Unknown Narrator No. 1

In most of the Azza-Jono stories, it’s pretty obvious who the central character is. But some of them, especially in the beginning, have anonymous narrators. There are, as best I can count, twelve different unidentified narrators in my stories so far.

Here is a set of four bits from the first unknown narrator, grouped together so you at least know it’s the same person. (I have a little something extra for the bought-in subscribers.) As you’ll see, they’re in an epistolary style, with the recipient also being unidentified. The presumed year is 2017.

23 February

Lurid light spills down the alleyway. I don’t know who the pretty girl with the chiseled jawline is, but she keeps showing up, grinning.

The Doc is a pain in the ass. She wants to test her theory that this place is a key nexus, that it’s linked to the island somehow. Doesn’t matter much to me.

Milks is malfunctioning again. I think he misses Cookie, even though that’s not possible, I swear to Christ, that’s what’s going on. I wasn’t there. At the argument or whatever. But Cookie’s fucked for life, you ask me. And Milks ain’t firin’ on all cylinders.

Mr. G has another Mrs. So that wheel turns, that world keeps spinning. No one wants to talk about it, but that’s all I fuckin’ hear. Gabbin’ about the new Mrs. G. Even the Doc talks about her, her low manner and huge brow, she goes. And the Doc don’t do people. She’s all crystals and ley lines and spectrographs. Or whatever.

I watch the door some more. That’s what I do these days. Relegated to a god damned glorified doorman in a city that no one knows. What’s to watch?

26 February

Doc says there’s no evidence yet of a connection from these cities to the island. I’d say something like I told you so, but she’d just blink behind those glasses. Not much goin’ on in there that has to do with people, I don’t think. I was surprised when she knocked on my door last night. More still when she bent me over. But hey. Every job has it’s perks, I guess.

Mr. G sent a Telegram today that had a cipher and a code. I passed them through Milks, but still nothin’. I’m sendin’ word back that it’s still a no-go. I don’t think he cares, tho. Mr. G has his own timeline for things. He’s on some other plane, I think. Like next-level smart. That, or he’s a fuckin’ idiot. How would I know.

The halls of the place are beautiful but also creep me out. It’s like a place of dying, like a hospital or a crypt. Even the shops have that feel. And the people here. They smile like they’re pushin’ out a shit. And they all smell strange. Not bad, really. But odd. An’ I been around the world four times over, so it’s not a novelty thing. Somethin’s up.

The girl I saw before. I got three names on her. One goes Rio, that’s what the bartender at the Al-Kamil said. Said she’s former Soviet. I dunno, maybe. Doesn’t fit my book. Then you’ve got Lydia, over at the Kabbalarius. The concierge. She says Lydia is an heiress from Morocco with a Dutch mother. I dunno. That sets me askance, too. And I keep hearin’ about this one, Nikki, who wanders in black down by the water. Jonovians talk about Nikki like she’s a personification, but I dunno of what. Their patois is so fuckin’ thick and garbled with metaphors.

I gotta go. Doc’s back and all strapped up from the looks of it. Go time.

6 March

Everything drips around here. The faucets, the windows. It’s all leaky. An’ I cough from when I wake up to when I pass out again. There’s no natural light, far as I can tell, so no knowin’ when. You’ll get the stamp, ofc. Lucky you. Me, I’m flyin’ dark. Like the old days, yeah?

Doc’s been gone for a while. I heard some screams earlier, but it ain’t her. Can’t make her scream from pleasure or pain. Believe me, I tried.

We checked our pieces in the locker at the surface of this place. It’s an old movie theater, I think, they’ve grafted onto a bathhouse. It’s important to have both light and water, Doc said, like I get what that means or what it has to do with celluloid or inverted timelines or any of the shit she babbles on about while she’s pounded me. I just cry, mostly. Cry with goddam relief and joy. This awful cow is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, buddy. I can’t tell her, tho, or it will all stop. So I cry instead. She likes that, making men cry. She says so. A lot. It’s music to my ears now.

Listen: we’ve been in some shit, me and you. I will keep sending word, like you did when it was reversed. But also like you told me, if it stops, well.

Peace and love, my brother.

25 March (1)

They moved me. Had a bag over my head, but I heard the Doc talkin’, so I know she’s still breathin’. Longed for her touch. A glass of water, too.

There’s at least two turns, k. Then another. And I heard what sounded like echoes through a grate between the second turn and the last. Somewhere in there. And dogs. There’s all these damn dogs barking around here, vibrating the walls.

I feel different somehow. Shorter.

AJ 0005