Q.: Good morning, great vampire. Here we fall again with the rising Sun. Another dream is over. The 
       Industrial Counterrevolution failed to break out. A drop lower on the downward spiral. Nothing 
       unusual, but this one is a quantum leap. Your most grandiose blunder to date. How can you take it so
       phlegmatically? Weep a little in the dark and the amends are made. Tried it, couldn’t be done. Add it 
       to your curriculum mortem. Is that all there is to reproduction? I don’t know what you really are.  
       Wolf or lamb…
A.: Such dichotomies make no sense in the single eye. 888 is a fusion of the poles. A nuclear reincarnation.
      My take on the Revelations is plainly antithetic. Positively reversing the source material.
Q.: You are an escapist scapegoat, Spiel! Proudly collecting black marks on your hidden record. Sedulously 
       following a detrimental agenda. Your outlandish attempts to rise is a passion of decline.
 A.: Don’t have to remind me of what I have lost. The major battle of my allegoric life. I would go quite 
       insane if descended to face it. At least I could express some simulated anger.  Smashed the face of the 
       clock. Cut my vein with broken glass. Dashed a whole bottle of red wine on the gallery’s floor. And 
       yelled in anger about the absentia of a movement. By my substandards it was a breakout performance.
       A smash spit in the mirror.
Q.: You were screaming at the ten friends you succeeded to gather for the five hundred missing spectators 
       delusionally expected. Like blaming those who came for the disappointing turnout. What a Schmuck! 
      And the sweet DJ crew you engaged for free on the opening night. “Stop playing, the show is over,” 
      remember you? It was no performance. You were genuinely raging like a miserable loser. The 
      infuriated amateur going epileptic. More comic than daunting. Thank God it wasn’t documented. 
      Curiously, not a photo has been taken about the whole enterprise. How could that happen? It must be 
      some kind of protection. 
A.: Because the wasted bitch that promised it forgot the camera. The other one with the video did not 
     show up at all. And the film guys scheduled to play archive movies to the crowd had only projectors 
     but no filming device. However, I bled my white shirt all over. I tore the festoon apart. I cursed the 
     city, the province, the world. I didn’t walk away in silence like a sheep. I resisted the humiliation. I 
     fought for my dignity and I won.

Q.: Well, you were mad as Hell, lambchop. The star of Charenton. Sending home your few loyal
      supporters in place of the party promised. “No Palm Sunday tonight.” “The Passover is cancelled 
      sine die!” “The Vernissage is closed!” Those people would have stayed around gladly if you accepted
      to compromise. Everything was properly set for the rite of passage. Music, film, buffet. You could have 
      saved the day in stead of going into overkill and destroy it all. That would have been a dignified  
      response, not kicking everyone out. Just because you couldn’t have your First Breakfast in style.
      There is no excuse for such a behavior. It’s typically Jesus.
A.: I’m not apologizing. I was not there to throw a party but to blow some minds. I was seriously pissed
       by the situation. I invested a half year into the preparation of this little gig. A real campaign out of 
       proportions. I had the warranty burned into my head. I was to sing the Overnationale with the 
      the multitude that night so that the walls should tremble. I took my last blot of Acid spared for the 
      occasion. I was riding high into New Jerusalem next door. I couldn’t go for it but the mountain came
      to me. I was ready for the rapture.
Q.: What a gigantic drag it was to find a venue for the strange celebration! We discovered this bankrupt 
       gallery by accident after all else failed. Five minutes barefoot from your hiding place. All you can do
       is miracles. But then you fuck it all up.
A.: I did not fuck it up. The devil fucked me up. I did everything a divine asshole could. Firstly I contacted   
      the churches with the unholy concept. I thought I can fool them but they saw it forthwith through. 
       The paintings were appreciated but the promo text did them in. The Deacon said it stood against 
       everything the Église holds sacred. Then I went to sex bars with the whim of an art exhibition for the
       Easter week. I told it would boost their repute in town to be involved with religious culture. Something
       real exotic. They treated me like a perverted intello and showed the door. It was a calvary but I walked 
      the whole line. Got rejected by both sides of the societal aisle.
Q.: And you wouldn’t restrain from considering it a subtle victory. You are a maniacal delinquent out for 
      nothing but trouble. All we could finally get was this guest room on the second floor of a feminist 
      collective with all the elevators broken. Hanging out our antiflags over the rusty windowpane to 
      provoke the press on the other side of the street. Making ourselves quite ridiculous retrospectively. They
      only let us stay for the week from kind of solidarity after your anticlimax. We could have profited from it 
      though, but you forbade anything to happen after the initial fiasco. Just playing on the Masochistic 
      Messiah under the ground where you belong.
A.: The idea was to proclaim the birth of the Antichrist in the form of an industrial invocation. It was 
      meant to be an eight days long celebration following the inverted scenario of Golgotha. The longest 
      mystery play ever dedicated to the Gregorian calendar. Recruiting meanwhile a potential membership
      to the Party via an Atheist festival of dazzling darkness. On the noble pretext of introducing its eminent 
      painter to the art world through a living emanation of Emmanuel. How could I have settled with less?

Q.: He was to paint a big black wolf on the wall of the room, developing it day by day during the jamboree 
      into a lasting fresco of 2D shadow to be revealed next Sunday as a symbol of your gradual embodiment.
      Emitte spirituum tuum. Very endearing project for an unknown amateur. Nobody’s ever come in for
      the posters we distributed. Actually it was removed from the locale’s own tacepao. We were denied our 
      very existence. Even those stopping for a beer wouldn’t climb upstairs to see some illustrations. We
      shouldn’t have made the stupid compromise. Your inane fatalism is a recipe for disaster.
A.: The plot was impeccable. It would have been the perfect closure of an era. Even if vastly unrealized,
      the date has been nailed to the cross. 1997 will mark the official rebirth of New Style on the map of 
      our Timeship. I am dead on arrival but my clock does work. 
Q.: Aren’t you ashamed just a little bit? In stead of accusing the whole universe for your gaffe.
A.: The Atheist faith allows no remorse. I will never plead guilty. I am a heretic of None. I’ve executed a 
      great work of unrepentant idealism. Lupus Dei In Extremis. Who’ll care a century later whether it did
      or did not happen? The document is sealed and filed. Ready made for a better future.
Q.: Your histrionic speculation is outright repellent. Counting on exhumation in place of a proper return.
      The morbid fantasy of an ineligible replica. You should care a lot less about your improbable legacy.
A.: I am only trying to saving my presence, Gina. I’ve reached out far beyond my extent. Only my radio 
      activity makes up for eight hours of tapes. I gave bilingual interviews to all the alternative stations. 
      Contacted both major and free papers for support. I deposed my leaflets in boutiques and record stores. 
      Even at my frequented Café. What more should I have done?
Q.: I did twice as much to put that record straight. I organized everything from mannequins to bands. 
      And the discounts on the prints. Could even arrange to get fresh bread delivered every morning from 
      the nearby bakery in exchange of advertising them by the big shot. That’s how we got something to eat
      in the meantime. The same for the red wine you spilled with your fake blood.
A.: We were planning a really groovy thing for the Passover. Events for every good night from 
       experimental music to fashion extravaganza. Rituals and workshops scheduled for seven afternoons. I 
       intensely trumpeted the oncoming bombshell on my own radio show as well, flagging NOVA
      AKROPOLA as one of its lofty sponsors. Three entire emissions have I consecrated exclusively to the 
       musics our publicised artist has sent me throughout the gruesome years of mutual exile. Introducing 
       the Man through his taste solely, which was a psychosonic trouvaille by itself. I am a genius of the
       plug. Why can’t I profit from it?
Q.: Because you are a slothful alien allergic to materialization. To come true is the last thing you want. 
       Deep under your snakeskin you’re terrified of living. You’d rather shed it every season than become 
       identical with the phantom of yourself.
A.: I’ve also sent out dozens of private invitations to local celebrities, including Pierre Elliot Trudeau. I
       proposed everyone to bring their dog to the Vernissage. Even tried to recruit LAIBACH to play on the 
      grand finale when interviewed them for my homonymous program as a dabbling epigon. They weren’t 
      interested but whoever could have paid them anyway. Finally I invited Leonard Cohen to come down 
      from the mountain and open me the Gate of New Jerusalem in his telluric hometown. Nobody can doubt
      in the magnitude of my ambition. No wonder he restrained.

Q.: I still don’t think you brought the right decision when calling the whole thing off. Your bookings could
      have provided their own tiny public. We could have churned out some fun at least for the sake of the 
      poor painter you lured into the blamage. In stead of sitting the day away in silence waiting for a visitor.
A.: To declare bankruptcy was the only way to avoid further embarrassment. I really didn’t want to receive
      my honorary guests in the empty room after all that braggadocio. About the false seduction I do am 
      desperately sorry. It was a lifetime debt I wanted to return to my only collaborator with this presentation. 
      His due reward for the Fishers of Men. After the whole misery was heroically over, on the cold morning of 
      Easter Monday I generously paid a cabride to accompany him to the bus terminal. He left to return to 
      Toronto, someone will transport the unseen oeuvre kept in storage later. He thanked me and I thanked 
      him. He said he had a good time. I knew I’ll never see him again. Not in this damnation.
Q.: He is terminally ill, isn’t he? Could hardly hold through the terrible ordeal.
A.: He has multiple sclerosis since 1984. Relentlessly advancing towards the end for want of stem cells. 
      Chances are he won’t live up to his presaged death date. 2014 is the final year of G.I.N.A.’s death trip
       when everything shall come to a sudden halt. Thirty years after our magnificent Pepperidge Farm
       Calendar announcing the Oshist Reckoning of Time. This functionalist happening should have kick-
       started the final countdown to the Station of Departure. But it turned out to be a requiem for nothing.
       The ugliest vision of the Bardo I’ve ever seen.
Q.: You feel personally responsible for his unlucky fate, don’t you? As if he were your own precious martyr.
       That’s an egotistic self-assertion. No one is accountable for someone else’s mayhem. Not even for his
       own. Destiny alone rules the lions of Judah. Superstition’s superfluous. Get down a peg or two.
A.: He had followed me like a self-conscious dog into emigration with great expectancy. He trusted me all
       the way down with full loyalty to the uncertain cause. We had gigantic projects to share. ‘Lupus Dei’ 
       must have been the last one in reality. His symptoms started whilst working on the doomed assignment.
       To represent the twelve Apostles as a pack of various canines in a Greco-grotesque series under the 
       lordship of their Wolfchrist. I thought the paint poisoned him but then he was diagnosed. And it’s going 
       by the textbook. My most secret aim with the dubious bluff was to practice and learn miracle healing so
       quintessential to my legendary office. I wanted to use him as a guinea pig. A witness of Osh. But Alas!
       I couldn’t stand the test. Now what? Mea maxima culpa. 
Q.: Is there really no cure for MS? The worst of the genetic curses? Why science has to be an intelligence 
       work? What are they keeping their secrets for?
A.: Theoretically speaking as usual, the Oshist Breathing should cure every sickness. We were to practice it
       every day of the exhibit at 3:33 PM for regular intervals. So I hoped to force and get him used to it. 
       Because as a crazed idea from a weird friend it doesn’t impress him too much. I am not authentic. I
       wanted to become authentic. Now I can recline in my cellar licking my new wounds. Victim of the
        insane back in the isolation. Say good-bye to the last endeavor. I have to start from scratch again.