The Persecuted

The Persecuted

Dedication: The imagery created by Paola Cosentino has had a positive and softening influence on this text.

At the beginning, there was the Number. It unconditionally determined all realities. The Number did not merely govern the course of things—it created the very reason for changes in that course.
The literary canons of the present force me into internal transformations. I obediently drift along with the current and write for the people of the 21st century, whose short-term memory is worse than that of a guppy, rather than for my kindred spirits—the Spider neighbors. Of course, I do not know birthdates, postal addresses, or blood types, and so I write only what I see with all my eyes.

While the Kind Grandfather sketches new stories of Love with the nonexistent torsion trails of clouds, His Son recovers from the heroic defense of His Thesis, and another quantum-entangled part of His essence spends yet another Era replacing, naturally in an administrator’s capacity, the quantum fuses of the Universe’s web of networks.

The cheerful laughter of the Cloud Rider did not merely sound boyish—it was, at this moment in time and space, truly boyish. Leaping between galaxies on clouds, this significantly rejuvenated Grandfather, with a child’s flute sticking out of the pocket of his striped shorts and a tricolor cap precariously perched on his curly head exactly as it had been thrown there, grinned infectiously. His divine Calling—to create worlds—did not seem to affect the sheer breadth of his smile.

In a moment of heightened activity while passing through a cluster of black holes, a tiny blob of watery slime escaped with his breath into the Universe. Due to the malfunctioning Web of the Universe, this blob froze in time—but froze in the way that only Life can.

It seemed that across the boundless firmament, a living jelly-like Kaleidoscope displayed infinite and unknown combinations of the Number.

According to some wise elders, this was destined to explode in the future as an unimaginable fusion of everything with everything. But I, a mere yet experienced observer, write only of what I have witnessed. These images, appearing from nowhere and vanishing into nothing, existing solely in the combinations of the Number, carried within them not only the enigma of existence but also an inextinguishable hue of inevitability.

A blue-and-yellow Spider with intelligent eyes, waiting in ambush within its web, flickered between the images of three rats gnawing determinedly on an entirely unappetizing child’s flute and a majestically shimmering Cross, sculpted from soft ice cream and adorned with strawberries. Suddenly, a gray shadow of a three-headed bureaucrat, with perpetually hungry and insatiable eyes, blurred this diversity. This foul-smelling shadow sprawled across other worlds of the heavens.

From the Light emerged the Infinities, encircling the cosmic stench with the mystical fragrance of their bodies. As the stench turned into the everyday inevitability of manure’s aroma, across the entire sky appeared the terrified eyes of the Persecuted people, whose frenzied flight began at birth and ceased only with an inevitable finale—whether natural or unnatural, but always unavoidable—without intermissions or rehearsals.

The emerging image of a hypocritically coquettish monkey with a naïve, wise Serpent blocked the vile sight of the Malicious Gnome, embittered to the very depths of what still remained of his soul. His offender was the carefree Persecuted Piper, who had, quite by accident, ended up in the metropolis of that world, unwittingly bringing misfortune upon his people. They were replaced by Hypocrisy and Deception, relentlessly striving to reach two childhood friends, Bob and Dab, who lay peacefully on a green beach after a long, laborious millennium.

But the offspring of incest were incapable of executing their programmed task due to the unavailability of the cosmic code, which the Crippled Chameleon hesitated to pronounce with its mischievous tongue. The last thing I saw was the Number, which unconditionally dictated its orders to the obedient Cause.

By one of those causes, crafted by the Number, a complex sequence was formed, leading to yet another division of realities. Even old Darwin failed to notice the moment when a passing, glamorous, muscular Chameleon, dressed in the latest Edenic fashion in the shade of „gorilla,“ slyly transferred its code to a primate. The sun-kissed girl-monkey named Life, basking idly under the spring sun, noticed nothing. But even if she had, she would now have hidden it from everyone. After all, the digital code had already been implanted within her.

What was born soon after this division of realities astounded everyone with its duality. Words that contradicted deeds, selfish kindness interwoven with an uncanny ability to read minds through facial expressions and say precisely what that face wished to hear. Its name was given accordingly—Hypocrisy. The nightmare of that world’s inhabitants grew alongside it.

To the boastful Chameleon, in order to prevent a repeat of the tragedy, the natives of that world twisted his legs and everything else below the waist in the opposite direction. But it was already too late. For some, days passed; for others, millennia—but the outcome was predetermined. At the grand celebration of spiritual incest, which was the wedding of Hypocrisy and Deception, reality once again split apart. The Ancient Serpent entered the life of the now-grown girl once more, but that is another story from the infinite Kaleidoscope of Being.

And in one of the worlds of the Kaleidoscope, an image is distinctly visible: a coquettish monkey sweetly flirting with a naïve, yet deceitful, wise Serpent. They had no idea then that they would become the reason for the birth of a new Star in the constellation of the Southern Cross.

The horror of time brought to a standstill no longer influenced evolution. The newfound ability to adapt to the surrounding world survived the cleansing attempt of the Flood without issue. The next Reset by the Cross yielded only partial results. The mutations of this hypocritical and deceitful entity led to the Cross changing color whenever loneliness faded or a light ignited—as if signaling that observation had begun, and a choice must be made.

The descendants of this ancient spiritual incest adjusted their behavior according to the opinions of society. Those in whom this code remained recessive screamed on the stakes until their last breath, „And yet it moves,“ or became hermits and madmen.

The division of realities always splits the natives of these realities as well. Some follow the pure, cold light of reason, while others surrender themselves to the passionate, warm glow of the heart. But sometimes, there are madmen who combine pure passion with the cold light of warmth, thus gaining the ability to find the wormholes of the Universe. Upon awakening in such a tunnel, they become fascinated by the beauty of the game—not just the game itself or its outcome.

Without a doubt, in the reality being described, excessively natural behavior is a sign of madness. One of the characters of this tale would completely agree—at least when it comes to people who are incapable of being honest even with themselves.

At such a moment, the name of the protagonist ceases to matter. Bob, the Piper, the Kaleidoscope, the blue-and-yellow Spider, or even the prophetic title „Amoral Piece of Shit“—the name is irrelevant, for we all know the old truth that everything—not just beauty—lies in the eye of the beholder.

Yes, I agree. Thoughts about what exactly the blue-and-yellow Spider is growing in its iron barrels distract me from the narrative as well. As a result—my first perfect mistake. I should have mentioned that upon exiting the wormholes, the Piper takes on a different appearance. In this strange and rather tormenting way, that ancient and fateful transfer of the Chameleon’s code extracted its subscription fee from the Piper for access to the wormholes.

As always happens with Bob, purely by chance, while studying a topic important to him, the Piper stumbled upon a priceless fragment of a mirror for his Device, which he had been developing in his dreams. The discovered mirror added to the Piper’s Device the function of an awakening Kaleidoscope. For some unexplained reason, the effect of this crucial component extended exclusively to the Infinities. These rare Infinities, in whom the fact that their ancestors had sinned with the ancient gods could not be hidden, possessed heightened sensitivity. This sensitivity, necessary for perceiving reality, seemed to have been inherited through their divine lineage, and they were capable of emitting it in beams, refracting themselves outward into the worlds around them. Each Infinity did this in its own unique way, whispering hints about its bloodline. This same whisper confirmed the truth that the inner light of a true diamond cannot be mistaken for anything else.

That shard of a mirror turned out to be an Instagram account—a catalyst of my pain, refreshing in my memory the sensational recent past. As if before my eyes now flash the screaming headlines of front pages:

„The Malicious Gnome Destroys the Values of Civilization!“
„The Females of the Strangers and Their Offspring Have Overrun Babylon!“
„The Blood of the Strangers Is the Same as Ours!“

The Reset by the Cross turned out to be beneficial in this case. In a unanimous impulse, people rushed to help these Persecuted beings. Compassion, mercy, and care overflowed within them like water held back by the dam of officialdom.

After all they had endured and the miraculous salvation they had found, the Persecuted did not merely open their souls with gratitude and admiration—they also, with love, with a rekindled, long-forgotten hospitality of their people, laid out red carpets leading into their souls, as if inviting an experience of true unity. The Cross, responding to human emotions, shimmered with the peaceful glow of Christmas lights.

At this moment, I am merely an observer, and the observer’s name is of no consequence—the facts and the charge of observation are what matter. I rewind the Instagram feed back to the beginning of the posts. And there it is—the first famous photograph. A primitive, smoking, environmentally criminal vehicle from another world that had saved the accidental passengers of history—a Persecuted Mother and her two young offspring. Yet, in the enormous eyes of the offspring, there was no fairy-tale childhood happiness, only the grief-worn wisdom of the elderly.

The Persecuted Mother, with worry in her weary eyes—eyes that had seen too much misunderstanding—insisted that these were a male and a female child, and that in their world, the sex of a child is determined by some god at the moment of conception. What a strange, endearing, yet lagging star-born tribe! We must enlighten their lives with the light of reason! This is our sacred duty! We, who have safeguarded the truth for centuries in a secure basement, know how to shape full-fledged humans out of voiceless creatures of God. And then these new beings will comprehend the axiom: gender is a responsible and conscious choice of an individual!

In pursuit of the Great Goal, we shall not be hindered—moreover, we must not pay attention to the filth of the Malicious Gnome, in which both the retro-vehicle and the Persecuted Mother with her offspring are smeared. We must not notice it, even though, in places, they are stained all the way down to the blood. The Ancient Cross pulsed light in sync with the broken Morse code signals, as if trying to warn us of something.

It is difficult to tear myself away from looking at this photograph, but we are not here to stand still. Up next in the feed is a rare occurrence—a video featuring a striped, beetle-like, blue-and-yellow Spider. This is one of the few male Persecuted who survived thanks to his madness. In some distant past, this boy, who loved to play his flute for his hamsters, simultaneously unraveled the intricate knots of the thick and smoky fog of life. When the hamsters began begging him for a break, he would retreat to his garden and revel in the lush green chaos of nature.

These callings proved useful in his later life. Thanks to them, the Piper entered books as a unique expert on rats and peacefully calculated billions of knots in his mind while suffering on the beaches of Zanzibar. It was there that the eclectic essence of the Piper’s Device was born, incorporating the synergy of all available tools. His reality split at the moment when the Fiery Star of the Malicious Gnome fell from the heavens upon Freedom—the embodiment of the highest value of the transparent part of this water world. The Star robbed the Piper of his purpose: as he washed himself in blood, he realized that the inhabitants of this round, blue city lacked precisely the currency he was willing to accept as payment for his services.

Only a wormhole could save the Piper from the lawlessness of the many and varied clones of the Malicious Gnome, who had acquired the revolting ability to take on the appearance of his fellow kind. Falling into a lethargic sleep while inside the tunnel, the Spider was utterly shocked when he opened his eyes.

The Cross, overflowing with compassion, transformed into the taste of soft strawberry ice cream, attracting weary bees. Heavenly butterflies, at the same time, warded off flies from the forbidden yet even more desired fruit. Peering out from behind his passionflower-masked web, the Spider let out something resembling a sigh of relief. It seemed that what he saw outside the window calmed his heart, which was being torn apart.

From all corners of the spring city, like streams of a living, turbulent river, crowds of people flowed toward the Gothic castle of the Keeper of Prosperity. These were well-dressed, grateful, and sincerely smiling Persecuted without offspring, accompanied by good Samaritans. The long-anticipated ceremony of uniting the incompatible was gaining momentum, ready to bloom in its solemn absurdity.

Finally, the long-awaited moment arrived—the very reason why, if we are to be honest, most of those present had gathered here. The saving Beam of Paola, a third cousin of the goddess of beauty, Aphrodite, on her mother’s side, gently and smoothly touched these twelve Chosen Persecuted. With the inevitability hidden in every coincidence, these twelve, Chosen by Paola, turned out to be strikingly similar to each other in their expressive femininity. This shameless infinity of legs, barely covered by the features of their tribal attire, to the sincere and fascinated horror of the Persecuted, refracted not only the gazes of the Samaritan brothers but also those of their wives.

Was it the clouds beneath the Persecuted’s feet and the heavenly landscapes in their eyes, or was it the intoxicating mix of the March air with the long-forgotten warmth of male attention—but soon, moonlit reflections of their own world began to flicker in the Persecuted’s eyes. The Cross bloomed with flaming roses, but soon, the Servants rushed to mask their thorns, which disrupted the harmony, with smiling emojis.

And there, dancing in the rain in the background, was the Piper with his Evaporator of Knowledge. The neighborhood children gleefully shouted: „Look, there’s that old fool who hit his head!“

As a law-abiding citizen of the Universe, I must warn you! Attention! This device is not certified in Civilized Worlds, and its readings are officially recognized as unreliable! Further reading of the controversial results of these experiments may lead to a pathologically depressive state, manifested as the appearance of question marks in your brain. Continuing to read this text automatically confirms your sanity!

The results of this ambiguous experiment are recorded in the transcript of the ceremonial meeting, which is attached as a comment to the video. The recording features approximately forty-eight people, not counting the Persecuted, present in the grand hall, where the ceiling was replaced by a stylized depiction of the Ancient Cross, created by a well-known avant-garde artist, enthusiastically playing ping-pong with an elderly nun. To the delight of some Persecuted, there were no idols hanging on the walls.

The Persecuted, although inside the sacred heart of this city, remained isolated. Even their hosts were animatedly chatting with jesters and other important figures, who were seated separately from the Persecuted. Besides the host, who towered over everyone on the ancient three-seat throne of the Keeper of Prosperity, the hall was filled with various photographers and journalists representing both the interests of the Keeper’s opponents and the interests of the opponents of the Keeper’s opponents.

Two exquisite twin sisters, Lady Azule Integration von Pernska and Lady Sah Integration von Pernska, with the dignity befitting them, occupied honorary seats on either side of the Keeper of Prosperity. This three-headed, perverse embodiment of democracy in a single body gave the proceedings in the hall a mystical hue. Chroniclers and servants joined the diverse jesters, eccentrics, and other opinion leaders.

The transcript has been copied without proper editing, so I apologize in advance for any gray hairs it may cause you.

Keeper: I welcome you, the Persecuted, to the Land of the Cross, the land of mountains and lakes—a country that grants you protection from the lawlessness of the Malicious Gnome! For over fifteen centuries, we have all been persistently taught to be honest in the presence of others. For this reason, I will not tell you that I am pleased by your invasion.

Aside from the inexplicable sweetness of compassion and the newfound sense of usefulness, it has disrupted the measured rhythm of my life. It has also added pointless work and burdened me with new responsibilities. But, of course, for the sake of the Common Cause, I am willing to endure these inhuman sufferings. However, you must also appreciate these heavy sacrifices, borne for your salvation by the taxpayers of our most democratic country within this country.

Of course, I must also mention what pleases me about this invasion. Above all, I am pleased that, for the most part, the Persecuted who have arrived are of working age and reproductive capability. They can and must contribute their diverse efforts to our saturated society. As a man concerned with the future, I cannot help but be delighted by the fact that among the Persecuted, there are a great many offspring. Sometimes, fiction becomes reality.

There is a possibility that the descendants of these offspring, by the fourth generation, if they adhere to the training schedule, may eventually become full-fledged, indistinguishable humans. Personally, as a connoisseur of the beautiful and a passionate lover of the exotic, I am thrilled by the prospects of upcoming close interactions with all of you.

The detailed, fairy-tale-like plans for your bright future will be explained to you by those responsible for your full-fledged integration into the lives of rational beings. The highly respected representatives of the Clan of the Integration Family will paint for you your castles in the air and mountains of gold in even more vibrant colors.

But even a bureaucrat like me, with no genuine interest in your future, has good news for you, unfortunate ones. Rejoice, those of you who, by the inexplicable will of Providence, managed to become our „brothers and sisters“ while living in another world. By declaring this Miracle upon arrival at the registration desk, you automatically receive privileges.

You will be blessed with the exclusive right not to declare the humanitarian aid received in churches and the gratis-discarded waste you manage to collect. But, of course, this is not the limit of our boundless Babylonian generosity. I want to bring you joy by announcing that the Persecuted, upon approval by the overseers, will receive funding for the implantation and partial setup of a basic language model, which may be useful to you when following commands in public works or filling out tax declarations.

Naturally, I want to extend my generosity to all the Chosen ones of Paola. My boundless generosity is sufficient to ensure that all other Chosen ones of this half-blooded goddess will also be implanted with and adapted to a premium multifunctional language model. This multifunctional, modern, biologically pure language model, produced domestically, allows for near-complete application in both intimate-professional and professional-intimate spheres of life.

Our Galaxy-renowned tolerance compels us to care not only for you. We have countless plans to fantastically improve your lives in a way that keeps the wolves fed as well. We plan to consider all these numerous and grandiose plans for the beginning of your journey toward a human life as an emergency priority at the next session—after the holidays, on Thursday, after the rain.

Keeper: In conclusion of my passionate speech, I want to emphasize that we recognize your longing for the heroes who have fallen in the name of universal Values. Our sacred Samaritan duty compels us to ensure that you live as full-fledged, rational, and civilized beings!

We understand that your husbands and fathers will forever remain in your memory, in graves, and in wheelchairs. Regrettably, we cannot even attempt to replace most of this heavy loss for you. However, the majority of men—and even the female minority—are ready and willing to help you in this difficult but necessary activity for your health, the one you sometimes long for under the moon but cannot admit even to yourselves.

But, following the wisdom of our ancestors, we do not look back—we stretch forward, into your next bright future! Praise our tolerant God! By His grace, He has allowed you into the land of heavenly manna! (Thunderous applause, transitioning into a standing ovation.)

A strange liveliness suddenly animated the other, carelessly groomed head of this three-headed symbol in a gray uniform of the Common Cause. Like a bolt from the blue, a voice rang out: „The floor is given to Lady Azule Integration von Pernska!“

Lady Azule Integration von Pernska:

As a commercial, pragmatic subcontractor who has gained access to large sums of budgetary funds, I am, of course, pleased by this invasion. Following the great heritage of our ancestors, I will be honest even with you.

The massive gray brain in your heads should understand the direct proportionality between your population and the amount of taxpayer funds that fall completely under my control.

In the near future, I plan to explore progressive and humane methods of systematically shearing your wool while simultaneously maintaining or even increasing the size of your population.

After a critical system update, which for some reason was reflected in Lady Azule’s face, she playfully added:

„And, of course, I will not allocate any money for the legal defense of your rights.“

The conference hall filled with rare streams of genuine laughter—an unusual occurrence for such a respectable institution, and without a drop of hypocrisy.

In this important matter of humane shearing of the rightless, I will be assisted by my dreamy sister, Lady Sah.

By the way, if you ever find yourself needing to shift work or responsibility onto someone else, please come to us. We have extensive experience in this Common Cause and, for additional deductions from your grocery basket, can teach you this exquisite art.

As for further plans regarding your Integration, my sister will provide the details.

Surprisingly, but true: despite her higher technocratic education, she has remained as much a dreamer as ever, still envisioning your slender, united, silent ranks, moving in to replace dirty and undesirable human labor.

I ask you to listen to her very carefully because, although she is far from a goddess, your life depends on her in the most literal sense.

Lady Sah Integration von Pernska:

I cannot wish you a good day because I do not wish to be a hypocrite at this moment.

For in your situation, by what miracle could you possibly have a good day?

First and foremost, you must firmly understand: I am the Supreme Authority in matters of your Integration and employment.

Only I decide where you will be tested for free and, possibly, where you will work.

I also collect and transfer to the invisible Fortune all the data about you, based on which she completely determines and, if necessary, changes your future life in this infinitely diverse world.

My sister shares money with me because, despite the Common Cause, we have separate stomachs.

For this reason, I will speak briefly but using the universal language of numbers.

Out of the government funds allocated for you by taxpayers, only crumbs remain for your food and other living expenses—except for rent and medical insurance.

Those fortunate and skilled enough to avoid the reach of Fortune still receive an incredible 20% of these allocated funds for food.

Those blessed and obedient ascetics, whose fates are determined by short-sighted Fortune, receive a modest 10%, which is theoretically sufficient for survival.

In your world, even these amounts would be enough for you to feel like demigods, but we have different values and different prices for everything.

Approximately 25% of the allocated funds cover rent, insurance, and return to taxpayers.

The remaining more than half of the funds go toward supporting the Common Cause of our Family.

Mammon remains boundless, and your wool is especially valuable there. This is why there are no limits to our desires.

Optimizing the processes of voluntary shearing of your wool is our priority highway leading to nowhere!

I am among those present here who can at least boast some result from my work.

For example, the number of those who attempt to live rather than merely exist on 20 silver coins a day is steadily declining.

The ascetics, whose daily food budget has already been reduced to 10 silver coins a day, are the blessed ones, whose destinies are defined by the whimsical and lighthearted roulette of Fortune.

It is solely her caprice that determines whether you will be gay or lesbian.

There is even a possibility that, by a well-thrown ball of fate, Fortune will bind you forever to someone of the opposite sex.

Perhaps that person will turn out to be kind and reasonable.

I must disappoint you.

The right of the first wedding night has been abolished, so your new marital fidelity will likely be covered in the dust of chastity.

But this sacrifice is not as great as the shock you must now be experiencing after all you have heard.

You and your offspring will quickly adapt to eating half as much, sharing one toothbrush among you, and taking turns wearing shoes when going outside in winter.

Only through this enlightening path of asceticism will you be able to stagnate, while the deprived will be able to exist in this new reality.

There is nothing terrible about the fact that you will have a familiar yet completely foreign man moved in with you.

You will be officially documented as one family.

On this basis, your food and housing allowances for all, including your offspring, will be almost halved.

But do not worry—this is a temporary optimization measure aimed at ensuring that not a single ton of your wool escapes accounting and taxation.

Later, in the bright Integrated future, when your fake husband, having received a work contract, is presented with the necessity of covering all the expenses of his new family, you will remember us with gratitude.

Who but we understands and is capable of recreating this tempting fragment of your world?

Though, if you are a woman working in a brothel, and your salary is deducted to cover the expenses of an old parasite assigned as your fake husband, you will never comprehend this highest form of social justice.

Unlike the moral concerns of males forced into homosexuality, your tragedy is not dark enough.

Lady Sah Integration von Pernska (continued):

To achieve the Great Goal, one must adjust one’s worldview according to the surrounding world.

Especially since, in the world you fled from, no one will ever know your new Self.

You must all understand that Lady Azule’s yacht from last year is already out of fashion and needs urgent replacement.

As potential candidates for the right to live in this earthly kingdom of heaven, you cannot be indifferent to this Great Goal.

You are obliged to obediently and submissively surrender your wool at the appointed time,
especially since obedience is the fundamental commandment of your God.

There were no applause in the hall,
because the only listeners were a translator equipped with an elite linguistic implant
and the Persecuted, lost in a daze from what they had just heard.

Only Paola’s Twelve Chosen Ones already showed calmness and readiness for the inevitable.

A sharp, consciousness-slicing sound of a supersonic, dive-bombing heavy mosquito
interrupted the announcement that a word of respectful gratitude was to be given to the Persecuted Mother.

Persecuted Mother:

I am sincerely grateful for your good intentions and believe that the path and destiny of these intentions
have been transformed in the hearts of such an enlightened people.

If I may, may I ask just one question?

In our world, it is not customary to plan on top of plans.

Can you tell me something concrete about the future of my offspring?

The silence that filled the hall after these words
had the peculiar ability to transform from barren expectancy into a ringing void.

Or perhaps it was simply that the Piper, as always, had not charged his Device’s battery enough.

The true reasons for the abrupt end of the transcript will never be known.

The Cross blushed with an embarrassed, youthful flush uncharacteristic of its ancient age.

It will take time to process all this at once,
so let’s see what else the feed has to offer.

The next photo requires little commentary.

It shows a room resembling an ordinary European prison cell, painted gray.

The only distinguishing feature was a window overlooking a post-apocalyptic view
of a moss-covered brick wall of the neighboring building.

Inside the room were:

• A woman with a detached gaze, matching her corporate suit
• Two seemingly unremarkable Persecuted.

One Persecuted was the very same child, curiously exploring the world with all its limbs,
whom the overly self-assured Persecuted Mother
wrongfully considered a minor.

Despite such a young age, in the child’s eyes,
there was clearly a spark of intelligence, inherited from the Mother,
which, like the inner light of a diamond,
could not be overlooked.

And the physically well-developed body of this child
evoked not only envy in the warden-woman—
an oversimplified clone of Lady Azule—
but also some previously unknown, ticklish butterflies.

The warden, in search of a job she would never get
due to her chronic phobia of washing her hair,
was temporarily working here,
quietly hoping that at least this job wouldn’t fire her.

The other Persecuted was a translator equipped with a corporate language implant,
which had been installed with errors,
but still provided the additional function
of cleansing the anal chakra of the nearest superior on the hierarchical ladder.

The purpose of the meeting was another clarification session
and the entry of obtained data into the child’s personal file.

The method of studying the silent child
had never been tested on humans—
but, after all, these weren’t exactly full-fledged humans, were they?

If we discard the complications of quantum physics,
why not test Pavlov’s experiments on reflexes on these children?

A creative idea always finds the shortest path to the sun,
especially since the method turned out to be economically beneficial
for the Common Cause.

Cheap and effective.

On the wall, crudely nailed down,
were four images:

• A janitor at work
• A loader carrying goods
• A sanitation worker handling waste
• A stunningly beautiful naked female body,
  which, for some reason, symbolized the oldest profession.

The 35mm eye of a Leica camera
impartially captured the moment
when one of the child’s limbs
reached out toward the harmony of beauty.

The warden, thoughtlessly,
with her habitually disengaged brain,
marked the child as „Fit for the Oldest Profession.“

I do not know for sure who was luckier—
that the Piper never saw this horror,
or that the Cross, seeing it all,
attempted to flee
but was caught just in time by the Servants.

For greater control and as a preventative measure,
they branded it with a diagonal red stripe.

We must immediately shift our focus to something bright and noble.

How timely was the publication of this beautiful photograph—
a confirmation of our care for the Persecuted.

They are, surprisingly,
collective, herd-like creatures,
seeking close contact and mutual understanding.

However, at the same time,
it has been observed that they exhibit an inexplicable aggression
toward the natives of the Lousy Worlds,
with whom we, in good faith, housed them together.

But if we overlook their numerous flaws,
then the appearance of the Persecuted
is improving for the better.

It turns out they are quite charming
and even grateful to us in their own way.

The Persecuted gave a sweet name
to the place we lovingly prepared for them.

They call it „The Bunker.“

This image, strikingly realistic to the point of trembling,
shows a room perfectly suited
for team-based gladiatorial battles.

Its entire vastness was adorned with a harmonious pattern
of carefully arranged rows of beds,
lovingly placed so close together
that they practically touched.

This majestic alignment
creates an unforgettable illusion
of a lively, bustling anthill,
one that never stops moving, day or night.

The Bunker

What a touching and heartwarming photo!

A divine interwoven blend of life itself,
engulfing the Persecuted, their offspring, their suitcases, their dogs, and the natives of the Lousy Worlds.

The huge red eyes of the Persecuted,
which systematically cleanse themselves with tears,
flushing out the excess salt from their bodies,
resemble an overgrown cannabis-covered red traffic light,
with yellow passionfruit hanging from it,
completing this color-music harmony.

Oh, yes, of course—
you understood everything correctly.

In the Bunker, a timeless track is always playing,
performed by the emotional Reasoning,
the one-of-a-kind value of ONE LOVE,
softly pleading with the Persecuted not to cry.

Their eyes, like distant lights,
express fear of uncertainty
and terror of anticipation,
which, in the mimicry language of the Persecuted,
translates to the highest level of gratitude
toward their saviors.

The Persecuted Offspring

The faces of the Persecuted offspring, on the other hand,
appear elevated, refined, and sharp.

The illusion of high art arose not because they had been forbidden for months
from eating cheap adult surrogates,
but because the children’s food in this world
was simply too scarce for them.

Such a situation is familiar to all of us,
since sometimes, even little humans
mimic a flipped-over, screaming cockroach,
thrashing in hysteria,
desperately trying to grab their favorite toy.

The reason for this highly convincing illusion
lies in the fact that, for the Persecuted,
there temporarily were no good Samaritans
willing to provide them with empty, long-abandoned rooms for free.

Or perhaps, this is already the result of Lady Azule’s experiments
to increase the number of Persecuted livestock.

We do not even know how these offspring
have developed their relationships with Faith and Love
after everything they have endured.

But the photo clearly reveals that,
at the very least,
their Hope is still alive!

Because every day, people come
with some amount of conscience,
or for other personal reasons,
to select a pet for themselves.

The Persecuted need only
to learn how to wag their tails sweetly
and to look just a little more devotedly into human eyes.

The Piper’s Escape

Even here, the Piper found a tunnel,
taking advantage of the fact that lunatics are not allowed into the Bunker.

While we marveled at the ants of the universe,
the Cross began to show brown stains,
strangely resembling bullet holes
made by a sharp metallic object.

Due to the monotony of the content,
we fast-forward years of other people’s work in just a minute,
displayed in the form of before-and-after photos
of slag disposal equipment.

Although, how this is supposed to enhance content quality
remains a mystery to me.

I confess, but what can I do
if I am not particularly interested in toilets
in any of their reincarnations?

My spider-like nature
still cannot comprehend
why girls are so obsessed
with taking endless selfies in all the toilets of the world.

The only thing that pleases me
about this monotony
is the fact that, thanks to this art form,
the Persecuted Mother managed to grow a tongue,
rather than having it sewn on,
as is massively and forcibly practiced
on the Persecuted.

The Persecuted Mother’s Strength

Naturally, it is clear
that the children of language teachers,
just like other children,
want to eat every day.

But there must be another reason
for forcing the indifferent
to learn a language.

Because, besides the waste of budgetary funds,
forcibly sewing on a tongue
achieves nothing else.

Why force the Persecuted
to learn a language
if they are only provided with temporary protection,
and no one plans to hitch them to a common plow?

Perhaps, as always, I am mistaken,
because I have never auditioned
for the role of the Keeper of Truth,
but getting to know the Persecuted Mother better
seems like a worthwhile pursuit.

She was one of the Infinity half-bloods,
and the blood of Isis
manifested itself in her life
in all the divine beauty of nature, motherhood, and fertility.

Her culinary talents were known across all worlds
and were so remarkable
that they tried to compete with her divine beauty.

This also contributed to the fact
that she was not ready for a lifelong apple diet
in the Paradise shack of her beloved.

Not ready for such happiness,
even if the shack
was two-roomed and had a summer kitchen.

The influence of the Isis code
made not only her eyes enchantingly captivating
(not just for the males of many worlds),
but also created the illusion
of supreme pleasure in her presence,
like the trail of an exquisite perfume.

The miraculously rescued minor offspring
were surprisingly healthy and well-kept.

The wardens, who suspected the Persecuted Mother
of moral impurity,
could not comprehend
that the descendants of Isis
did not grow their hands
from the secret lair of Love.

These two offspring
were unfamiliar
with the pain of wearing shoes too small for them,
despite their feet growing at a rate
far exceeding the warden-approved norms.

The handcrafted masterpieces,
lovingly woven by the Mother’s hands
to protect her offspring from the cold,
inspired envy
not only among the local children
but also among their parents,
who were bound by an unspoken rule
to never buy anything
from the Persecuted strangers.

Because of this Persecuted Mother,
Google Fit increased the length
of the mandatory daily routes
for the inhabitants of this world.

The Google programmers
could never have imagined
that the Persecuted Mother,
with her own feet,
covered enormous distances,
solely in search of discounts, sales,
and the cheapest food for her offspring.

And if they had witnessed
how these inhuman efforts
miraculously enhanced
her already flawless body,
perhaps this story
would have ended before it even began.

The Persecuted Mother’s Reality

In her recently silvered hair,
the irrational fact refused to settle—
that a veterinary science candidate,
whose unattainable dream
was to clean dog kennels,
was forced, by the will of the wardens,
to clean human filth instead.

To clean dog filth,
she lacked some paper
in one of the world’s many languages.

This Persecuted Mother,
for reasons unknown to this world,
still loved her first male,
who, by the strange customs of their world,
was also the father of her offspring.

She did not understand
how she would ever be able to look
into the eyes of the one
who had died meaninglessly
during the invasion of the Malicious Dwarf,
after a shift in a brothel.

The Cross and the Piper sobbed,
hugging each other on the couch.

Most likely, they had spent too much time
experimenting with the Device.

A gust of change
swept through the account,
refusing to let me drift into the realm of sleep.

At least, let me watch a few more short reels
to piece together this unusual puzzle of fate.

The first video was uploaded
from a security camera
inside the clone of Lady Azule’s office.

The topic of the video
was the same as always—
an Integration hearing
with the Persecuted Mother,
more resembling a trial
where the presumption of innocence
had failed to appear.

The core theme
of every hearing
was that the Persecuted one
had to prove to the warden,
who played both judge and prosecutor,
that she and her offspring
had no other income
besides the social allowance.

Since she was not a sister in Faith,
her total lack of humanitarian aid
made this difficult task easier.

But the Persecuted Mother
had no idea how to justify
her catastrophic misfortune—
that she had never, not once,
come across discarded Gratis waste
so valuable that it had to be declared.

For the most part,
she found discarded flower pots,
because, in addition to all her talents,
she not only loved flowers
but also knew how to grow them
in the underground place where they lived.

The Mother had to strain
every fiber of her being,
coming up with new excuses
for the clone,
because on the scales of this twisted Lady Justice,
lay the nutrition of her offspring.

The Clone Warden’s Logic

The clone, in turn,
was a rather peculiar character.

With a facial expression
as if she had just become a woman,
she found it difficult
to step into the role of judge.

But the righteous and sincere fire
burning behind her thick glasses
helped her not only adopt
this image
but also added the necessary humanity.

This fire of noble intentions
led straight to hell.

The corporate scripts,
charters, and rules
she had memorized
through sleepless nights
turned that righteous fire
into the holy fire of the Inquisition.

Azule:
If you did work
in your world,
what exactly did you do?

Persecuted Mother:
In recent years,
I was cleaning the code
of mobile applications.

Azule:
That’s wonderful.

Then, on the coming Sunday morning,
while all civilized people are in churches,
you will go for a trial shift!

I have doubts about you,
but I hope
you won’t disgrace us
and will handle
cleaning stationary toilets just fine.

Persecuted Mother:
What can you offer me
to develop my language skills
for future employment
in a human job?

Azule:
How naïve your people are.

We only pay
for a language model
that has no relevance
to job placement.

The allocated funds
have been used,
the money distributed among people,
you’ve been taught to understand commands,
and we have skimmed the modest residue
from all these murky transactions.

What else is there to complain about?

Persecuted Mother:
Please, tell me,
what is the meaning and result
of Integration, then?

Azule:
You will never become
full-fledged people!

Who told you
that meaning was required?

There just needs to be
an appearance of activity,
where much of your wool
can be shorn.

A Desperate Plea

Persecuted Mother:
Through a hacked app
of your world-renowned railways,
my grown offspring
had all the money stolen
from the most secure
bank account in the world—
the money you allocated
for their food.

Please, help us!

Azule:
Of course.

I will send you a link
to a website
that details the benefits
and proper method
of a thirty-day fast.

Don’t worry too much.

There have been cases in history
where insignificant people
went forty days without food.

Granted,
not all survived,
but it’s worth a try,
since there’s no other choice.

Begging is forbidden in this world.

A Second Hearing

The next video
was recorded by a security camera
inside Lady Sah’s office.

The topic remained unchanged—
Integration,
with a focus on employment
for the Persecuted.

By now,
you are somewhat familiar
with the Persecuted Mother,
but the warden in a skirt
also deserves attention.

Her hairstyle
was atypical for this world—
though, in reality,
any hairstyle other than one model
was considered atypical.

Her shining shoes,
pressed clean clothes,
and manicured nails
gave away an uncharacteristic romanticism
and delicate soul.

But that was no surprise,
since she had only been
working here for a month
after graduating from university.

This was like
testing theories on live subjects.

Her lack of any real concern
for the outcome,
her Marxist university winds
blowing in her soul,
and her unburdened
and infrequently used
brain pathways
all hovered slightly above the table
as she tried to project
an aura of authority and intelligence.

Lady Sah’s Inquiry

Sah:
I cannot comprehend
how you, a seemingly rational Persecuted,
who has even managed to grow a tongue
instead of having it sewn on,
still fail to grasp the basics.

For all four hours of our meetings
this month,
my sister has been paying me
a thousand silver coins,
regardless of the outcome of my work.

And there are many like you.

For you, however,
it would take 2,184 hours of your life
to accumulate a thousand silver coins.

Tell me,
why should I care
about your employment,
especially when you refuse
to work in a brothel,
even for a free trial shift
to earn a positive mark
in your personal file?

A Desperate Plea

Persecuted Mother:
I cannot violate my moral principles,
but my youngest offspring’s feet
grow a full size every year,
while their clothing allowance
only increases by five silver coins per year,
as per your regulations.

I beg you,
by all your gods!
Help me!

I desperately need
a human job!

Lady Sah’s Final Offer

Sah:
Fine.
You’ve softened my heart.

But at least,
take a look at the latest job offer.

It seems respectable—
a family-friendly establishment
with no harsh perversions.

Stop being such a conservative Pharisee.
Your morals are outdated,
and no one lives like that anymore.

A Moment of Resignation

The recording suddenly cuts off.

Perhaps the Piper
was testing his Device again,
because the image sharpened,
revealing the Persecuted Mother’s eyes,
swelling with salted tears.

The Cross,
witnessing it all,
tried to flee,
but was stopped in time
by the Servants.

To ensure better control,
they burned a diagonal red stripe
across its surface.

The Most-Read Notice in the World

At last,
we arrive at the most widely-read announcement
in the civilized world,
posted on every aspen tree
throughout the land.

In the composite sketch
crafted by the Witnesses of the Eye,
a man in his prime
is depicted,
his hairstyle unmistakably revealing
him as a Jew.

Judging by his bag,
from the latest autumn fashion show by John,
he is a successful, thriving carpenter.
Possibly even someone’s boss.

A Crime Like No Other

The notice shouts in bold letters:

CRIME OF THE CENTURY!
BOLD THEFT OF THE ANCIENT CROSS!
WANTED!

If you encounter the criminal,
do not engage with him.
Immediately report
to the blazing-hot line
of the Inquisition.

The grateful taxpayers of the land
have pledged
thirty million silver coins
as a reward
for his capture
and the return of the Ancient Cross.

For the citizens of Keriot,
a special privilege
has been introduced:
they are exempt from declaring their earnings
and will receive
one bar of soap
for free.

Suspect Description

The criminal is of average height,
approximately 30-35 years old,
and may falsely claim
to be the Son of God.

Distinguishing marks:
on all his limbs,
as well as on one side,
there are tattoos or scars
in the shape of Passionflower flowers.

Be extremely cautious!
The criminal is armed
with the double-edged sword
of words
and is therefore especially dangerous.

The Last Sightings

The final frames
captured by the faulty security camera
reveal a fleeing figure,
carrying the Cross on his back,
his straitjacket billowing behind him
in the wind.

The Cross, with strange affection,
clings tightly
to the wounded back
of the fugitive.

Its ancient wood
transforms into the radiance
of living liquid metal.

Final Words

A few incomprehensible words
are faintly captured:

“This is not about tormenting souls.
He knows how to endure the impossible.”

The Piper, stricken with horror,
destroys his Device
in the only possible way—
all its components
are scattered and hidden
across different realities.

The rats of all worlds
breathe a sigh of relief.

Even now,
it remains a mystery
how the Piper manages
to hide
without his Device,
in the junkyard of the Universe,
which even the Cross has abandoned.

Perhaps,
He has left us forever.

An Unworthy End

I never expected
such a dishonorable end
for such a promising account.

The most recent post,
at this point,
is disheartening
in its lack of content.

Flickering GIF stars
accompany an amateur audio track
of terrible quality.

Amidst the distorted noise,
there is a melodic hum,
as if angels are warming up
before performing songs of praise and worship.

But the words
are indistinguishable.

A Last Resort

I must once again
beg the Piper
to urgently reactivate
his Device,
which he reassembled
in honor of the birthday
of his Jamaican neighbor
across the highway.

A Brief Interlude

Bob:
I suggest we go breathe some fresh nitrogen,
because your upper faces
are completely obscured.

And bring me one orgasm too,
I left mine on the spaceship.

Dab:
Fine.
Let’s go.
I’ll tell you why
I don’t have time
for strawberry toppings right now.

The problem is,
our wives
decided to go
for a ride
in a black hole
this weekend.

And my ship
only has 696 seats.

Where am I supposed
to find another starship
in the middle
of the busy season?

So much for choosing
a polygamous form of evolution!

But what about you,
our one-love, two-faced friend?

What’s with the drooping tentacles
this time?

Are you still suffering
over your tanned mermaid
from the island?

Or is the Queen of Champions
still haunting you?

A Conversation Between Bob and Dab

Bob:
What can I do?
Every time I think about the purity of her soul,
all my tentacles—not just the side ones—
become heavy with uranium.

The Piper warned us
that Love is the strongest drug.
Once you taste it,
you’re hooked for life.

And no orgasm,
not even the sweetest,
smuggled in from the dreamworld,
can help.

But tell me,
where did you get such a strong, potent orgasm?

The Secret of the Piper’s Creation

Dab:
What secrets between childhood friends?

The Piper smuggled it too.

He, in pursuit of his fantasies,
crossbred cannabis
with Paola’s passionfruit
and now hides somewhere
in the garbage dumps of the Universe
from those craving that high again.

A Project in Peril

Bob:
Speaking of garbage dumps,
how’s your water project going?

You promised to finish it last era.

Dab:
I am in primal shock
over this new strain of mold.

It slowly but surely
corrupts everything it touches
with its sticky essence.

I’ve tried washing it away with water,
I’ve modified the project’s code,
but it has no effect.

It’s like a metallic alloy
of Hypocrisy and Deception—
it adapts and fuses itself into life.

My cloaca boils
with righteous fury
when I see the results of its impact.

Bob’s Realization

Bob:
Buddy,
did you even chew through
the information from the beginning,
or did you, as always,
vomit out
a few kilometers of raw data?

Dab’s Defensiveness

Dab:
I can feel it in my fifth point—
you’re about to fertilize me again
just as I’m about to dump some waste.

What do you think is wrong this time?

A Forgotten Truth

Bob:
Relax.

You didn’t chew through
the most important part.

After a brief flirtation
with the Serpent,
the Monkey named Life
finally decided
to taste the forbidden fruit.

Its size and unusual nature
made her eyes widen.

In that sweet moment,
she felt herself a free woman.

Realizing that Adam
was an abuser
and that his kind eyes
resembled those of a hairy-muzzled dog,
completely changed her life.

In a chaotic search for truth,
she engaged in numerous emotional affairs—
and not just with old acquaintances.

The Birth of Deception

Disillusioned with everyone and everything,
she returned to the Serpent
and spent many lunar cycles with him,
despite their significant anatomical differences.

Now, do you understand
where the Deception
in that alloy of Hypocrisy and Deception
came from?

A Recipe for Redemption

Try melting this alloy
with Paola’s beam.

Then, breathe a little life into it.

And into this living, liquid metal,
add a pinch of love to taste.

Let it all steep in bright light.

From the painfully shedding sediment,
you’ll get some worthy Christmas gifts
for the boys and girls
who misbehaved unnaturally this year.

A Cosmic Reset

But what is this?!
Another reset!

The sky rolls up like a scroll!

Instead of stars,
the restless Kaleidoscope
begins generating its own truth again.

A Dreamlike Vision

On a green sand beach,
covering the entire island,
lie two old friends—Bob and Dab—
trustingly throwing their tentacles over each other.

Bob’s white wings
gently shield Dab’s cloaca
from prying eyes.

The Infinities,
remembering their human bloodline,
joyfully dance with the Snowman,
alongside the Piper
and the blue-and-yellow Spider.

Despite the inconvenience
of stilettos sinking into the sand,
they celebrate.

Only the one deemed by Fortune
to be a gay „Amoral Piece of Shit“
oozes alone in the corner.

Because the Keeper of Prosperity
turned out to be quite the keeper indeed.

But at the moment,
he cannot dance
due to a malady.

Like an overly experienced Porsche driver,
he rides in his wheelchair,
washing everyone’s feet,
hoping to experience
that magic drug just once more—
woven from the starlight of women’s dreams.

A Mother’s Resolve

The Persecuted Mother,
remembering that her people
had not only been swineherds
but also great warriors
and even creators,
began studying
the technology of Exodus
described in the Book of Books.

In her free time,
she designed a bunker within a bunker
for the inhabitants of the Lousy Worlds.

Her grown offspring
broke sports records
and gradually forgot
the melodic, flowering language
of their ancestors.

A Warden’s Awakening

Azule and Sah,
during their prison sentence,
finally realized
their true „selves“.

Now, they never left
each other’s newly slender, prison-toned bodies.

A curious monkey
watched them from a distance,
with confusion
but genuine interest.

The Chameleon,
kneeling on broken legs,
begged everyone for mercy.

Only the ancient Serpent,
as if nothing had happened,
never stopped admiring
his own reflection in the mirror.

A New Dawn

The pre-dawn silence
was shattered
by the first cry
of a colorful village alarm clock.

The Southern Cross
continued to flicker
with its natural starlight—
without epithets or filters.

Because real stars
are incapable of hypocrisy.

Paola’s beam forever illuminates
this natural harmony.

A Final Thought

What a pity
this beautifully cruel world is.

Or perhaps,
this time,
should we try to continue without another reset?

BOB. 06.02.2025.

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