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- Herausgeber: Dario Vergari
- Kategorie: Erotik
- Sprache: Englisch
Tired of an imperfect world and of being bombarded every day by news of violence and horror, the young musician Drago Ozelot, in an attempt to make a world of beauty and love, creates the D.E.V.I.L. [Device Emotional Variable Intra Limbic] a device that alters the perception of reality in those affected by it. After dispossessing the legitimate occupier from the Vatican, by means of the D.E.V.I.L. and TV meetings Drago will hypnotize the world population, embody the new Nameless God and shape the world in his image and likeness by imposing the New Commandments on humanity, forcing mankind to live in peace joy and happiness for ever and ever. REUNION is a modern fairy tale with a band of teenagers as protagonists. Music is the invisible but always present actor and is intimately entwined with the story, both as a soundtrack that goes from Beethoven to Megadeth highlighting the salient moments of the lives of the characters of the novel, and as a tool used by our heroes to achieve total world domination. This book is for those who love to travel with the eyes of phantasy, watching the movie of the story projected on the screen of their imagination. And with the television turned off.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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Dario Vergari
REUNION
To Leonardo and Emi, because their beauty and intelligence inspire me every time I look at them.
A book that wants to be written.
The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: [email protected]
Prologue - All you need is love -
Acquadicane drove through the winding country road that led to their destination. Behind him, on the back seat, the two Annas discussed animatedly the coming evening.
Black haired Anna, whose brown hair was dyed pitch black, wasn’t immediately fascinating, even if her sweet and placid beauty had captured more than one heart. Red haired Anna, on the other hand, was blonde, but dyed red. A Medusa with flaming curls that surrounded her face, from where two piercing blue eyes, and a heart shaped mouth capable of anything, leapt out at you.
“ I can’t wait, you realize?” black haired Anna exclaimed simulating an hysteric cry “it’s the first time for us to hear them play live, it’ll be fantastic!”
Red haired Anna looked out at her from under the fringe which fell onto her forehead “I hope so” she said “the stuff we’re listening to recently it’s pretty lousy” she said flatly.
“ There you go, I hate you when you do that! Sorry but why shouldn’t they be fantastic? Everyone’s there, Drago is fantastic, Mirko is not bad either, Paolino, Billy” she rolled her eyes upwards “they’re the best musicians around that we know, they’ve been trying out secretly for months and this is the first time for them to invite us to listen to them, what you think it’s gonna be? I’m super-excited, and you’re a pain in the ass, like you always are.”
Red haired Anna looked at her perplexedly, black haired Anna was never one who gets carried away easily, “we’ll see” she said.
Acquadicane listened to them enjoying himself, those two could never accept anything less than super, special, otherwise they would have immediately classified it as a load of shit. In his opinion the opposite was true, everything was special. He had a rodent like face, curious investigative eyes like a ferret, a nose which snooped like a tapir’s, a curious mind which was attracted to life in general, especially that of the other people.
He parked the car in front of the rehearsal room and turned off the engine. The music filtered loudly from the house windows, the glass vibrating with yellow light in the night. The boys of the group had been looking for a place to practice without being disturbed for months, fixing it up to suit their needs in an act of love. They painted everything black, all the walls and everything inside the house, a tribute to the Stones Mirko Riviera had said, even if with him you never knew when he was joking or being deadly serious.
In fact they worked on it so hard that the black walls seemed made of tar, even the dust seemed sucked in by that sticky blackness. The resulting effect, entering in the house, was like being on the edge of a pit full of tar. You could just make out a shadow of light which was the exit to another dimension, or in other words the door which led to the studio at the end of the corridor. The large room which had been set aside for music was dark but welcoming. The room was bisected by apadded wall with a window with thick glass which split the room into two acoustically isolated compartments.
The listening room which was comfortable, containing a 24 channel mixer, different types of speakers to monitor the sound, a computer, a mini bar, all of which was painted black. The walls were covered with small and large sheets of papers with drawings, notes and diagrams. In front of it, on the other side of the glass, immersed in a pale blue light was the rehearsal room which had been sound proofed with carpets, drapes, curtains different kinds of mattresses leaned against the walls. Here were the musical instruments, the drums, amplifiers for the bass and the guitar, a couple of electronic keyboards, microphones and voice P.A. cables running across the floor and hanging from the ceiling and, of course, the musicians.
Acquadicane entered the listening room with the two Annas laughing as usual. On the other side of the glass the group was playing a fast track but not too heavy, Billy’s fluid drum playing accompanied Paolo on guitar, whose chord accompanied Mirko’s hammering bassline.
In one corner stood Drago Ozelot, he had black hair on a triangular shaped face, the eyebrows of a melancholy cut that contrasted with an ironic and cunning look. When he saw through the glass window his friends coming to the mixer room he waved at them. Billy stopped to play, the others following him a second later.
“ Yeah, some fresh meat at last” Mirko exclaimed looking at the new arrivals and pulling off the bass belt from his shoulder, his white linen shirt was sweaty and creased, just ruining his refined blonde haired dandy appearance.
“ What are they doing here? Who called them?” Billy asked nervously.
“ I did” Drago replied, “I wanted an audience, I’m fed up with singing just for you, you bore me.”
“ You’re real shit” Paolo grinned, “ok let’s bore them too.”
The sound proof door opened with a puff, Acquadicane came in followed by the voices of the two Annas laughing loudly, maybe because they were embarrassed, maybe because of a joke.
Billy made a face, the sound of laughing girls made him nervous, made him afraid of making a mistake.
“ Take it easy, they’ll stay over there” Drago whispered to him.
Mirko hugged the two Annas, both of them squeaked happily at his every single word. Paolo was tuning his guitar. Acquadicane like a big rodent hiding himself either for shyness or in play had stayed close to the door watching the scene.
Drago was fiddling with a black box on the floor making sure that the input and output cables were well connected. The box had two lights, a steady green light and a flashing red one.
Sitting on his stool Billy rolled his drumsticks lightly over the drums skins, it sounded like a large bee flying closely to the walls.
“ I’m getting cold here, can we start?” he said emphasizing his request by hitting the cymbals loudly.
“ Well alright girls, have a seat in the listening room and enjoy the show” Mirko said while taking both Annas’ arms and throwing an oblique glance at Drago “we’ll do our best to satisfy you”, ended up with a reassuring giggle to the girls.
“ Acquadicane turn the mixer on, we’re ready. Turn on number thirteen too, it’s the effect bus” Drago said adjusting the pulsations of the red light with a knob, “the others are fine, don’t touch anything else.”
Acquadicane nodded and went to sit near the mixer on the other side of the glass. He turned it on and his face was lit with yellow and green reflections. He pushed the channel button thirteen, the green light went on, he leaned his elbow on the mixer, lit a cigarette and started waiting.
The two Annas were sitting at the end of the listening room, each one in a soft comfortable round-shaped armchair, black of course.
For a few seconds there was a deep silence broken only by the buzzing of guitar and bass, then Billy started with a pressing and urgent syncopated rhythm. Paolino set it on fire with a devilish riff and soon the band became a sonic train thrown towards the audience.
When Drago let out a hoarse, melodious scream the train became a starship and the three behind the glass couldn’t help feeling squashed by the power of the song.
The song went on for a few minutes allowing not even a single moment of rest. The two Annas didn’t have the time to applaud and scream with approval because Paolino started to play some fast distorted notes, soon interwoven with rhythms from Mirko and Billy. This time Drago’s voice was mournful, almost funereal against an industrial alienation musical background, but the song had the same powerful emotional boost.
Black haired Anna was submerged by the music, she felt like jumping and dancing, the band was even better than what she had imagined, the music made her feel really good. She glanced with curiosity towards red haired Anna and saw that she had been caught by the band too, at least she seemed to recognize a glimpse of interest in her friend’s eyes. Acquadicane had left the room without being noticed by anyone.
Nobody noticed when Drago with indifference pushed the switch over the black box with the tip of his boot; both the green and the red light were now pulsing as one.
The emotional pleasure which red haired Anna had felt until then became physical pleasure. It began in an hazy way, slightly growing with the rhythm of the song, gradually spreading throughout her body. A liquid flow of heat in her belly made her sigh deeply. She sank even deeper into the comfortable armchair.
She felt bursts of heat climbing up her legs and through her body, she had shivers up and down her spine, she could feel and see goosebumps on her arms. Her legs seemed to have a life of their own, she couldn’t keep them still, she crossed them, squeezed them together, opened them and closed them again, she couldn’t keep still and rubbed her stomach with the palm of one hand.
She was overcome with surprise, even if her mind seemed to obey her she realized that she had started to lose control of her body. At this very thought she fell into a cloud of pleasure, she took a glance around her to find a hiding. place, maybe the toilet, but the room was devoid of shelters. She clenched her teeth and moaned, comforted by the loudness of the music which would have covered her wailings, she half-closed her eyes for a while and she felt instantly overwhelmed by an orgasm, as warm and irresistible as a river in flood.
Breathless and astonished she opened her eyes wide, she pushed the armchair backwards with her feet looking for a darker corner. She wanted to sink in the gap between the cushions, camouflage herself with the wrinkles of the material. She bit her lips trying to gain control again then suddenly she felt observed.
She was sitting in the shadow and yet Drago’s eyes peeked through the glass and the darkness, piercing right into her mind. And she couldn’t help feeling dangerously close to another orgasm.
Black haired Anna hadn’t noticed this silent drama. Although being physically close to her friend all of her senses told her that she was rather floating above the clouds. As the music, just like air, flew upon her skin she was feeling weightless, all of the woes and the dissatisfactions of a lifetime had evaporated. For the first time she truly realized the meaning of being on cloud nine, somewhere close to heaven.
If she closed her eyes she could see white fields of soft clouds beneath a crystal clear blue sky. The sun was shining high, she would have wanted to start running on that cotton candy sweep, take it with her hands and throw it in the air, make herself dead weight to enjoy that impalpable landing, and above all to run after that clear fresh uncontaminated wind which lapped on her hair.
She didn’t even notice the smile which widened her lips deforming her face, it would have frightened her to death if she had seen it on somebody else’s face. She had never smiled that smile and she had never seen a sane person do it. She didn’t notice the tears raining on her lap or the slight tremor which was shaking her. All she could think was that she would never have wanted it to end.
I - The Resistance
The Resistance. Nothing more than a concrete square defined by a mass of grey rock blocks piled up to shape a flight of steps, some small stripe of yellowish grass slithering amongst the slits, pointed metallic outlines outstretched towards the sky which vaguely resembled arrows. In the artist’s intentions that place was a tribute to resistance and partisans. Nobody would have fought and died if he had known that he would have been celebrated in such a dreariness. Yet it all began here.
The Resi was the sancta sanctorum of almost every musician in Town. All of them peeked in sooner or later, from the head bangers to the psychedelics and the students of the dreadful conservatory in the Town. The place was a real secluded oasis, free from the sloppy tourists who stole the Town every summer and from the local petty bourgeoisies perpetually busy thinking about how to raise some more money, possibly by selling out some more piece of nature or piece of the old medieval town center. What wouldn’t you do to earn a crust of bread or a new BMW.
For a better understanding of the Resi’s spirit we have to learn more about the characters of our story.
You can subdivide the multicolored inhabitants of the Resi in some general typologies, inaccurate in the particular case but still effective in describing the common lines between the characteristics of their nature. Let’s then observe them better during a typical day at the Resi.
The first ones to arrive at the Resi were the punks, usually the youngest guys of the company, always ready for a brawl or to snog, spit and vomit everywhere, not necessarily in this order. They appeared in the late morning for a Ceres beer based breakfast, often left from the night before, ready to wait until evening camping out, drinking beer, talking with enthusiasm about a myriad of anarchic small bands unknown to the majority.
They were a group apart, even if they lived with the rest of the company they kept a natural anarchic freedom which made them appear as wild migratory animals, looking for watering or coolness, disappearing and reappearing as they liked.
In the early afternoon, just after lunch, came the loose dogs, creatures wandering after their own nightmares, following slimy things which slithered in the back of their minds. Sometimes they could find a fleeting peace of mind amongst friends of the Resi. Alexander Acquadicane, the Black, they were the most peaceful, usually in a half depressive condition.
Their mirror-like companions were the madmen, destabilizing but essentials members of the company; beings such as the Fisherman or the Marra were necessary and unpredictable givers of unexpected and twisted wisdom.
Let’s not forget the so-called normal guys: the Nerd, Paul, Billy, for example, they were the classic good boys next door, normal appearance but equal to the others in the wild passion for the music. There always was something to learn, some new band to discover, a new style or a new sound, when you were at the Resi.
The girls were an ever present component of the company, an interchangeable but essential part. The Annas represented the stable feminine population, others could be seen for some days or months then they disappeared, someone leaving a nice memory, others a regret. The girls were the spark which warmed the long foggy nights, when you had to sink deep in your leather jacket to fight the cold, when you laughed louder than usual trying not to think about the real grey desert beyond the misty haze.
To say it all, during the long cold season, those icy wintery nights were the rule. At sea level dampness is inherent in the vibrations of the particles which form atoms, it slides between oxygen molecules, making everything brighter, even the light itself seems to be damped with sheen, but in some winter nights it’s a blade aimed at your skin, it gets into you and becomes you, and you almost want to fade away with it in the night and vanish into darkness.
Finally there were the Moderns: Mirko Riviera, Drago Ozelot, Camillo Dioxide, in appearance the less deranged. Their friends at the Resi called them the Moderns because of their fairly clean look, their technical aptitude and their scientific studies. Still they were as maladjusted as the other fellows, deeply dissatisfied and perpetually hungry. Incapable to be satisfied with a life which already seemed to smell of death.
That evening at the Resi Dioxide was talking friendly with some of the punks, sitting on the lawn. Dioxide was one of those musicians who, if they don’t have a wall of electronic devices, they will not be able to express their musical capabilities. He had a passion for eyeballs, the walls of his room were covered with eyes, knick-knack eyes, snapshots of eyes, spring-eyes, wherever he could find an eye Camillo soon adopted it. A Beethoven bust grimly gazed from a shelf at Dioxide’s guests, the LED lights of the sequencers which filled a wall were other eyes peeping into the room.
Thick and thin cables hanged tidily close to the terrarium where the scorpions which him and Mirko captured in deserted country cottages or in old deconsecrated churches. Bats were another coveted prey, once freed in Dioxide’s room they were used to record their screeching for their musical projects.
The Black, evidently drunk, with a smoking joint in one hand and a beer in the other, had joined the conversation; Dioxide, disgusted by drugs, was having fun teasing him and with his most naïve tone was giving him a music history lesson.
“ Yeah, them right away, don’t tell me you didn’t know it, you know their first EP album cover? Crystal clear! The Hitlerjugend… not the Smurfs!”
“ It was just a defiance, you know how things went with punk and all the rest” fumed the Black, child and nephew of partisans, with a deep-rooted strong dislike for anything which even remotely resembled of fascism, “even Sid Vicious went around with a swastika on his arm to be on the papers…” he asserted spluttering words through the black space between his spaced incisors, which was the reason of his nickname. The group of young punks was following the conversation, every now and then a well-modulated burp expressed attention and participation.
Dioxide grinned, “then what about Warsaw’s lyrics? It’s their first song, you know it, don’t you?”
The Black gave another deep puff at the joint, then slowly exhaled the smoke without answering.
“ C’mon, you can’t deny evidence, they were Nazis. True that Rudolf Hess had flown to Scotland but…”
Hearing that name the Black was sharp: “It was just esthetics! An attitude to make people talk about them which they hadn’t used anymore.”
“ If they wanted to get through the show biz they surely couldn’t…” Dioxide stopped for a while, inspired, “hey look, I’m not saying that it’s a negative thing!” he provoked him with a laugh.
The Black had just had enough, “are you gonna stop shitting on ol’ good Ian? You’re spoiling the listening…”
“ Not to talk about how the band changed name after the suicide…”
“ Fuck you, alright? You’re ruining Joy Division, fuck!” the Black threw the joint butt on the ground.
“ And then burn them together with Wagner” ended Dioxide noticing a well-known approaching car. He stood up leaving the Black frowning in his cloud of doubts.
The car stopped, a short reddish trail sparkled from the opened window describing a bright arc across the air, Mirko’s cigarette butt fell on the only tuft of sickly grass of the zone, Dioxide squashed it as he approached the car.
“ Where’s the big boss?” he asked prying into the car’s compartment.
“ Good question. He should have come to my house about three hours ago” Riviera threw a look around, “I thought he was here with somebody.”
“ No way, he only comes here when it suits him. There are not many people tonight, I have not even seen the Annas. Well, alright, any news?”
Mirko stared at him in silence, he reached for another cigarette but then he stopped, shook his head and said “to tell the truth yeah, I think we got it.”
Dioxide opened his eyes wide. “Are you sure?”
“ Well it still needs some minor fix but… according to me it’s the right direction” said Riviera with a smile.
“ So it works, what the fuck, I wanna see it! How does it look like?”
Mirko raised his shoulders, opened his thumb and forefinger, “the D.E.V.I.L.? More or less like this, harmless look, black. But he took it tonight.”
“ Fuck, it works” Dioxide mumbled, he turned around the car, opened the door and got inside, told Mirko to start the car then began to ransack amongst the CDs scattered everywhere on the seats.
“ We’ve made lots of progresses” Mirko ascertained.
“ You two made progresses you mean… he has always cut me out.”
“ It’s not true! Fuck, can’t you realize it? It’s you! You’re the one who left, you’re never there when we’re working and if you’re with us then all you do is criticize.”
Mirko had taken the road up to the hill.
The eyes of Dioxide were aimed at the white stripe but the focus point was farther, “guys I know you, I know what Mr-I-Know-Everything is capable to do. He thinks he’s the boss by divine investiture. I don’t feel like working with him ‘cause it would mean working for him. You’re ok but I think Drago has got some big problems, I think he is…”
“ You think too much.”
“ Maybe I really think too much” Dioxide thought.
He pushed into the CD player a collection of Mozart adagios, but while he was subsiding his butt into the front seat, and his soul upon the notes, he couldn’t help thinking: the book. He could still recall those absurd sentences: ‘The green vibration is the quid et continuum of matter. The fifth interval is the immanent distance. All the functions come back and belong to the place where they were born.’ He had judged them as bullshit, but that bastard Drago had succeeded, he could recreate the frequencies of Hamelin magic piper. Dioxide felt his stomach upset.
Mirko had taken the panoramic road which led to the hairpin bends of the hills in front of the sea. He drove calmly, pulled down the window, and with one arm resting out nonchalantly resumed the thought of that evening, whispering aloud in the cool salty breeze of twilight.
“ If this is not fate… think about it” he leaned towards Dioxide “it’s incredible how it’s been easy, in the end” he said shaking his head, “easy and fragile, as a spider’s web.” He started to ponder aloud. “Many small casual events… why did we choose to go right to the morgue of Bologna and take some pictures? Why did we walk through that square? And why that day, in that square, not another day in another square, but right there!”
Dioxide made a gesture with his hand to make him look at the road again but Mirko was still elsewhere, so for safety’s sake he leaned a hand on the steering wheel.
“ Why was there that small market, right on that day? And why did we stop there? We were in a hurry, you remember? The Fisherman had spat at that bloke who… but then you grabbed a book, that one, not another one, you could have looked at it then throw it back in the pile but instead you chose to stand in queue to buy it while we were hurrying you, remember? It’s also your fault. None of us would have stopped for a fucking book.”
Dioxide didn’t seem equally enthusiastic, “yeah you’re right, so many small casual events, which will lead to the biggest disaster of all history.”
“ Disaster? Oh, sorry, I didn’t know that we could ruin this perfect fairy land!” Mirko laughed.
The book was titled “The ancient power”, a simple cover, yellow background, illustrated with the picture of an eye in which the symbol of PI greek was drawn.
The description on the back cover said:
“ In the beginning there was the Verb, that is sound, the acoustic vibration. Everything that is, begins from a vibration. Matter itself is, in its most infinitesimal components, vibration. Stillness is nothing else but death of matter and life.’
The introduction of this controversial volume is the translation from the original Russian edition of 1905 of the Russian author Ludvig Boris Jiganov (1862-19??), peculiar figure of alchemist scientist however quite common at that time.
A remarkable coincidence is that this book was printed in the same year in which Einstein published his first and fundamental works that demonstrated the validity of Planck’s quantum theory, on which Jiganov created his concept.
It also appears definitively unlikely that the two scientists could have come into contact somehow, not even indirect, given the low, if not inexistent, speed with which scientific information travelled throughout different nations in those years.
Unfortunately the beginning of bloodsheds and devastations of the Bolshevik revolution gave the population other tragic tasks to think about and the book ended under the dust of the rubble of the first half of the XX century. After October’s revolution, fires, disasters and destructions, the few copies of “The Ancient Power” still intact ended piled up and forgotten with other obscures volumes in the libraries of the Soviet Union.
Only in recent times this book, forbidden fruit of the wailings of an unripe science at the beginning of a new and unknown century, has been reprinted in its motherland in a complete edition aimed at documenting and rediscovering the historic environment of a dark age. This book which we have the honor to introduce to you is the first translated version to be published outside Russia.”
Dioxide spread his hands in sign of surrender. “I liked it, it looked promising! The eye on the cover had drawn my attention. I glanced at it, there were a couple of interesting equations, entropy’s formula, nothing mystical or exoteric. Then when I got a look at it on the train and read it… those were the typical sentences of religious fanatics! Sure, I wanted to throw it away, superstitions make me fucking mad, you know it!” Dioxide got excited, “and then there he comes, takes the book from my hand, glances at it uncaringly, opens a random page and starts reading, I still remember every word: ‘I gaze at ships in abysses. A man faces a wall, his tongue stuck in the stones of the new Babel tower’. Wasn’t it? I break up laughing and he gets fucking mad. Why does he always get fucking mad?”
Mirko looked at him amused, “I know, he’s…”
“ Yeah I know what he is. An asshole. Well, in short, he gets fucking mad and tells me I’m a jerk who doesn’t get a shit. Then he takes the book and now, at the end, he turns out to be right! Anyway we all went to Bologna because we were sure we could find a lot of material for our concert slides.”
“ Yeah, our concert.” Mirko lit up. “You see? Everything starts and ends in music… and in us! Coincidences, destiny, events, chance, the Fates… they all guided us here and now you’d turn our backs and pretend nothing’s happened? You wanna spit into the pot of gold?”
Dioxide kept silent while Mirko drove and Mozart played his tunes.
“ Drago” Dioxide puffed the word which fluttered in the air amongst them. “Drago and I are friends” he continued, “at least it’s what I think, but we both know what kind of guy he really is.” Then he stared straight in Mirko’s eyes, “if the book really works I’m afraid for the world” he ended with an uncertain smile.
Mirko counterattacked: “but don’t you get it? We’ll have the chance of changing this disgusting world, we, just us, the losers! The outcasts, the suckers!” he hit the steering wheel with one hand, “think about all those rich kids, think about all those who look at you with conceit, those who don’t even look at you and consider you just because you’ve got a crappy car! I hate them, I hate this fucking society that forces you to live a life of slavery, stealing your time and mind to repay you with what is barely enough to survive as a good slave, but without having enough to escape, maybe when you are so old that you’ll hardly find your prick in your pants! Tell me, do you really like this shit?”
Dioxide looked almost amused, he kept quiet until Riviera calmed down, then he asked him: “how did you call it? D.E.V.I.L.?”
Mirko laughed “he named it Intra Limbic Variable Emotional Device”, he pressed the car player button and the CD slipped between his fingers as a metal looking tongue, Mozart fell silent, Mirko put his hand in the glove box and took another CD. “Something really big is gonna happen, you’ll see that you’re having lot of paranoias for nothing” he stated while starting the music player.
Dioxide thought that Black Sabbath weren’t at all the ideal soundtrack for a happy ending story. “Who knows where he is tonight” asked himself loudly.
Mirko didn’t answer, he just crooned a song out of tune with Ozzy, while happily driving the car bend after bend.
II - The Meticulous
Drago was at home. Sitting at the desk he was contemplating the D.E.V.I.L., the fruit of his furious research. He looked at it dreamily for a few moments before taking it in his hand.
The small black box, glazed metal, wasn’t bigger than a pack of cigarettes. An anonymous wrapper with a graduated knob, an on/off switch and two LED lights, a green one and a red one. He had carefully assembled it, simple and refined, with nothing more or less than what it should have been.
He unscrewed the screws at the base of the device and opened it. On the inside two chips and a few other electronic elements: a pair of capacitors, a trimmer, a handful of resistors and diodes, an I/O port for digital connections.
During the months spent experimenting he had pinpointed exactly which exact frequencies to stimulate to get the desired effect and calibrate the instrument accordingly. At each frequency interval corresponded the excitation of a particular area of consciousness, thus creating a map of the effects and related frequencies. It had taken some time, he loved being meticulous.
He started the experiments with the first prototype of the D.E.V.I.L. deciding, after long meditations, to recreate the wave-function of euphoria, he had experimented it on himself at the presence of Mirko. It was instructive, he began to laugh heartily as he hadn’t done since childhood. His breathing had become one with the laughter, his body light as a balloon, he could feel all of his being frizzling with euphoria. He perceived a worried Mirko observing him from the other side of the glass and the situation made twist his guts because of its funniness. He had never tried any kind of drug because he didn’t like to lose control but it came across his mind that it could be this that the guys of Resi felt when they laid on the grass fields becoming happy idiots.
When Mirko turned the D.E.V.I.L. off, Ozelot was still sobbing with laughs, that evening was the best of his life, finally his dream had met his reality.
In the following months he meticulously kept on exploring the range of human emotions. The Resi was the perfect lab, an ideal work environment of unaware guinea pigs, perfect subjects to test the fruit of his researches. A flowered garden of thinking heads, each one enough uncommon not to rouse suspicions because of an anomalous behavior.
The first time he had set the D.E.V.I.L. to cause hate he was astounded.
He had always had a particular interest for hate, it seemed to him the most powerful of all emotions, a rust corroding the soul, a catalyzer even stronger than love. In fact that evening just few instants of exposure to the D.E.V.I.L. had been enough for the listeners to become fierce.
He had chosen in the breeding ground of the Resi the most harmless and weakest subjects. The Fisherman and the Black were those most similarto a sloth he could find. When they arrived to the rehearsal room they were already stoned. The idiotic smirk on their lips was the proof that they had found something really good to smoke on that evening. In those conditions the best it could be expected from them was a slight movement of the hands to lit up another joint, they barely could stand on their feet.
When the band began to play the Black had already taken the necessary to prepare the inevitable joint, the Fisherman was staring at him with evident interest and impatience.
Drago kept an eye on them behind the glass of the rehearsal room, they were laying on the cushions on the floor, calm and blissful, lost in their foggy universe. A fraction of second after he turned the D.E.V.I.L. on he saw the Black unleash a powerful blow straight into the Fisherman’s mouth who, spitting a couple of teeth, without any hesitation stood up and threw with the inseparable heavy-duty boots a vigorous kick to the Black’s stomach.
Billy was the first of the band to notice that something was wrong, it was like watching a silent kung-fu movie. “What the fuck are they doing?” he shouted. He immediately stopped playing, his arms frozen in the middle of the interrupted song.
The Black was laying on the floor. He growled with the hands on his belly just where he had been hit. He kicked up in the air and hit Fisherman’s back who, meanwhile, had grabbed a massive Gibson Les Paul electric guitar resting near there. Mirko was the first to run in the rehearsal room, he jumped on the Fisherman who was brandishing the guitar already raised to strike and threw him to the ground. Drago was swift to turn the D.E.V.I.L. off just before Mirko got in its range.
As the signal of the D.E.V.I.L. ceased and the ancient power went back to its limbo the Black and the Fisherman looked at each other for some seconds, then started to laugh, at first hesitating then loudly and recklessly. The others of the band looked at them in disbelief.
Billy was shocked. “What the fuck is going on? You really are some shit… what did you drink?”
The only answer were the laughs getting even more convulsive, the two fighters were mixing tears of pain and joy.
“ Hey guys we really have to get another one…” the Fisherman sobbed laughing.
“ What a story, what a story!” bubbles of blood swelled up on Black’s lips while he was talking and grinning.
“ Welcome to Foolland” Mirko commented with a disconsolate expression.
That was the night when he had the idea to overlap different frequencies to obtain the desired effect. The intensity and suddenness of the hate unleashed made Drago think that it could have worked as fuel, empowering the emotional reaction to the D.E.V.I.L. He immediately started to work. The sunrise came and found him bent on the electronic circuits, he had multiplied the interference routine in a way that it could operate simultaneously on several levels.
Hatred had the purpose to serve as a basic frequency, annihilating the defenses of the rational mind, bringing out the reptilian mind instinctive reactions. It was a lubricant, a slide on which other suggestions could flow undisturbed. That night he had also understood that some precaution would have been necessary, so he had studied an antidote, a circuit used to invert the wave-function and send it to a pair of earphones, thus allowing the wearer not to be affected by the altered frequencies, ecce anti-D.E.V.I.L., he grinned at the desert room.
And now, after the experiment with the two Annas which gave him the last piece of the puzzle, he couldn’t wait to start doing things in style. He connected the D.E.V.I.L. to a spectrum analyzer and, waiting for the data to be downloaded, he stretched his legs and armsand took a look around. He was in his room, surrounded by his life watching him.
A thread of memories was laid on each corner of the room. He could see himself, right there, a long time before. The dance of the dust particles in the morning sunbeams filtering through the windows shutters. His old turntable, made of plastic and metal, decorated with childish illustrations. A lonely child, sitting on the floor, watching the shiny black vinyl records revolving in the gleam of sunlight until evening. Music talked to him, threw him in a whirlpool of sounds and visions. He didn’t know the exact words to express his feelings, but he had realized that words weren’t the only things necessary to communicate.
He was orphaned a few months after his birth, an accident and a illness deprived him of the love of a complete family. He grew up with his grandmother in a villa too big for them.
At school he had been an absent-minded student, interested only in anything about music or sound waves, at least until he discovered sex.
He had been fascinated by the story of Pythagoras who, walking nearby a blacksmith workshop, was struck by the sounds produced by different types of hammers when they hit the anvil; those sounds were harmonious and consonant with each other only if the relations between the masses of the hammers were represented by fractions of integer numbers. Drago began to think that music was the key to decipher the mathematical order of the universe, it was such an ethereal and yet so physical phenomenon, a door linking the physical and mental worlds. During his youth he continued to be fascinated by everything that, while permeating our universe, remains obscure to the eyes: sound waves, electromagnetic fields, electrons dancing around atoms, the vacuum of which matter is mainly made of, the science of making the invisible visible.
As a teenager he loved to spend hours and hours daydreaming, screening his imaginary movies on the display of his sharp imagination. Laying on the sofa, listening on headphones at full volume the songs he loved the most, he lived within himself the emotions aroused by the melodies, fancying a way to replicate them and transmit them to the others. He remembered Pythagoras, he needed the equivalent of the physical/musical relationship applied to the human mind.
He began to study the electromagnetic waves produced by his brain, classifying them meticulously on sheets of paper that he hung on the walls of his room. The Nerd was the one who helped him with the first steps in electronics, duplicating the schemes of medical brain-waves reading machines, quite easy to assemble, at least for a nerd like him. Drago absorbed and learned, he was now an expert when finally came the season when all the puzzle pieces went to their place and he met the companion of his destiny. He was ready to receive the book, and the book was ready for him.
He inserted a couple of keyboard commands, started the sequence to program the chip of the circuit by inserting the modified algorithms that would change the world. He had called it 'God effect'.
Looking at the spectroscope graphs, that drew in a colored dance the curve of the wave function produced by the D.E.V.I.L., he remembered a movie about the life of Nikolas Tesla that Mirko and him watched on TV several years before. They both were impressed because of the similarities, even physical, between Tesla and Drago.
The singer really looked like the reincarnation of the unfortunate scientist. And now, as Tesla had discovered the alternate current, so Drago had discovered the multiple frequency: the vibration of the wave function. He had always been so damn sure. Tesla had died poor and crazy, he, the Meticulous, had better plans. Nothing and nobody would have stopped him; the accident of that day had been the test, things shouldn’t have taken that turn but he had been very careful, deleting any evidence. The Nerd had been looking for it, fuck him.
Drago rubbed a hand through his night shaded hair, he looked at the mirror and smiled his best shark smile. The ignorance of his enemy was his strength.
III - The Nerd
Red velvet on the comfortable armchairs, soft lights creating round glimmering oasis in the dim light, a dark wood on the walls that over time had absorbed every molecule released in the room by food, fumes, conversations. A large counter exhibited different types of sparking goblets of various shapes with a large number of ales of every gradation and color. There was no sign of television set or monitors, and this accentuated the feeling of entering a shell shielded from world.
Some of the band’s songs were born there; Mirko played guitar following the chords and the fantasy of the moment, Drago hummed and took note of the words on the first sheet of paper he found, although the roles were interchangeable and often Mirko was the one to write the lyrics of their songs. He had kept that habit, the atmosphere of the pub always made available a bit of creative magic.
He entered the saloon-style door and was pleased to see Dioxide sitting at a table reading a book. A beer in company could be the best way to start the day.
“ Hey look at that” said Mirko sitting and peering at the cover of the book. “Where did you get it?” Dioxide was reading ‘The Satanic Verses’ by Salman Rushdie, “this book has dropped out of sight for years, that poor fellow surely still lives under protection” laughed Mirko.
“ I wouldn’t say ‘poor fellow’, he built a carrier with that fatwah thing. And, in my opinion, he also looked for it. You mustn’t provoke those people, if you’re not ready to face a true war… or if you don’t aspire to heaven. Anyway I bought this copy right after it was published, before the religious and media hysteria began, before the reward on his head. Fineness of finesse, you will have noticed, I hope, the meaning of his name.”
“ Eheheh… rush to die…” Mirko sneered “nomen omen said the Romans and not wrongly, I admit it.” He became serious. “That’s what we’re fighting for, to send the cavemen back to their caves, and bury them under tons of massive oblivion.” He spread outhis arms behind his head looking around. “Fuck to the twentieth century, this will be the first millennium of a new era, ours.”
Dioxide looked at his old friend seeing in his expression what he liked about Riviera: the innate goodness of spirit, the passionate desire for a freer world, the faith that everything was possible, the belief of belonging to the evolved part of the civilization. But he also saw the naivety and superficiality that were Mirko’s greatest weaknesses, and he was frightened, or perhaps it was just that he was thinking too much; however it didn’t seem, not even for a moment, that Mirko talked nonsense.
“ Listen… what about finding something to do?” he asked closing the book, he wanted to get distracted from his thoughts.
“ We’re close to the Nerd’s house, we could go there and see if he has done something new” Mirko answered thinking it over for a while.
Dioxide grinned: “brown is beautiful? Alright then, let’s make him happy!”
The Nerd actually lived just a stone's throw from the pub. He had been mercilessly nicknamed ‘brown is beautiful’ because of his inclination to prefer exclusively any shade of brown in dressing. In living memory his clothes had always been brown. It was, in fact, a color that matched his personality.
He had been looking old since he was young. Resigned and of a few words, of slow and awkward bearing, of octogenarian taste in clothes, at twenty years of age he looked like a retired man in quiet waiting for the grave. Seemingly unable of any vital wriggle indeed he had an interest in life. Only one: the musical synthesizer which he had assembled and that during the years had assumed hypertrophic dimensions.
