Fex's Contractual Obligations and Fearful Symmetry

...may bind him, but he is free to scour the island from above, noting the way in which the coastline turns itself into a electric green Chinese dragon, promulgated by devices he doesn't quite understand. But he knows they are already installed. The damage is done; there is a breach. The walls have fallen.


I. Comforts will be ensured to Fex, who has always wanted better proof that there are organs in his body. The absinthe keg is guaranteed to always be at most one block away from the camera perimeter. Taping the Infomercial and performing a sloping brow masquerade, arms mocked up like Eve and Vishnu, will be required only if a pagan Feast of All Saint's is celebrated by the locals; if DNA is corrupted and poured slowly in the editing bay, the elements are allowed to suggest something of electrostatic energy. Overwhelmed if it weren't for the mass of perfume necessary to hand out in lieu of currency payment to the Infomercial audience, Modenisque, henceforth designated to be Fex's personal assistant, agrees to spread the nastiest grain alcohol to the sweaty, general miasma of online consumers with browsers trained on Fex's every wiggle. These are transitory; these are nothing; so sayeth the sea-cow.

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