Jul 27

Jul 27 Civitas Chapter 6 Youth and Love

Aran Meredith

Civitas

Civitas: How to Die Together with Your Scholar Collegues

By Tristan Norman

Ed. Aran Meredith & Northern Mittler Solomon

Chapter 6

Youth and Love

It’s very unstudious and unstudentlike. Norman briefly adopted his good coat and white shirt, the lower part was dealt with with a pair of slim fit light grey jeans, which didn’t cover much of the curves. He was on good terms with the single room on the second floor of the Diplomats Hotel, or Hotel for Diplomats whatsoever, standing in front of the door, he reconfirmed the room number and buzzed, “Room delivery.” Langenberg opened his door, he slipped in.

“You’re late.” “I’m lost.” The lost boy pretended to be sad, pitifully sad in all matters and spheres of influence. He shed his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair in front of the study desk, and seated with Elsje head on shoulder on the plush soft sofa.

He looked at the room, it was a good room with a view.

He wished to say more, especially about the cart of spilled-over archives messing around on the floor but refrained for reasons of decency and client confidentiality. So he resorted to making a polite comment about his dog, who was sleeping in a single dog harem, “I like your Saint Bernard.” “I like my dog too.” It’s the strict policy of Diplomats Hotel to not let pets in (some pets, someone’s pet), he bet it’s not a support animal.

In front of him placed a cup of sweetened milk, he insisted it was an add-on service with extra cost. “Bourbon and milk, great.” Bon bon and milk, over there in the gramophone Schubert was playing, if Norman didn’t remember it incorrectly, they met at a Schubert Concert, though Elsje was later referred by another professor, he is known for his largesse, and has no special little qualms.

Using both hands to hold the glass and typically lapping milk, Norman attempted to break more ice, “Professor Langenberg, it’s your time, you can talk to me about anything.” So Professor Langenberg spoke of the unspeakable, “Manny, when are you preparing to graduate?”

Bored Norman took a moment to consider what he meant, and said “To be honest I’m unsure, perhaps in and about another year.”

Langenberg placed the bourbon on the hotel placemat, which was a shape of a geometric shape not a flower, “you should consider the long-term.” Implication or supplication?

Norman opened his eyes and wondered, considering what? Go read about Flemish Renaissance? So he replied, “Elsje you should know it, people like us live by counting days.”

“That’s inopportune.” That’s insolent. “I brought you a gift.” He reached into his pocket and took out a smoked velvet pouch and dangled it to him, which was always a good sign.

Norman took it with fluffy doe eyes, although he believed he had imperfect eye shapes, and pushed out a string of pearl out of the velvet pouch. “Wow it’s pretty.” Norman seemed to understand what he meant, but he had an imprecise understanding. Elsje moved forward to attach it for him, after the metal clasp was taken care of, he began to gradually and gradiently unbutton Norman’s shirt buttons, and discovered the white lingerie with lace panels amidst silky milk skin. He smiled a little, and patted Norman’s “em” push-up chest with the bralette on, and lingered on to reach inside and petted Norman’s nipple. To be responsive Manny emitted some slight moans.

They kissed, it was a lame kiss. At first Norman wished to use some liquorice mouthwash on him, because he could smell the milk and honey aftertaste. But Elsje doesn’t seem to mind. At the interval Norman liberated his dainty long legs from his pants, and exposed his lace chemise from the same set, although those few slices of fabrics were purely decorative.

Elsje took the time to slap his neat little ass, and in spirit of bad behaviour permanently damaged the necklace on his neck, a couple of rounded pearls spilt to the floor. “Pick it up, and have it in you.” He surely was in good spirits.

Norman took some time to properly kneel to the ground, and looked at him in distress, and obeyed the order. Meticulously and methodically, he first practised on his hands and knees to pick up the tiny objects onto the tea table, and changed to a very visual and palatable poise, slowly dangled his underpants to the sweet spot between his thighs and knees, using both hands to open himself up, and without lubrication, one by one pushed the mediocrely sized pearls into his soft spot. He spent ten minutes on the job, because every minute is the same silver, although Elsje prefers to pay in crystals, and to insert crystals inside him after he is finished.

This was too lewd, Schubert was still playing background music in the backdrop, this time the string quartet. Elsje even clapped for him, and kindly asked him to crawl into bed and suffer like this.

“I feel so expensive.” Norman teased before more funny actions.

“You are selling yourself short.” Elsje had the clothes taken care of, boring business casual of course, nothing to complain and nothing to write home about, although Norman wrote excessively about the belly jelly displayed by many learned professionals who sat too much and didn’t bother to take care of taking one or two walks per day to burn off the peanut butter bread he consumed when he was young, soft white underbelly that is.

Elsje used his petulant mouth for a while, and retrieved some water-based lube from the nondescript bedside table, and poured a scant bit onto his tool. He displayed Norman in a puppy in play posture, and went in as it was.

“Hurts…” With pearls in body taking a tow with the movements, Norman cinched and played coy. “It can’t be.” Pain is a reliable relief. Elsje blew some steam on the back of his neck, and moved faster below. They changed gears twice or thrice, and Elsje used both of his hands to hold down bebe Norman, and found release inside of him.

He didn’t use protection, because according to myth Civitas has the best physicians in and of the Nine Worlds. “Elsje, you were brilliant.” Which means now he was brilliant not. Thought this was over, Norman exclaimed. Langenberg went to acquire the half-finished bourbon, and generously poured it on the Norman who was lying in bed and rot, wetting his highly expensive decorative set.

It was supposed to be because he did not want them to be recycled and reused on him and others, or else it might be because today he wanted to be this brusque and rude. “Hey, pity the booze.” He made a naughty remark. “I’ll buy you a new one.” Langenberg promised. He didn’t like the colour but tolerated the design.

After he was well rested the business started well again, this time because with the earlier lubrication (and because Norman was a little loose after use) it was easy and at ease. Elsje manhandled Norman down in bed and motioned completely at his whims. If they hadn’t chatted earlier, or gone to concert together, or whatever, all of this was like a dub-con drama, he knew he would never start this type of motion with the respectable wife of his.[1]

Norman took care to consider the logic of this, but only then started some more withered-down whimpers, because he needed to collaborate with this type of aesthetic violence. He could hear the soft pops from the in and outs. But Schubert was dominant.

Only then Elsje stroked his waist (he didn’t eat before arriving here because he needed to present with a flabby belly), and demanded him to “try emit the beads out yourself.”

The problem was, by this time, his own very limited stamina was played out by himself, and those pearls were hammered into very deep dark places. He said “Must I emit automatically? Can I use my hand?”

Elsje said “No, then you can carry on to have them. Open your mouth.” Norman obediently opened his mouth, inside his mouth swirled and violated rudely by some fingers for some while, then he was stuffed with three florins. To keep the posture Langenberg took in possession the half-supple, half-hard little Norman, kept pace with the highly technical movements and made him inked.

“You’ve done well, next time consider having a good one with some of my friends.” Elsje dropped the line, and cleaned up, buttoned up and left to another room to avoid everyday awkwardness and give him some privacy.

Norman got the florins out and placed them in his hand, it looked like his value depreciated or deflation had made fools of us all, and laid in the unbearably messy and scrunchy bed, then went to the bathroom and prepared a tank of water, first disrobed the liquor-stained chemise and put them down in the warm water to wash, and switched himself to a shameful position, and scooped the pearls out one by one.

Before cleaning himself up, he carefully collected them in the embolus attached sink, and considered whether he could visit which jewellery shop to have them restringed to their little perfection.

In Civitas one of the advantages was that upselling is decriminalized, so in in-call or out-calls there is no need to clean up aftermath. So Norman left the mess to the hotel’s hospitality staff (they are the real little angels), or Professor Langenberg for the matter since he was not sure whether regulars do require cleaning staff. Tired, sated and contented, he dragged his worn little body and walked to his dorm. If he is a mage apprentice he could be spellbound and teleport himself there, so sad he isn’t. Actually, the Latin name is black magician.

Despite everything, he didn’t want to drop a dime and summon an ambulance to drop him off, because in here ambulances were something akin to taxis. That would be counterproductive.

Coming back to the non-nasty, brutish and short little hub compared to the five-star hotel Norman first hung his washed clothes and went to sleep, because he couldn’t bring the fresh and exciting memory to dabble into textual analyses (trust me, he has done that, it wasn’t a good feeling). His alarm clock application applied for no less no more than 7 hours, because Norman decided to allot him a 1-hour vacation, that is to say, to celebrate earning enough bread for the week.

When he was awakened and refreshed he first had a hybrid mixture of coffee and hot chocolate, not mocha, for the lack of mocha pot. This setting made him high-spirited and wanted more sleep. He folded out his lappet, deciding to try his luck in Anarch’s City’s Archive’s database, after tracing one or two reference points he found a French version of art historical analysis of the New Albion opera.

This journal article seemed to have been written by Gabriel, which is most strange, since the author’s name is not Gabriel So and So, but only Gabriel. According to him isn’t Gabriel married to the archangel of the French district? French seemed to be right.

However this journal is a tad too esoteric, and the author’s tone (or tune) is very playful, he taped on the relationship and associations between steampunk and pseudo-capitalism and anti-capitalismus. Such a diverting article, isn’t Gabriel at one with the capital? Or after the millennium it is chic for the venture capitalists to self-reflect with knowing professionals? He thought it was an inside joke.

For unknown reasons in particular he was only authorized to preview the first 7 pages, however, the Archive’s crocodile software suggested the non-existing music departmental library of Pantheon currently possesses the paperback of this journal. According to plan, Norman intended to hunt for this chapter of reference, that is to say, after getting to know one music department student who can loan this out.

So he went on to know not one, but three music students. Although their “Party” made him a little dazed and dizzy, and these years people who use clockwork puppets to go to art school are not supposed to be art students. Eventually the one who studies industrial mixing got him a visiting permit in the esteemed library, and after a particularly devastating hang out he went to acquaint himself with the critical essay’s full text. After halfway through it he realized he encountered a problem.

The library was quiet, as quiet as it can be with multiple groupies of people doing simultaneous short-video recording on site. Drinks and candied drinks were thrown on tabletop, books, scores, manuscripts, headsets and amps were congregating on wooden tables, there was even a slur-emitting parrot free-ranging in the facility, he was told it was the supervising librarian’s pet.

Norman recalled in the class about art business he was asked to read Gabriel’s works on art history, although they were editions translated (rewritten) from Heavenly Latin to the common tongue, still, he can be more than 85% sure that this article is not written by Gabriel the real one. The question remained, who can use Gabriel’s tradename? It mustn’t be Raphael, because Raphael wrote songs, and songwriters don’t write music criticisms.

Getting lost and decided to get lost, Norman packed up his things and left his laptop here (because he still had some hope or prejudice about humanity), and went to purchase a cup of pick-me-up and gulped the coffee gracelessly, fully caffeinated, he did the story again, sometimes he felt the Anglo-Franco mix spelling (i)literary style is peculiar, for instance, “façade de authenticity” et “cascade aesthetic” looks like some kind of particularistic pointillism that calls a deer a horse. He thought he had seen it somewhere before, but couldn’t make it clear in a rush.

As a meticulous, diligent child, Norman pulled out his old phone and flash flash flash copied this article to commit line-by-line reading up close up front. Circumstances had obliged him to let it fester in his photo album for a while, then on an uninspiring afternoon when he was eavesdropping on the classmate conversation of a couple of nearby politics students he became a young man awaken from dreams.

A few aspiring Government students were gossiping/commentating on an episode of the informal statement made by Adelaide in a formal gala. It was about city, state, and city-states, they were disagreeing on whether city and polis were making a public statement.

“You know, he never makes a statement he truly meant.” Master of casuistry made a statement about the master of rhetoric, if he didn’t get it right, alumnus from the same school?

“Truly, I don’t think he/it cares a scintilla about the city, or what the city meant for the matter.” A progressive critic, for a matter of fact.

“You should say what the city supposed to mean to be more polite and precise.” Some offered.

“Who cares about the precis? If you only know the story promoted, the promoted story.” Who was promoting whom? He was not sure.

Curious about this type of question of nomenclature and not nomenklatura, Norman ran on his phone and checked the meeting brief, and like a tower harshly hit by lightning, pale, pallid, diaphanous and dragged down, there was a word-by-word wordplay, “…it is the façade of our-thence-tsk-city.” He even had the courage to use English, Adelaide was Zillah’s storefront character, or front of the house character art, suddenly Norman felt he might become a very enriched literature student.[2]

Cardinal von Kret had reserved opinions regarding Civitas and its friends, he believes a group of self-reflecting people and self-respecting gods are pressing and oppressing people, in the name of making and remaking art.

However, upon Zillah’s invitation he still came, they went to Francesca’s little shop in the alchemists’ guild’s quarter on the westside to drink champagne. If there was a tomorrow he’d rather to reswerve and go to Monsieur Pheles’ landholding to see the two paintings, but considering the negative press and influence he should call it a day.

Francesca’s. The shop had a gilded signboard not made of gold. The storefront is exquisite and requisite, but he must believe the lettering is not in accordance with Hell’s Latin, too much flourishes on the font and frontier.

They took a moment to pretend to admire the window display, which featured a cyberpunk mechanical puppet with a lot of conceptual electric wire, hugging a clockwork doll without a mechanical heart or functional engine, both of them were in gala dress, the hugging was done in showstopping stop motions.

Made to say something, Zillah remarked “They shared the engine.” “With the same specifications? How quaint.” Xandelaide objected. They must have sky-high standards.

It was Francesca who greeted them personally, he rubbed his white-gloved hands together and said, “Cardinal Laetoria and prince Laetoria, what brings you here and there?” Everyone was reminded of Mister Pheles Junior’s conceptual conflation, because one of them has in last name von Kret-Laetoria-Cappadocia-Giovanni, the other somehow abdicated in the third season.

“Good morning, I intended to trade for a pair of mechanical hands for keyboard instruments, Cardinal von Kret was here to visit and see.” Zillah’s common language is very diplomatic and very out of practice.

“Got it, it’s always good to grace a visit and see.” Grace a visit sounds weird, pay a visit sounds weirder. The puppeteer let them in, inside the store involved three to four clockwork puppets doing their routine work, some were taking stocks, some were cleaning props and utilities, some were opening up a bottle of champagne professionally, and did a stylish pour and brought the glasses with a glass and metal tray. It looked like a very familiar cake plate but Xandelaide didn’t make a comment.

“Thank you, Spencer.” Said Francesca fluently. “Look around and see see, we have all the new inventory of this season.” Si Si was not appreciated. He pointed to the handmade product catalogue presiding on the tea table, they had a seat on the three persons’ lounge chair and looked and browsed, the classical Latin trans. common language (UK & North Ireland) was appearing mediocrely iconoclastic.

Cardinal von Kret held the big book on his laps, because he considered Zillah probably had spied on the electronic catalogue upon its release (or even earlier, he wouldn’t presume), the pacing of flipping pages was excruciating, he found this year what was popular is memorable faces and bodies deviating from international standards, but those were not within Francesca’s favourite lanes, he is apt at creating perfection. However, to please some especially picky clients the product range cast some shadows on what is deemed to be temporary popular. “Those were long shadows.” “Spectacular.” Spectacular speculum. Zillah and Xandelaide sat decently close and shared a peak, Zillah was using his own body, a twenty-something alchemist and a thirty-something Cardinal, not knowing who was paying for whom, although Francesca had his own guessing.

“Are you in a rush for your hands? Preferring custom or readymade?” The puppet master told him/it on page 120, there are some sketches for mechanical hands prepared for artists or artists’ players/playmates. If he remembered correctly it has an entire band of clockwork puppets, why exchange something readymade for its mid-thirties Hell’s parliamentarian speaker’s version of self?

“I promised a colleague for a recital.” Quite helpless, Zillah explained as thus.

“What a colourful colleague!” Francesca helped out Cardinal von Kret a little and exclaimed superficially. “All right, if that’s the case I can chop you one. How about Llewellyn‘s?” The puppeteer started an application.

“Hopefully not the Llewellyn we know of.” Zillah pointed out, that’s their income generational device.

“Forget about it, all you have left is the mass market product.” They’ve known each other for more than a season, Francesca does not shy away from making snarky comments. What were the chances?

“I trust not the made-for-export mass market product?” Cardinal von Kret pointed out, because at this price he would have hoped the payee was not a product of falsifiable international trade.

“Of course it is internal, domestic.” Domesticated and at home, Francesca calmed him down.

“Then it shall be for now.” Cardinal von Kret sipped a bitesize amount of champagne, this was Zillah’s drink, because their house was stacked with this flavour’s vanilla lemon marshmallow. “What I wished to ask about is are there recycling methods for the clockwork puppet I used while working in paradise?” Because he was a conservative person, he didn’t want a motionless clockwork puppet carrying his features at home, not even if it was resting in the ballroom/stockroom.

“Would you like to dispose or to recycle?” A sharp question for a sharp answer.

“Because it was well made, it’s a shame to be decomposed.” Always the ameliorating influence, Zillah went to drink champagne and stopped talking.

“Is there a way to deconstruct and sell the parts?” Cardinal offered a slight alternative.

God, I don’t know who dare to buy, Gabriel? Francesca rolled his westernized K-pop star eyes in situ.

“You know, you can always regift him to me.” Zillah was carrying a captivating and scene-appropriate smile, all thick skin and thin lips.

“That’s a good idea.” The puppeteer responded, because it must be related to “a thing”. “By far we have a trade-in purchase promo, if you are interested you can order a new one.” Francesca proposed, however Cardinal von Kret seemed uninterested in utilizing clockwork puppets at unnecessary times.

Why did he decorate his store to a circus? And a pickup group of circus troupes. Cardinal von Kret took a look at the paintings on the wall, Lions and hostess, clockwork puppets and puppies (it must be a trope), steampunk masquerade and such, and thought about impure thoughts, forget about it. “I can pretend it’s my twin.” He spewed in broad daylight.

“You can gift him a bag from Le Charme, wear some pope cloth.” Francesca spewed too.

“Superb.” Zillah finished the French wine, “We have to go now, good morning, Francesca, please don’t forget my hands.”

“Good morn, let’s trade with one of your watches.”

They walked for a little and took two seats on the marble bench near the eastern lake and talked and talked about nothing in particular. Cardinal von Kret insisted this oval-shaped light blue pond is artificial, Zillah claimed “…nonetheless the water mages conjured natural water, the sand mage dug a hole on the water floor, it was the goblins who decorated the pit with mosaics, hence it should be a pool of natural cause.” This level of horticulture it must have learned by consulting the expert.

“Yes? Nonetheless do people swim inside this?” This was preposterous.

“In former seasons yes, however experts from the Pantheon thought it was not a good look, therefore they started a motion to promote private pooling.” There must be more but now is not the time.

“Because experts of Pantheon don’t play with water?” This was objectively funny to an extent.

“Because they played when they were little.” Like a play well played and a play aborted, Zillah smiled and shook his figurehead, then reached from its trench coat pocket for a vial of Compression reagent to take its time with it. After regaining some baseline of normalcy, it said “Would you like to drink something?”

“With a glass of champagne and before twelve at noon?” I was not under the intention to see on the social pages me and lord Laetoria having hard drugs in public times. Besides, it was taking its time however the Cardinal was momentarily delighted to see its eyes light up.

Last time I checked, each and every time. “Compression reagent is not a regulated substance.” Zillah talked back.

“Last time I checked, it was in Mittelland and most of the other places. Weren’t we on the meadow of paradise?” Of course, it was worth mentioning the past tense was adopted to signal not a level of formality (typical of the Moonlit City) but a level of contrarian tendencies.

“Could we even say that?” Perfect question, however, that was bad English.

“We were in the free city, welcome to the free city.” Eramus in libera civitate, gratis gratuity. Xandelaide smiled back (after a long delay) and said, “So that you should offer me a drink, I haven’t had it in a long time.”

Zillah, who was really taking its time, still had a bottle bottom left, it made a petty look, which made its delicate and chiselled features fastidiously furled and unfurled. “You had the freedom to suggest the offer of wishing for Compression, I had the freedom to take it into possession.” In some reality, possession is appropriation.[3]

“I heard it is free in Civitas.”

“That’s plaything for little children to drink.” An excellent observation. Later it offered Cardinal von Kret a test tube (fresh test tube that was) of what was usually called “CALM”, supposedly a newer reagent that provides people the serenity to dance disco and sing out loud.

The wind was not here a moment ago, this place was supposed to be climate-controlled. Wind blown on fluffy hair, making his flaxen blonde strand looking like ribbons of fluffy egg scrambles or a distorted post-apocalyptical omelette. Of course he didn’t write those lines.

Xandelaide decided to calmly cheer to that, after tasting some very unoriginal blueberry soufflé and mint drop, and secretly cursed why on Mittelland it adds mint syrup to everything and anything, he began to conjure up a particularly fuzzy feather and allowed it to flirt with Zillah. Swing to its shoulder swing to its fake hair and swing to its face. Zillah endorsed the flirting.[4]

Before the clock struck thirteen they were gone to the adult carnival, he meant Sothberry’s auction house. This also happened to be within the upper east landscape, the pale origami-shaped facility drawn by Zillah in the second season was pushed over and rebuilt, this time the architect was an Easterner with a UK passport, the end result was traditionally modern, it must have been a joke.

Zillah was not wearing something formal enough (it hadn’t even fixed its top shirt buttons), Xandelaide had something too formal (the crowd gave him light-hearted despise), although both of them were released to enter in the very last minute.

Hyper inappropriate, hyper dramatic. The piercing lighting, cameras, and professional bidders were all here. People dressed in first-hand suits and second-hand loafers, people glued to their phones, somebody’s carted little children. They sat in the middle not the front row, because the front row was occupied by diehard professional amateurs, and they didn’t want to be misrecognized as collectors. Not even recollectors.

The auctioneer started with the help of the slide-turner and the official clerk, he was in a funny suit, he must have imbibed something beforehand because he was highly energetic, and spoke in a sonorous, pompous and invigorating voice, just sales rhetoric so we skipped. It was worth mentioning he was using business Heavenly Latin.

Zillah must have preregistered for them, because they were sent in with paddles and two mini printed catalogues, and Zillah was on its phone, not too new, not too old, Xandelaide took a peak, it was checking some provenance records of some obscure manuscript of bishops in catapult. He went on speed reading the catalogue, it was in German, he didn’t want to buy anything.

The first lot was Llewellyn’s head, because this free-spirited and deeply unspiritual artist changed his head again. The starting price was 100 florins, and it was declared that all profits would be donated to XX Music Conservatory’s scholarship for physically attractive students by the maestro. The scholarship had a better name but that was the gist. At last, the head was admitted with 300 florins by Llewellyn’s opposition party, according to him he would use it as a visually appealing ashtray or something else.

Afterwards it was a nude sculpture with the nude part covered with leaves or foliage, can’t distinguish if it’s male or female or elf or angel. It went on well, however, most players were here to purchase gargantuan stickers. Today’s displays include what were said to be Gabriel’s and Mustafa’s oil paintings. “Fake; counterfeit.” Cardinal von Kret whispered uninspiringly.

“I propose the first is a satire, the second was from Herr Mustafa’s studio.” Glancing back to the hexagonal pavilion in their memory palace, Zillah replied, because chitchatting during auction was impolite at some point in time.

“In my limited knowledge Gabriel doesn’t do oil works.” Xandelaide sat on white sand mixed with light lilac crystals on the imaginary beach, all shimmers no sparkles. Because the cloistered sea was a conjecture, it was perhaps better regulated than the despicable artificial pond or overregulated pool.

“Which Gabriel?” Zillah went on to pour itself a lychee martini without lychees, everything artificial however not premixed. It even took the consideration to think of a miniature paper umbrella, red of course, which was tacky, graceful, and meretricious.

“The Gabriel I adore.” Xandelaide declared without a guilty heart. He was rewarded with a glass of martini.

To each their own fallings, unless in Sothberry’s they chose what they considered everyone would like and adore. And they deliver. Approximately at the midpoint after one and a half or two hours Zillah opened bid for Xandelaide an allegedly ethically sourced lamp made of cat bones, it carries bone carvings, the curvatures depicted an exciting chapter of the Koran.

Originally this was a niche market affair, however it was faced with a couple of hostile biddings, gazing at the back row it was an associate buyer from Monsieur Bai Yanshang’s studio, because public envy is a good look. Suddenly random people who were looking forward to taking home some second-hand furniture and discarded jewels thought it was worth it, because the sitcom of the Crimson Hill was moved to the playhouse.

People were stalling at 750 florins. Some started to reconnect with headphones and some started to avidly make calls, people with funds and people who know each other under all intentions with to cast their votes, people who think the Cardinal should be with Zillah raised paddle with 5 and 7 as base numbers, people who believe Raphael should stay with Gabriel started to dump heavenly numbers. Eventually everyone was entertained, that was part of the purported purpose.

Eventually the cat bone was picked up by workers from Bai Yanshang’s studio, because in their household it was Gabriel who took care of the money. Not to mention it’s for him still, because Gabriel likes cute animals and PETA.

Under public pressure, Zillah shot down a mountains and waters from someone else from Bai Yanshang’s artistic movement, Cardinal von Kret expressed his congratulations by saying “You can hang it in the restroom.”

Zillah innocently rejected the notion, “We don’t have a restroom in our house.” Because the human bloodslaves’ winged rooms are not part of the house, since the third season, they hold the de facto stature as “household temporary subcontractors”.[5]

“Fairly, I imply the washroom.” Because in the painting there are mountains and pines and waterfalls, beneath the waterfall is a bathing fox with fluffy long tail. He was gaining an idea of who drawn it, or who directed the painter to paint it.

Because some don’t have time, after spelling out the concept and style they subcontracted it to someone else. An exuberant but vaguely acceptable amount, Zillah said to the post-sale staff “to have it delivered to Crimson Hill.” Because Sothberry’s delivery service will probably encounter the stay-up-til-all-day Metzelder, she might take a liking to this type of surrealistic campy antique art.

[1] cf’. this is fake news, he doesn’t have one.

[2] cf. very well spoken, a puppet’s puppet.

comet- this determinism early-on-set.

cf. determined?

comet- denominated.

[3] ft. in some other place, it is apparition.

comet- appealing apparition, it hoped.

ft. a peeling apparition, apparently.

comet- apparently.

[4] cf. and pretended to be amazed.

comet- it’s part of the company policy.

cf. I didn’t know it was charged.