All Hail da Paize!

Let’s get y’all introduced to Chairman Everett Paisley, who is the leader of the City of Azza-Jono when I started writing about Her in 2017. In 2022, he’s missing and presumed dead, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

These are the first five segments in his cycle. The first two are letters (the implied year is 2017), followed by three prose pieces written in close third person.

Dear Marcella,

The marketplaces of Azza are not what they used to be. The Good Doctor says it is due to fluctuations in temporal vibrations, misalignment with the cosmic fork, and other nonsense. Again, I plead with you my dear, persuade your husband to withdraw these rogues of his and dispatch real scientists.

I can barely hold the barbarians at bay, Marcella. Each day they clamor for my impeachment. They burn me in effigy in the streets. Why? For giving them what they asked for? And where is that windfall your husband promised me? Where are the ships full of coal?

My personal guard reports an increase in spies and assassins in Azza. All from over The Wall, of course. We don't know where they’re from, in truth. They look like islanders to me more than Jonovians, but what do I know.

The Minister of Defence wants answers, too. What should I say? You’ve got to come here, my dear. You mustn’t leave me to these wolves.

If I could package my love and send it along, I would. Instead I’ll say that I am yours. Always and forever.

Everett

13 January

Dearest Marcella,

The Board has rejected my proposal. I’m screwed. There’s no way I’ll be able to push it through now. And the ampules have run out. People are going to start getting sick, and we have no more treatment. There’s no more coal, either. I feel certain Nathan never meant to help me. The ships were merely a posture, the peacock. But you did, right, my love? You meant what you said. Please tell me it’s true.

Rio has gone underground. She thinks you and the others are looking to rid yourselves of her. I told her she doesn’t sleep enough. She didn’t say anything, and you know I can’t read her eyes. I don’t know how you do. I was right, though, yes? You won’t harm her, will you?

My State of the Reunion was a disaster, as you know. They’ll never accept me as a legitimate Director. The de Traiter family is too beloved. I can’t compete with that. Machen de Traiter should be facing these brutes now and not me. Then I’d be the one laughing from The Crystal Spire, sipping prosecco and mocking it all from that side of the screen, from the safe waters of anarchy. It’s where I belong, you know. I’m a buccaneer at heart. That’s why you love me, I think.

Diane is a snoop. I do not like her hanging around after hours. I recommend we terminate her, reassign her to laundry, or deport her. Replace her with someone younger, don’t you think? Someone who would be simpler. More fun. She’s grown old and too knowledgeable for my liking. Why you all do not see this, too, is beyond my understanding.

Generalissimo Arendse has located several sets of spies. I have advised him to disregard those entities within our employ. He’s not happy with my decision, and he doesn’t trust you. He thinks Nathan is trying to subvert the Aquarian Project. I told him he’s paranoid. Nathan is heavily invested in the project and completely committed to its success. He is, right? Either way, we have to clean out these spies. It’s a god damned mess.

Oh, and to make matters immeasurably worse, I saw Nikki Hawke in a crowd the other day. I thought it was Rio at first, but then she looked at me with those eyes. Geddus, those eyes, Marcella. I know you don’t think Nikki is significant or that any of the Hawkes are for that matter, but where I come from, they are an old and powerful family. Even one of them is trouble. And I mean for you and Nathan, too.

I’ve fashioned two rosebuds, one for Nikki and her girlfriend, an islander named Jessica Mores. They’re both here on artistic visas, which I am trying to revoke, but the god damned Minister of Travel will not return my calls. You had her ear once, yes? Expedite this, so I can arrest them and deport them back to the island. That would be a major win for us in terms of safety. Anyway, the rosebuds expire in six days. After that, we’ll have to start the process all over again.

Enough of this business of horseshit. I care only about you. I can’t stand to be away from you, love. I smell you in the air and feel you on my sheets. Return to me. Please. I beg of you. I’ll do anything you ask. Just come back to me.

Yours forever,

Ev

Everett & The People’s Committee Blow It!

Everett threw down The Azza Times. It read the same as A-J Today and Bluesweek. They blew it. Not word for word, but that’s the gist.

Outside, Azzines clamored in the street for Everett’s impeachment. Burned effigies. Threw eggs at Everett’s magnificent Tower. Tagged Everett’s magnificent Wall. It would never end, Everett thought.

Upstairs to the roof, Everett found solace in putting, a nice sherry, and a good book by Orwell.

Wasted On Your Revolution

Everett sipped gin, then spit some over the edge, waited, then chuckled as the protesters squirmed. Another likeness went up in flames right after. Was it possible all these scorched dolls really had an impact? Everett wondered.

What difference did it make? With Marcella dead, life had no zest. And these implacable heathens, those barbarians at the gate, had little meaning. The city was tough, and Everett knew it. Dog eat dog. Made no bones about it.

There was small satisfaction in teeing up golf balls and whacking them into the crowd. But most of the feeling was gone. Numbed by grief and tonic, bled out in tears and mucus and sperm. And for what? All a waste.

Bad Days for the Paize

With the sounds of the city screaming, Everett wiped a sweaty brow. The wife would be dealing damage for this. And each of the kids would have something to say about it. They all knew, of course. Everyone under God’s blue fucking sky knew.

Another bottle fell to the burnished rooftop floor. Everett peeled off pants and ripped open shirt, stumbled around bumping into twenty thousand azzo chairs like they’re from a yard sale, hastily hurried for the next slurp of booze.

Why? Why had God taken Marcella? She knew how important she was. She knew Everett lived only for her breath and sweet touches.

The bottle cracked and bled out, scorching Everett’s throat with blissful fire, numbing and dumbing the wise ape to pickled perfection.

A few more stumbles and a fall put bleary eyes down next to the hot tub, where they had on many an occasion fucked the night away.

Tears spilled over, followed by a march of sobs, a litany of whispered whys, a procession of wails.

Then Ev saw toes. Those magnificent toes on which to suck for hours.

Ev brushed hair and batted tears away, scrambled for the toes, longing so to taste them, know they’re real. The salty familiar, the smooth comfort of skin and excite of hard nail polished to perfection. Lips locked in an oh and sucking, tongue finding.

“Oh, God!” Ev cried out between sucks. “Oh, God, yes! You’ve come back to me.”

AJ 0002