had seen a diamond of old light with which we could illuminate the truth swallowed by Manhada.

The gravediggers from Kauna Kunao searched for the werewolf wishing to rape him as they were going to attack Tulule and to become immortal.

General Monteores met the nabob of Bagoda trying to make an agreement on dividing the world and Colonel Sharun thought for the first time that Pitoskin, one of his men, might be useful to him to find out as many things as possible about Manhada.

The totalitarian people from Cretona planned an ambush in which they wanted to attract the totalitarian people from Galeea and the order forces from Betola tried to scatter the ten thousand scavengers who were going to stab the national governess to death and to arrest Emperor Ogawa’s officers.

The great shield from Qiatotocoatl became a dispute subject between the ambassadors of the oriental elections and those of occidental elections, and we, the magicians of the past, were nestling within an imperial albatross, getting prepared for reinterpreting the imperfection.

Flying above the Haman mountain, we saw Miss Margareta from the small town of Beauburg bill and coo with Pitoskin. They were frisking into a hayrick. It didn’t even cross their minds that soon we would make the dog-eat-dog universe secret.

In the distance, beyond Azego Bazego, one could admire the dance of clouds from Marsila Molé and the seagoing forces of Vice-president Weinberger produced the first virtual whirls.

The sky turned red and one could hear the roar of cannons from Kumbra Kumbrali.

The peace of one thousand years is totally out of question!

Biting Miss Margareta’s little ear, Pitoskin told her about Davi curls, about the universal orgasm and about the diamonds of old light in which the terrible truth about Manhada might be.

Miss Margareta passed her finger between her lips and whispered to Pitoskin that the ignorance and the foolishness of the national governess from Bulbona would lead secret agents to destruction and that the wonderful art of spying was coming to an end.

Pitoskin tried to calm her down, but then he saw us floating through the air. He ran after the imperial albatross in order to bring it down with rocks. He let it go, as beyond the rocks on the shore, he saw the yellow submarine of Abu Kadar sailing lazily.

Near the cannons from the prow, vice-president Weinberger was chatting with Obin Oba. They were laughing heartily. They were smoking cigar. They were tapping friendly on each other’s shoulder and, now and then, they were hugging.

They planned the future of the peoples from Guaribo, Kodaon and Tonga Tongao, the rape of Agomanian Agomanianos who was fighting against the Devil, they were planning the ecstasy of crowds from Takule Makune, the morning of generals from Quanqo Koqué, the tide of roses in Adamville, and the theft of secrets in San Gastoban.

Colonel Sharun would have given anything to find out about the whole secret.

Watching himself in a mirror brought by a pilgrim from Burbansk, the colonel screwed up his lips and he promised that one day he would rule the world.

Pitoskin pulled out his spyglass and followed carefully the lip movements of the two, hoping that he would get an extra star.

A sailor climbed into the nacelle wanting to shoot the albatross for Abu Kadar’s lunch.

The sailor was a fat and toothless person. He had lots of scars on the cheek. He had fought in Nulome, in Popocatepetlàn and in Guabano Lao.

He was Abu Kadar’s lover and he had been bought for two bushels of gold from Metongo Bambo. Abu Kadar was very fond of him and he had killed many whale hunters and imperial soldiers who had dared to take a glimpse at his lover.

Vice-president Weinberger hit the hand of the sailor. The hot bullet whistled threateningly and dived into the wave's foam.

Abu Kadar came in a hurry.

He was all sweaty. He had his coat unbuttoned and his huge moustaches got tousled.

His boots smelled like tar. The buckle of his belt got rusty because of the salted air, and his baldhead was full of brownish spots. The steel sword of Polga Polgani clanged impatiently and menacingly. The rifle offered by the artillerymen from Beauburg had been swollen with heavy bullets ready to kill any colt that would have dared to face Kadar. The dagger stolen from Galeea was ready to stab meanly, and the lasso given by the governor from Togai laughed mockingly waiting to hang everyone around it lovingly.

The vice-president confessed that during his childhood an imperial albatross appeared in his dreams and told him about the diamonds of old light, about the dog-eat-dog universe and about the women from Manhada. At first sight, everything seemed to be a superb illusion, but Weinberger was convinced that it was the very same albatross.

Abu Kadar threw a glance at Obin Oba.

Obin Oba had a mantle sewn with golden thread; his eyes were as dark as pitch. One could hear the gallop of wild horses in his breath. One could read out the hundreds of bloody battles on his tattoos, and the blood of the pneumatic people killed by the cavalry charge at Quiatotocoatl hasn’t dried yet on his boots.

Obin Oba nodded approval.

The spring was coming to an end and they said that tragic events that were to change the course of all worlds and of the dog-eat-dog universe might occur.

Abu Kadar pulled out his sword and cut off the head of his lover.

Might this moment have been an act of strategic discouragement initiated by the rival secret forces from other worlds? Might it have been an intrigue plotted by a rebel within our encyclopedia? Might it have been a conspiracy plotted by the stately authority from Calabra, who was hand in hand with the spies who came from beyond the visible horizon?

But how could such spies act as long as we, the magicians of mystery, were an informational homogeneity and we ruled the mystery of horizontality?

Have the narrative and the descriptive techniques of the encyclopedia been deeply virused? Did the sociologic analysis show us the tendencies?

Did the Bobolins, the fabulous jelly fish, the scavengers form Guaribo, the housekeepers from Takule Makune, the octopuses and reformed cachalots from Ehren and many other fabulous characters stand for the ideal base for the informational viruses used by the rival secret forces from beyond our visible horizon?

Could it have been a state of rebellion of the free imaginary structures that we have discovered during our apparent movement towards the ultimate sense of the dog-eat-dog universe?

Why haven’t we avoided Manhada after all? What kind of city was it?

Why did we let ourselves be attracted by the spinning of the big molecules, without paying attention to the crowd of molecules springing out of the virtual whirls, looking for a mate, or for a balance point in which to start their great adventure through the dog-eat-dog universe?

Why would we have preferred the abyss of imagination to a state of informational serenity?

Reinterpreting the narrative and descriptive techniques we are obliged to reorganize the instructions mentioned in our encyclopedic inventory.

The worlds from the cities in our encyclopedia, Molina Mar, Burbansk, Puerto Rico and Qiatotocoatl appear to us imperfect, the economical, religious, military, cultural and any other kind of acts, often acts voided of substance.

Imperfection is not our final aim just as the spies from beyond the visible horizon are not our true enemies.

The acts of disinformation plotted by the rival secret forces helped us discover the miraculous properties of horizontality.

Thus, we managed to infer the strategies of magnetic fields and we understood that the arrangement of the boundless cities is claimed to belong to the codes constituted for the pleasure of interpretation. We found out that malice and arrogance of the one who interprets are certain proofs of vulnerability.

The obsolescent scientists from Patola, from Beauburg and from Gugumbe have extolled tradition and they have attacked the foundations of the increasing forces working for their destruction and for the welfare of the conservatory spirit. The literary masters from Pantrasiva, Kalombra and Baha gave lectures and speeches about the great nothing, bewildering the masses and announcing the apocalypse to please the august governess.

All these experiences convinced us to start looking for the miracle and they organized what someone would call the tendency of the big city.

Experience goes together with the hidden meaning of our mission and we are right to believe that, most of the time, ignorance and foolishness are consciously institutionalized in the big cities of our encyclopedia.

They are supported either by the propaganda against the public welfare, or by the monopoly upon immortality. They have a devastating effect, starting virtual whirls and generating revolutions that the obsolescent scientists from Doga Noga and Marsila Molé take for an exemplary crossroads, craving for a devastating action.

Such being the case, imperfection doesn’t talk about the end of history. In the heart of big cities, the fight between the outskirts and the center hides other meanings than the official ones and throws doubt upon history. Cynicism kills the critical enthusiasm and criticism turns to be useless in a world where the body kills the sight.

We started looking for the ultimate sense believing that, though it seems finite, the existence is a boundless creation. We’re prisoners of some fundamental informational matrix, but we struggle to build the impossible.

During our apparent movement through the dog-eat-dog universe, we discover that meanings stuck into the stereotypes are more fatal than the missiles or the earthly forces or even the waves of the agitated digital ocean.

That is why the tenacious plotters from Quanqo Koqué and Togai are searching in the depth of the encyclopedia for the magic formula with the help of which they could master the tectonic movements and they speak in code words about the unveiling of the secret, about the mystery and the miracle. They wish to govern the great cities in terror.

The imminent disclosure of the secret burns the forms and gives birth to sequent events putting the prophecies from Guamba and Tefalo into big trouble and minimizing the actions of the secretive men from Guaribo, Metembo and Wole Wa.

Yet, the disclosure does not mean the secret decays.

The informational wars show us that, in the heart of big cities, it is the limit that evolves, and the superior organization by catastrophes belongs to the neighborhood.

The forms oriented towards the ultimate sense of things lose their genetic slimness and their sense of interpretation most of the time. That’s why we’re fighting strongly during informational wars looking for the unexpected changes of the urban agglomerations.

The appearance of the strange Manhada in our proximity made us start our procedures of making the dog-eat-dog universe secret and made us take into account the nations ending, the empires ending and the vulgarization of history.

The threat of the empire might be the crossroads.

And the terrorism might hide the depth of forms brought from beyond the visible horizon by the parts of the encyclopedias that we haven’t interpreted.

The terrorism was perversely built up, in the heart of urban agglomerations and it stands for the other’s refusal. Apparently, terrorism insures the governing presence.

It is the enemy’s presence. It’s the malefic presence. It doesn’t announce the new wars, but the imperial epoch.

Which will be the empire?

The important thing to know is not which empire there will be, but how the empire will function. Being in the prediction or prophecy area, we cannot be misled about the terms. But don’t the inspirations from Galeea do it while carrying the ugly women to the scaffold?

But imperfection is the very splendor of thinking. The lack of big armies in bloody, tragic and grand battles announces an imperial creation.

The difference is prepared.

The soldiers of the empires dip their lances into the barbarians’ blood. But aren’t the barbarians from the outskirts of the cities Gotumba, Askayo and Guantile such charming creatures in the volumes of the world's hidden plan?

The arts of complexity are developed in perversity.

The empire extends forever, swallowing the great urban agglomerations, craving for its imaginary state.

The empire seems to be the ultimate sense, the last instruction of our encyclopedia.

The empire stands for the end of democracy.

It succumbs; it stifles under the mass's enthusiasm whose metabolism must function permanently, swallowing greedily the false heroes. The false heroes are skillfully built or built by mistake in Mastrokas, Azego Bazego and Tulule. Their exercise lies under the sign of conspiracy, of rebellion; the insurgence is not invoked.

We live in the splendor of incertitude.

The governor of Togai doesn’t trust the emperor of Ogawa, and vice-president Weinberger suspects them all. Obin Oba turns a deaf ear to the flattery, and Pitoskin, the colonel Sharun’s man, often wonders if he really exists and if the world of big cities is real.

We, magicians of mystery, take forms and enter the core of events, being their very essence. We don’t know for sure if we exist or if we are functioning according to a secret plan with instructions that we don’t have.

We float within an ambiguous ocean.

But one thing we know: our wonderful spying art revealed that if the walls of big cities were an absolute limit then nothing would exist.

The urban forms of the encyclopedia bustled.

Under the pressure of magnetic fields, we entered a miraculous simultaneity restricting the imaginary field. The present, the past and the future were found on the same level, and for a millionth part of a second we watched ourselves.

We weren’t interested in rebels, in revolutionaries, in conspirators, in predictors, in intriguers or in innocents. We built an appearance. Making the dog-eat-dog universe secret, we covered the entire space and temporal concept of the encyclopedia.

The entropy became a symbolical construction and the time of the big cities ran out.

The lack of history and time by deconstructing the norm and the attitudinal reevaluation in an illusory continuum seem to be the tendency to the ultimate sense.

The fragmentation and the simultaneity center-outskirts in the urban agglomerations arrest the enthusiasm of the scientist who lapses his natural right in Matola, Rabodaran and Metula.

The social reading spaces will not belong to the ultimate sense any longer, and the sociologist will not be the ideal reader of the unchained limitless urbanism any more. We don’t see here the death of sociology but a metamorphosis, a change of rhythm in the encyclopedic worlds. The cardinals from Gutumbe, the nice monks from Guaribo and Tulule, the bishop from Takule Makune and many other church characters have met in secret several times to find a common language in a world of diversity.

The unity of diversity and the discovery of languages in the big cities are illusory; the unity doesn’t exist as the authority is deconstructed, rebuilding itself during the erosion process.

This is the dynamics of chaos. Was Manhada ready to wolf us down, sniffing the chaos of our encyclopedia?

General Monteores sent his divers to find out what was going on and Obin Oba started a war to the death with vice-president Weinberger.

Miss Margareta sent the nabob of Bagoda a secret message in which she warned him of a possible attempt; Emperor Ogawa asked his hunters for the skin of the blue whale and Abu Kadar took his yellow submarine close by Bulbona for a night shelling.

General Baskaev wanted to make a secret alliance with the stately august governess in Guaribo. The women from Manhada appeared for the first time on the mountain Haman and the electric people from Susa Mabusa prepared to invade Tulule.

Bobolina met an alchemist from Marsila Molé in a café on the roses boulevard from Cutumbe. The alchemist tried to produce a strange attractor and he was keen on watching arts. He wished to find the philosopher’s stone from the heart of Manhada.

Argobai Gogobenos, the all-happy Kodaon, decreed the season of butterflies and the governor of Togai tried to transform into a dragonfly with the help of some scholars from Gozeha in order to go up unhindered in Manhada.

The scholars knew all about the birth of the dog-eat-dog universe and they managed to make the blue whale from Puerto Rico talk, and they unraveled the meanings of certain messages found in the sands of Galobra.

The messages were addressed to a magician from Susa Mabusa who had occult connections with the inspired men from Kalabrar and who seemed to know the truth about Manhada.

The reformed cachalots gathered in Kauna Kunaó. They prepared the April conferences and they sent invitations in the entire encyclopedia. Agobembe Kabila informed them that he would give a memorable lecture on the end of the wonderful art of spying and colonel Sharun advised them to take safety measures.

The informational knots from Azego Bazego, Adamville and Bankusai vanished in the dark night and the pneumatic people from Ghile Ga were ready to confront Manhada in battle to death on the Bogga valley.

Vice-president Weinberger asked his admiral to send an aircraft carrier in the area and general Guan Ho and general Guan Hoa hurried to enter the mountain pass Qe to push the start of some negotiations.

The dancers from Beauburg told that the magicians of mystery animated the huge blue whale and that secret forces were planning the change of the world, the arrogance, the lack of schedule, the illusory glory, the immortality by an insular or literary circle act, the false rhetoric about the death of the genre, the soubrettes or the literary masters who are taken as stiff critics are only few elements of a carnival of imagination.

The rival secret forces initiated the entropies of second rank. Yet, we had knowledge of the turbulences. We knew very well that the outskirts from Omaha, from Cardena and from Burbansk included their centers as the democracies in our descriptive structures, Adamville, Beauburg and Molina Mar included their dictatorship.

The domination of the center over the outskirts in the great urban agglomerations is not a matter of geometry in the imaginary field. It’s rather a question of relativity.

Once, Emperor Ogawa wrote to Petra Petronius inviting him to the court to give a lecture on the center and the outskirts. The astrophysicist refused him but he used an informational knot to keep in touch with the emperor. Ogawa thought that Petronius is self-conscious of the center.

What about us, the magicians of mystery?

We are not self-conscious of the center, thus rendering the idea that our freedom has nothing to do with Euclidian geometry.

We don’t organize the networks of the great urban agglomerations in concentric circles, although sometimes we let the spies who came from beyond the visible horizon to interpret our subtle movement as if they were.

Such characters stand for a limited model of the big cities. The concentric circles, drawn in the middle of wars and rebellions started for the center supremacy surround the urban center like some undefeatable walls. They limit it. They define it as simultaneity. It’s false! The concentric circles produce either the insolence and the arrogance or the stultifying and the unfaithfulness of the inhabitants.

In a perverse way, some of them launch signals of love to the outskirts.

They boast with them wickedly. They anesthetize their senses. They show themselves ready to plan grand projects. They even fight for their illusory release. They call the national governess to help the outskirts, to issue laws, decrees and inspired orders.

The politicians, the business men and the obsolescent visionaries court the outskirts of the big cities, they waltz with them, they send them perfumed letters or motorized divisions or food and pills and a brotherly greeting, all of them being respectable people.

In our symbolical constructions, the descriptive structures are merging indistinctively, thus fighting for supremacy; they build respectable people creating an imaginary standard that functions both on the outskirts and center.

Certain outskirts of the big urban agglomerations have a calling for the center. Others aspire to universality. They plot against each other. They revolt. They start a revolution. They send their irregular armies and their brigands to rob the fortresses and the floating cities or the informational knots. The gunpowder filled the atmosphere. The virtual networks flicker ghost-like, they are about to die, stuffed with informational worms.

If the dog-eat-dog universe were homogenous, the rebellion in its narrative structures would be a paradox. Or perhaps it would be the certain sign of the activity of the rival secret forces. The lack of homogeneity of the dog-eat-dog universe would bring to question some of the instructions of the encyclopedias. This would turn us into a particular case of informational organization. We might become singular. We might become a finite. We couldn’t possibly become a gerund: being, which should be an open, charming structure. The point is what meaning we give to homogeneity.

Homogeneity could be the whirl of the dancers from Marsila Molé, the pollen drops on the plains from Guaribo, the days’ foam from Qiatotocoatl.

The confusion stirs the spirits. We give ourselves in to incertitude. One would say we are masochists, that we are telluric and limited. The states of incertitude, succeeding like in a waterfall, give birth to moments of genius in the outskirts and to academic moments in the center. They produce vulgarity in the outskirts and arrogant and superior attitudes in the center, in the heart of the big cities threatened by ravenous Manhada.

Heated minds make an appointment at the April conferences. These conferences take place at the astronomic observatory from Takule Makune, yearly. The august governess is also invited to give a speech: she allocates the funds; she is responsible for the budget and for the medals.

We don’t describe the outskirts comparing to the center by means of compass points. We work with incertitude. We work with entropies and utopias. Now and then, the people inspired by the totalitarians from Guaribo, from Doga Noga or Cretona or by the writing of the conservationists from Nulome, use the small events to build a model.

Incertitude is the essence.

Vulgarizing the issue, Galeea or Bulbona or Adamville are but poor small towns with an international power center and this is, in its turn, a tiny bead in the foam of the dog-eat-dog universe.

Certainly, the great art of spying would be ridiculous if things were so simple. And we, the magicians of mystery, would fall into obsolescence.

We are vain. We are different from the obsolescent scientists and writers from Molina Mar, from Guaribo and Popocatepetlán. Their poor vanities succumb to vulgarization. They aspire to belong to the center or even more to be the center of the big urban agglomerations. They would become the authority. Bulbona, Mastrokas, Omah and Gozeha would be their expression. They are the container, and the descriptive structures are their content.

They reject reality.

For instance the blood stained head of Abu Kadar’s lover is not a head. It’s a construction that ought to be interpreted. Sinking it into formol, watching it closely with a magnifying glass, shaping it into a primary informational knot, the obsolescent scientists put forward sentences upon totality.

To mislead the rival secret forces we are ready to reinterpret the report between center and outskirts and we generate some sequent events, planning the rebellion of scavengers from Bankusai, the morning of the generals from Nulome, the revolt from Alundao, the attack from Pitonga Batonga, the evening migrations from Pasola and the clouds dance from Togai. But we know that outskirts devour their own genius and ideal and they end up in vulgarity, concluding a shameful armistice.

The perverse center of the big urban agglomerations waits patiently for the death of the outskirts. But it won’t let them end up in ridiculous or tragic manifestations. In the last moment, it will rescue them allowing the welcome and the celebration of the hero, with much ado, temporarily. It will embellish with flower wreaths and it will throw fire works in the air reddened by bullets and bombards and it will prepare the ordeal of anonymity for the most beloved one of the outskirts, in secret.

Then the center and the outskirts gather to plot against the dog-eat-dog universe. The upper classes leave the masses and abandon themselves to the imaginary, throwing themselves blindly into the first whirl in their way. That’s why we make the dog-eat-dog universe secret, inventing catastrophes and epoch-making events. That’s why we build the incertitude, which troubles the forms. That’s exactly why we let ravenous Manhada approach us so dangerously close.

The crowds from Omah, from Vale Note, from Ehren, from Metongo Bambo, from Polga Polgani and from Guabano Lao don’t ignore our actions. They devour their own heroes, putting them at the buttonhole, and they look for a suitable rival.

We are ready to build it.

The crowds will worship it or they will kill it, thus signaling the terrible truth of all worlds.

We still don’t have an overview of the rival secret forces but we guess that they will decide upon certain shapes and states according to their encyclopedic instructions. We register sporadic magnetic fluctuations. They are either manifestations of the fields, or proofs of some likely military activities of our enemies.

They start affluence procedures to our depths and they search for a space and temporal slit in which they trickle their agents. We’re already talking about the actions that prepare a local war, an extension of a matrix war. General Baskaev would like us to attack on a large front. General Monteores agrees and vice-president Weinberger calls his fleet to order.

But we are the battlefield!

We make the enemy devilish. We plot the matrix wars. We could become our own enemy. We build the difference. We release the masses out of the imaginary pressure; we announce the apocalypse.

General Baskaev accuses vice-president Weinberger and general Monteores points to emperor Ogawa. Lieutenant Slatt suspects colonel Sharun and the women from Manhada say that Bobolina was the one who called the spies from beyond the visible horizon, by means of astrological practices.

The oil sets every one against each other and it stirs them to void the imaginary, peopling the big cities with phantasmagorias and threatening tales about spies and matrix wars.

Breached or top secret policies and treaties fragment the image field. It claims to be the great text, which escapes from the interpretation of the mob. Domination over the oil field escaped from the vulgarizer, which started to claim his fiction against the ingenuous spirits.

Could it be a secret plan?

It’s a carnival world. The speakers from Gutola and Denna compete with each other to assassinate the poor critical spirit or they move hell to prove that it was Petra Petronius who has discovered the theory of ambiguous relativity and not Elal Belal from Qanta.

The literary masters and the politicians mould the pedestal for their statues, and the hooligans, disguised in founders of the worlds, rape their immortality giving names to their surroundings, as they are still alive. The upper class toils promptly, keeping an eye on Marsila Molé, Gugumbe, Takule Makune, Wole Wa and Vale Note.

“Yes, yes,” the wise spirits whisper, “Everything is rotten.” These are the signs of the secret plan. There’s no doubt about it.

Those crazy people who want a regionalization in order to solve out the Gross Domestic Product and the new rebels lift up the scaffolds for the previous generations, getting ready to feed with their corpses. The obsolescent critical character is put on a job before it dies, and the dead metaphysical question is used by the occults to soften the ego of a Foreign Minister from beyond the visible horizon.

The spies are watching us. They are training. “To the left! To the right!” There’s no place to turn back. They impress us by their discipline and permanent training. I’m preparing Manhada. She forces its fictional engines at highest level.

She fakes patriotism.

Even the patriotism is healthy and it is genuinely painted. One would say that the police from Kumbra Kumbrali, from Gozeha, from Mauna Lao and Qiatotocoatl are on the verge of killing the peace of the mob.

The water towers calm down the enthusiasm and they make good to the mystical, philosophical or anarchist outbreaks. The august governess has no reasons to worry about. She puts on some make-up in front of the mirror and she pleasures herself frantically, crying with joy.

On television, they debate difficult problems: about dead and wounded and about material damages. They all are good to everything and the great scholars announce the verdict.

This defines the hidden plan. It is a cryptic plan. Petronius is dressed up. Elal Belal is wrapped in tinsel. We warm up with adages and a compulsory abundant bibliography. We live in a myth. We are the content of a metaphor.

The Cardinals from Rigonna, Beauburg and Vale Note are gathered in the angels’ circular hall from Quiatotocoatl for a three-day debate on the religious nature, to fight against the idea of a hidden plan. Some cardinals demand that the local churches receive new liberties for the management of the church on a universal level, criticizing the authoritarianism of the center.

The church, subdued to the whirl of change that sucks the whole world, wishes, deep inside, a new position, the church wishes to get out of the conservatism and the confinement, the church wants a new life.

The complexity is a difficult challenge for an institution that still has the advantage of a well-guarded secret and of an impressive number of disciples in all worlds. Strongly connected by the great geographical discoveries, by crusades, by revolutions and spectacular changes in the modern policy, the religious nature in the angels’ circular hall faces a scientific matter.

Bobolina’s imagination created a fantastic sentence and we abstained with great difficulty not to betray ourselves. Bobolina told us that Manhada had brought the present, the past and the future on the same level, under the pressure of magnetic fields.

Was it a subtle attempt of the rival secret forces to virus our encyclopedia by magnifying the informational surface of its narrative structures?

The nabob of Begoda started to follow her, the emperor Ogawa is keen on getting her, general Monteores wants to make peace with general Baskaev because of Manhada, the beardless artist from Guaribo is ready to write a poem for the women in Manhada, Obin Oba wants to blow Adamville up so that Manhada couldn’t be attracted by its gravitational field. “The werewolf from the arsenal in Takule Makune brags that he knows something about Manhada,”  Bobolina whispered to us, striking an agent sent by colonel Sharun to find her, with her little umbrella. Time is a bugbear for the young ladies from the academy from Galeea, for the literary Masters from Molina Mar and for the national governess from Cretona, Guaribo and Catombo.

The nabob of Begoda knew it well. He had built the floating cities out of virtual whirls captured by his stargazer, by means of incantations. He attacked Gonfleda, Bulbona and Cretona. He would have been capable of anything to knock general Baskaev to pieces, to rape Farigot, to harass the life out of emperor Ogawa and to blow up the great shield from Takule Makune, just to moon about.

Gonfleda had swelling streets and three electric suns, Bulbona was sleeping idly under the Alal Ocean, and Cretona was hiding its chalk gardens under singing sands and mirrors brought from Quzo and Elal Belal.

What about Bobolina?

She is a big and fat one. She’s the elephant-woman from Tamboree. You cannot make a fool of her.

She had ventured through all the narrative structures, which, apparently, were developing under the pressure of magnetic fields, and she had fought during all informational wars from the beginning of millennium. She was on good terms with the glaziers from Quzo. She made business with the reformed cachalots from Halombra. She turned the governor of Togai round her little finger.

She was famous for her intuition in Kamol Pator. She was firm and clever and she lied in her teeth.

She had an entire network of informers in Puerto Rico, Doga Noga, Burbansk and Molina Mar. She knew the names of all agents working for Obin Oba, emperor Ogawa and colonel Sharun by heart.

Sometimes, she mocked at them by taking their own looks and sneaking into their networks.

She told us some ill-famed stories about colonel Sharun, about Petra Petronius from Gambela and about Elal Belal from Takule Makune. She crushed a hoha nooha bug, which was recording our conversation for emperor Ogawa’s information, she kissed us in a hurry, she opened her wings and flew beyond the clouds towards Togai to plan an ambush for the devil who had just been preparing to give a stroke in the abandoned circus in Adamville.

Reinterpreting our narrative structures and experimenting with new instructions that have Bobolina as a research subject, we are planning rebellions, stirs and ecstasy states in the squares from Candorra, Puerto Rico and Popocatepetlàn.

The nabob of Begoda, virused by rival secret forces, financed the rebellions of the scavengers from Guaribo, and he sent guns and ammunition to the boxers in Takule Makune to be able to overthrow the dictatorial regime imposed by Gozbanian Guzbaian.

The scavengers from Guaribo demand a wage raise and new overalls for the rest of the orgies in Manhada would suffocate the outskirts, making them work harder, for nothing.

But wouldn’t misery make the difference? Isn’t it the secret of the secrecies? Isn’t she the very difference between character and lack of character, between discipline and chaos, between order and disorder, between imagination and encyclopedia, between body and mind, between real and virtual, between whole and totality?

The garbage is the symbol of liveliness. It’s the trace of life printed on the skin of the dog-eat-dog universe, in the middle of the virtual whirls.

There’s nothing out there without garbage. It’s just a thought. It’s a virtual whirl captured by the Alal Ocean with the help of electric storms. It’s a dream.

The garbage emphasizes the fervor of the being, the neglect, the superabundance of aspiration, the concern, the laziness and the ignorance. It announces the terrible truth of all worlds.

The scavengers are sublunary beings. They don’t have an altar like the ones from Gozeha. They don’t have national holidays like beings from Guabano Lao. They don’t belong near the august governess in the tribune, like in Metongo Bambo. And they aren’t invited to dinner like the craftsmen from Trina Ta.

Yet, they all act according to the rules and subtle standards, be they pneumatic, electric or organic beings.

To thwart the plans of the rival secret forces, we change the instructions of the encyclopedia, inventing new urban structures and stirring the old ones.

Our narrative structures shaking, the fabulous characters stopped acting, conform to the instructions.

Colonel Sharun sends the dolt to fish secrets out of the werewolf from the Arsenal in Galeea. Galeaa is full of Kutambo spies and rebel totalitarians that want to destroy the whole world.

Bobolina belongs to the Kutambo tribe, too. She has three eyes and she carries after her a literary circle of beardless man, wearing sunglasses. Bobolina pretends he is her hostage. 

Sharun’s man, Pitoskin, looks for the bragging werewolf. A bird catcher with a trunk turns somersaults and swears he saw the loquacious fellow in a bar on the promenade, two days ago.

Pitoskin bought some second-hand boots for the werewolf to fish secrets out of him. The windbag has seven hairy and fast legs. They are of different sizes and they made him famous on the play yards from Gugombe, Kalabrar and Areba Komburo and Guaribo and Kamol Pator. The werewolf bragged to everybody he saw Manhada walking down from the Moon, swinging lustfully.

Pitoskin was diddled. He doesn’t even care about colonel Sahrun’s orders anymore. He has some plans of his own. He will play his life card.

He goes down to the warehouses to find a topman about whom the werewolf told him that the former would have been fooling around with women from Manhada.

We spy on Pitoskin behind the walls. Our starry mantles produce small dust whirls on the alleys burnt by the sun. Bobolina keeps an eye on us and sells us for nothing to emperor Ogawa’s lieutenants.

Ogawa is the nephew of the governor of Togai and he dreams of extending his power up to beyond the Alal Ocean.

There are certain signs that our encyclopedia supports some consequent changes, Bobolina multiplies and the air is filled with elephant-women who buzz like some bumblebees on the point of devouring us.

Pitoskin cannot hear or see. He yearns to bill and coo. He’ll find Manhada and will make a harem; he’ll snuff tobacco and play billiards with the electric people from Susa Mabusa and with the pneumatic people from Ghile Ga.

Pitoskin buys a secret map from the topman. The places on that map are completely unknown to us. You cannot even find them in the encyclopedic inventory. Is it a stellar map or instructions transmitted by the rival secret forces?

Pitoskin stops in the middle of the road. He steps back. He turns to the left. He looks like a disjointed puppet. A bunch of virtual whirls spring out of his chest. His body is overheated.

The swarm of bobolinas meets other swarms. These are flying jellyfish, ghosts, Godzilla and wandering spirits. They are quarrelling with each other. A second sun comes out from behind the mountains and emperor Ogawa gets down from a cloud wanting to proclaim himself the world’s emperor.

It’s a whole mess. Colonel Sharun jumps out of a helicopter accompanied by a commando troop armed to the teeth. Obin Oba gets out of the sand accompanied by a group of hudango riders. Manhada comes out of a loud “slap!” and she floats majestically above all. The encyclopedia loses its energy.

More and more virtual whirls spring out of the fabulous forms and of our narrative structures, making a lot of smoke.

A huge blue whale swallows Galeea, taking it to the bottom of the ocean.

Bobolina got above the water together with her swarm. Emperor Ogawa gets out of the waves accompanied by his soldiers, and governor of Togai arrives accompanied by some undecided totalitarians that wanted to give a memorable lecture on the stellar mechanics, sacrifice and sacrilege.

They got some ideas about the totality, which they will present during a pantomime show when over five thousand people are expected to participate.

General Monteores arrives in a cruiser.

Abu Kadar arrives in his yellow submarine followed by general Baskaev’s fast stars.

Some secret treaties are decided, and Bobolina sells them in detail to some reformed hermits from Ehren, who, in their turn, will resell to the rival secret forces represented by the reformed nabob of Begoda.

The pirates from Gualimbo are passing in a big hurry, following some scull hunters. General Baskaev wants to buy the big shield from Qiatotocoatl, and Monteores asks if anyone has old light diamonds for sale, while general Guan Ha and general Guan Hoa got out the mountain pass Qe, on the point of striking the cruiser with which vice-president Weinberger is going to and fro in the Alal Ocean.

Petra Petronius, who got up on a cask, said he would tell the terrible truth of all worlds immediately. Some soldiers shot him in the forehead. We reactivate him in another narrative structure. We try to protect some of the virused areas of the big cities. We don’t know for sure if they were virused or just erased from our memory all of a sudden.

The rival secret forces are keen on multipliers. We find ourselves face to face with one hundred pitoskins, all of them being decided to destroy the imaginary of our encyclopedia that we discover in a description of the famous Marsila Molé.

We localize the city and reposition it on the map of imaginary. We move pretty slowly. An entire chain of homogeneities is breaking and our first outskirts appear.

We fight in great battles. Though, we don’t register significant magnetic fluctuations.

Mastrokas has vanished from our encyclopedic inventory. The intuitive totalitarians from Bagoda might have succeeded to blow him up. We detect some odd secretions around us and we miss the capture of a rival informational division.

On the digital ocean surface one can see long traces and a mysterious shipwake. An invisible war ship directs to Nulome.

The rival secret forces make desperate efforts to produce a shockwave that make us lose horizontality.

We are frantically looking for the secret codes of huge Manhada, on the point of virusing and destroying her.

The angels from Qiatotocoatl foresee the apocalypse. Petra Petronius gives a lecture on the imminent revelation of the secret in Takule Makune. One moonless night, General Baskaev kidnaps Melisa Hari and brings her to the unknown.

The star hunters fight with the whale hunters; the werewolf from Arsenal is killed by the mad crowds.

General Monteores hangs colonel Sharun. Miss Margareta tears the starry mantle of a magician; the scavengers butcher the night men.

Elal Belal fights against an army of housecleaning women; the waiters from Takule Makune fill the dumping carts with informative notes about a so called fall behind the shadow of the Moon; the women from Manhada dance with their hair loose, on the shore of Alal Ocean.

The agonies come into the mobs’ souls arrived in pilgrimage to San Gastoban to see the risen tide; the hoha noha bugs swallow the cockroaches. The ship owners from Puerto Rico hide within a blue whale fearing Edgar Iklovel, the head spy from Burbansk, who promised them a terrible beating because they hid the wheat bushels to rule over the outskirts of the big cities, by starvation.

Pelias Paso takes all kinds of compromising pictures on the battlefield and Obin Oba’s men behead him. Major Pluckart shoots himself in the head, leaving a letter, in which he announces the terrible truth about all worlds. Admiral Von Kripke falls madly in love with the multiplier of colonel Sharun.

Gamzai Gaiaz starts the revolution in Bankusai. Pericleu Peclatis plans a series of horrible crimes in the heart of the big cities. Miss Frasela is shot because she deserted to the enemy from beyond the visible horizon. Prince Boris burns himself in the circular hall of the angels from Qiatotocoatl, because Bobolina doesn’t love him.

Bobolina kills the poor governor from Togai with a hairpin. Miss Galsemla kills Agaturian with a vibration. Baldara marries the head of the secret service from Nulome.

Manhada plans all these dazzling events. She creates mysterious characters!

And everybody speaks about death frantically and dangerously.

They’re dying to throw themselves into her arms, like butterflies on the lamp.

They don’t care.

The terrible truth of all worlds? A bugbear, of course.

Totality? It’s just a blow in the wind. The universal orgasm is nothing but a whopping lie!

Everybody bustles through time laughing in the august governess’s face; she wants badly to order and rule them.

But the crowds choose the cosmic death fervently and offhandedly.

The philosophers hardly dare say a word; there are also some scientists and a few astrophysicists.

Who would listen to them?

Starting to fight against Manhada, we answered the questions that the philosophers of the big urban agglomerations asked. The decline behind the  shadow of the moon is not the way to mystery, but is the look that rejects the final truth.

Yet, we’re confident in our mission and we don’t want to give us up to death, be it a symbolical construction. In our apparent movement towards the final sense, we managed somehow to discover a part of the amazing properties of our horizontality.

It’s a reality!

The structure of the boundless worlds claims to be the structure of the codes created for the sake of interpretation.

Interpreting, you indulge into confusion, creating an appearance. You can plan a coordinates system, a references system that protects you and motivates you.

We know that interpretation belongs to free states of consciousness and not to the vulgarity or to the mighty ignorance.

It’s obvious that the interpreter’s wickedness or arrogance is the certain proof of vulnerability.

We built the convention and the coherence. We reinterpreted imperfection. But have we invented the rival secret forces whose actions gave charm to our experience, unleashing our pleasure for the experiment?

Have we invented Manhada?

Have we called her out of our imagination?

As our interrogations created the false feeling of potential vulnerability, many of our statements can confuse the enemy and trap him.

We build the impossible. We say it’s quite the inexistent. We could imagine that we’re the invention of the rival secret forces and then, they could match us being close to death.

The idea that the text attached to the dog-eat-dog universe is full of ambiguities that belong to such texts gives us big hopes.

We’ve decided to let us fall within magnetic fields that seem to be the very look of the unknown reader. The latter is nothing but a space and time concept, which we are to interpret.

The trifle cell, Manhada, doesn’t affect the reader, as his metabolism is the mirror effect and the membrane is his entire visible horizon.

We seem to be in a closed circle. In our encyclopedic inventory there aren’t any specifications for such events.

We’re trapped without hope within this simultaneity excerpted from our homogeneity. Simultaneity is a temporal reverse of the last three seconds separating us from the convergence point.

Didn’t I build it cleverly?

We could choose death by attacking Manhada. We could swallow her, turning into a data and information circle, which will spread through the dog-eat-dog universe. We could vanish together with our match under the pressure of magnetic fields.

The unknown reader, whose presence we still foresee, didn’t access our aspiration. Could the old lights bathing our homogeneity call our attention?

Could we then transform it into a strange attracter, which modifies our narrative and descriptive structure of our dog-eat-dog universe?

But what if our experience is just an appearance come from the noise of the big cities? What if we could get the copy of the reader putting us in the impossibility of initiating the procedures of visualization and interpretation?

We enter again the realm of incertitude while the rival secret forces approache the convergence point.

This could be the starting point of our informational wars from the heart of the big cities. It could be the imminent revelation of the secret about which the spies talked
really frantically during all the summer.

All these make us think of the fact that the insignificant cell, strange Manhada, was certain of our existence in her informational proximity from the beginning of this fascinating experience.

While we were haunted by incertitude, Manhada had her own truth, a powerful truth.

That’s why we minutely wove a fine tissue in which we bustled like the blue whales trapped in the steel nets of the hunters.

We suddenly enter the cone of old light of the dog-eat-dog universe.

We understand that our only salvation would be an informational reverse. We understand that our chance would be an illusory narrative structure that spread out the certainty of this insignificant cell. We had to fool Manhada!

We broke the terrible truth of all worlds. We turned imperfection to horizontality. We turned into an endless wall. The wall echoed like our homogeneity had never existed. Our sound hit Manhada.

Our music secret washed Manhada from head to toe, maddening her:

“Watch out, I’m gonna fall in love with you!”


© Translated by Ioana Bostan

Critique this work

Click on the book to leave a comment about this work

All Authors (hi-speed)    All Authors (dialup)    Children    Columnists    Contact    Drama    Fiction    Grammar    Guest Book    Home    Humour    Links    Narratives    Novels    Poems    Published Authors    Reviews    September 11    Short Stories    Teen Writings    Submission Guidelines

Be sure to have a look at our Discussion Forum today to see what's
happening on The World's Favourite Literary Website.