For instance, the vaguely Arabic-smelling perfume that Modenisque spreads with her sweaty fingertips loses its efficacy in the general miasma. Fex is transfixed by motion, by image, by a hideous puppet show to which he is the main attraction. Funnel cake has no flavor without smell, thinks Fex, chewing thirty-five times for each swallow, lost in a picture of his entrails on a laboratory table, a mad scientist inhabiting his position, his place, his sacraments.
III. Fex agrees to be represented by the virtual modicon of a photo-dynamic typewriter image: the competition won't stand a chance against his submarine-subsidized self-allotment of limitless foie gras. His hands may be captured in the assemblage of slow-motion, Muybridge-style gazpacho cookery, or if he prefers he may reject the heterosexual advances and this horse movie and re-locate the plans to another security force studio-hut on the island. If this seems then to either be a cake problem such as, "bound for success, Carnival, the street and Modenisque must agree to keep Fex, who, if nothing else, embodies an argument for stricter controls, sheltered from the law that prohibits genetic singing," then the same historical moment that gave us the linear debacle of the Dreyfus affair and the Sino-Japanese conflict must be ceded to the Network authorities, who will in turn wear sterile gauze masks over their faces so as to avoid accidentally consuming themselves.
