Pringle rolls down the street, traversing the tunnels with crocodile shoes, drunkenly stumbling while talking on a cellphone, negotiating with serpentine Asian prostitute he has no intention of courting, simply looking for larfs, breaks a beer bottle by mistake, chuckles and continues strolling. Tries to pedal a Donut he purchased up the street at Daddy Hoodou's succubi-run Donut Hut to a statue for a while. Chocolate, melts on the clowns fingers a little. His nose and cheeks are naturally red with fire and intoxicated angst. He dawns glasses to appear less conspicuous, turns the corner and stops to smoke a cigarette behind a bowling alley. Two counter agent squirrel thugs talk a little ways down about Franky's party. One half of this agent betrays his cloaking device in a more physical manifestation of alternate timelines, having his files ransacked and thrown in a trunk in a desert of abandon. Here his bio-etheric double runs into 105 & the gang. Their steel and circuit hellfire club is complete. "Where's ol' Eddy?" says Pringle, adjusting monocle with a drunken manical grimace smeared across his thin face. "Eating his anti-fict pills the way the admiral taught him to, no doubt." Replies Dr. B. - "Psvlh!" Colonel purple greets and disregards his incomprehensible pseudo-gibberish about evil Platypus playing with Lilith and Typhon. Streamline data rolls in a violent blurry of intoxication: "Asmoedeus opened gross work with I cutting my magnum struggle of the arms, use leave, The magick is not in the specimen. You're scrying behind light, the TV to my seen seconds. In dreams, crash his movie tunnels, angels undersea - hidden like pliable control radionic ЗЙИИККЗЙЖКЙЙЙЙК computer. Sometimes in smokey canvas, kicked possible green/blue break their train-jet for fire in their DMT pull language, battle the throne, in particular you laughed. Post-heavy randomness data. This works, .god is of our ventures, IS. death is register, power, will, 156. Him, assassins. Now drugs on the waterfront of the age there....then closer to become one than me." they seem to act off a single mad signal authored by the unseen voidblack hand of X. Zero-Programming methods in place. Their success is assured.
Suddenly a glimpse of a two headed, vile and bloody chimera beast running at the heart of the Thaumiel circuit interrupts the singular signal. A mad cackling swells at a fevered rate of amplitudal attack, resounding out of the depths of the Black No-pools in Masak Mavdil. The horrid sound jolts him, melting his focus in a broken, blurred mosaic - a clean break in interfacing occurs.
"Some assholes in the tunnels don't wanna fork over their sparks to the Ayin-Mem gang, Asmodeus crime circuit scum are trying to keep 11th dimensional artifacts out of the hands of OSK." says Colonel Purple, his Harpocrates Cloaking chip glitching and displaying a 9cubed mask.