Q.: Everybody does it according to his abilities, don’t they? It’s too bad, but that’s the maximum you
can figure yet out. You can neither paint, nor plunder. You’re a born charade looking for paltry
pranks. This is a brilliant one nonetheless, I’m happy to admit. You always know how to turn your
real shit into fake gold. And call it grey magick.
A.: That’s right. This is my best shot at the system so far. The swindle of a century. The heist of heists.
Q.: However, I don’t know what you eventually expect to transpire. It is not the first time you’re
anticipating the FBI knocking on your door. You are a wishful paranoid. With an aberrant penchant
for putting yourself in harm’s precipitated way. Nothing you can fancy but scandal. And then weep
when it fortunately doesn’t work out. That’s your emotional range. Dare, hope and cry. A
dysfunctional child machine. Why won’t you invent a less contentious gimmick?
A.: I am a grey wolf raised on subversion. I cannot change my priorities after so many failures. It would
turn them waste. To tell the truth, I’m comfortable with my attitude. I wouldn’t change it for a better
one. I’ve got my harmony.
Q.: Glad to hear that. ‘Cause I worked a bloody deal to visualize your spoof. Since you’re incompetent
of newer technologies than a black-mail stamp. Literally horrified of them like a crouching tiger.
You are a tormented traveler of the changing time. Stuck with the habituality of ancient mariners.
Without me you’d still use a type-writer.
A.: I am full of respect and envy, but can’t see the point. If anyone can do it, why should me too? My
communication has no sway amidst the texting natives. I am an antidemocratic socialist. Rivalry is not
my piece of cheesecake.
Q.: Because you’d surely lose, that’s why. It’s easier to float in the in the visions of Nirvana. There are three
things you are, copyright 888. Coward, lazy and stupid. Not a groomy character for the silicon bride. I
am so amazed how easy it is to interact in this space age. You’ll go to Jericho for doing the reject.
A.: It also is the death of substance. Immeasurability denigrates every value. Nothing shall remain from
the mass production but its reflective surface. Underground’s swallowed by the hollow of the Earth.
Q.: Those phrenic warning signs shouldn’t prevent you from entering the Pandemonium. Ask Virgilius.
The trouble is that you can’t upgrade your original imprints. The mystery of the Fluxus. The thrill of
espionage. Well, the cold war has been frozen over. Every worker is a star, just as you announced. Only
you don’t want to join. You wanna be the queen bee.
A.: I have severe difficulties to accommodate. And I cannot learn. I am a man in need indeed. Subordinate
is the mode of my sentence. No will to triumph.
Q.: All you’ve ever been trying was to draft yourself, my word. But could never get farther than excuses.
That you are abandoned is syllogical. No help for the helpless. Life is what you make it.
A.: I am abhorred of the social media worse than of hairy giants. I would never dare to challenge them.
This cranky project only uses cyberspace as its ideal medium. ‘The Auctionary’ has been a lingering
idea of mine since SPIONS incorporated. I admire the opportunity to realize it now. And am very
grateful for the page you’ve created. It could be a stolen masterpiece by itself. We’ve found the door
that’ll let us out.
Q.: I’ve enjoyed it so much to make it for you. WIX is such a great program to work with. All you had to do
was to collect the larceny. And you did that one very well too. Fraudulence is your home straight.
We were like Bonnie and Clyde, wasn’t it? A perfect collaboration.
A.: Art is cheatery. The quintessence of recreation. The mirror tells it all. What the mirror don’t show
does not even exist. That’s where I reside according to my progeny. The vampire realm. I am an
inhibitionist offender. A real black star.
Q.: You’ve been possessed by the metaphor ever since you’ve closed your eyes. In the urban wasteland
you’re a bankrupt emigrant without identity. Prowling for the fastest trick to get rich and famous.
Whilst relying on my multiethic support in every walk like a zombie lad. From buying your
garments to making your websites. You have a deplorable disposition in the diaspora of the Cosmic
Bargain. Won’t get out alive if you don’t leave your mark.
A.: All my admiration goes out to real prowlers. And the forgers of F for Fake. Alas! I have neither skill
nor talent. I could never steal anything valuable. Shoplifting for food was my outer limit.
Q.: Chances are you’re critically insane. What would you do if someone gets duped and starts
investigating our fictional enterprise. The truth behind the Joe Rose Trust Fund. Say you were testing
the waters of fabrication? Or the potentials of falsity? Could you explain to the police what galvanized
you for an arbitrary graft like that? A swindle with no potential profit?
A.: ‘The Auctionary’ needs no explanation. The concept speaks for itself. The value of commercial art is
immaterial. It’s not measured by size and weight like the megaliths. Its worth is given by their
signature. Since intelligence extended the frontiers of perception, everything can be considered art
if appropriated. What differs a postmodern artwork from sheer design is its inherent superfluity.
The quintessence of a Hockney is self-contingency. Whereas it ain’t good for nothing else than
promoting its artificer. That’s why Osh is the Author of all works of art. Art is what you can do
without. The last thing on a shipwreck’s mind. Art is sheer luxury from poetry to tableau. I am a
conceptualist at heart. Little interested in the actual outcome. My activity is its own meritorium.
Q.: That’s another irksome lie of yours. You invest a formidable amount of expectation in your tardy
schemes. More than a professional gambler. You have lost all sense of proportion in the isolation
tank. The Word is not its own servant. Its major drive is to become true and invade the multimedia.
Price is the only tag of eminence. What can’t be sold shouldn’t have been made. First amendment
of the Art of Business.
A.: You are assassinating my character, Gina. All of my dream I’ve been aiming at the supermarket. I
am a dissident Capitalist with nothing but the Dollar sign on his treacherous mind.
Q.: You couldn’t auction a single slogan in your entire career. You’re a wimp in his empty closet. An
abject parasite of the trees of life. Cast outside the confines of fair exchange. Moved solely by his
jealousy for others. A nervous bum begging to give away his garbage of jewels.
A.: That day might be in the very coming. ‘The Auctionary’ is a smartest bomb ready to explode. The
best hoax ever stormed from a displaced brain.
Q.: Are you eventually aware of what you have become with this intervention? Another con artist on the
rooster of delinquency. A dilettante scumbag by definition. Pretty far from the fancy of a dazzling arrival.
A.: Existence is a perpetuity of compromises. I cannot stop to lose.
Q.: But you wouldn’t adhere to an Internet community. Wouldn’t risk to emulate the savvy. Why don’t you
try to publish your own stuff in place of a silly ruse? Your snobbish resistance is plain hysterical. Lone
wolves will be extinct.
A.: The Party cannot be introduced as an alternative. It is the curse and the bliss of my epistemology. I need
a better method than blasphemous propaganda. That much have I learned since 1984.
Q.: You have transformed into an intransitive enmity from the active verb you began with. Your
uncompromising despise of the mass production has turned you into an asocialist monster for
want of a formal engagement. The moment to chat has come. It is safe and comfy and costs nothing.
Custom-made made for you. A gift you you shouldn’t refuse just because it’s collective.
A.: I don’t want equal share. I’m an all-or-nothing guy. I have a secret to betray. Can’t bungle it by careless
whisper. I am deemed and doomed to hide under the cover of invisibility. Illumination comes from the
dark. I’m not ready for the light yet.
Q.: You’d better be, by my opinion. The chains you wear are no extensions of your astral body. You’re
awaited to break them up.
A.: My constraints are a lot more intricate than sheer aversion. I ought to protect the integrity of my
acquired image. Can’t go on the worldwide web as the angel of revenge like any jerk. Or emerge as
moronic spokesperson with my underworldly looks. Be rational. Hoodwinking is my only chance.
Q.: You could as well lie if you wanted to participate. Or create a DJ Channel in stead of the shady radio
hosting you’re paying for. Anything you could do if so interested. But not the iron man. All he cares
about is the future of mankind.
A.: I have nothing in common with the surfing ones. I’m sunk to the bottom of the endless see. Nobody
ever took my trembling hand. Just planning my vengeance in a purple haze. The last of the dreamers.
A wreck of unfulfilled prophecies.
Q.: It’s all because of the intelligence agency. I wonder how you got that dangerous bug. It infected like a
virus your entire cerebrum. You’re looking at the world through the eyes of an informer. Can’t affiliate
with any part of it. You are confined to the extremes of seclusion. An illegal alien in house arrest.
Ideas are born to be promoted. Not to gratify your Masochistic tendencies.
A.: A counterfeit Antichrist ought to be extremely cautious. Without the dragon of ego I successfully slain,
one’s motivations reduce to the divine. Osh is a colonizer of the magnetic fields and that’s my wordly
mission. An overnight takeover. The silence will break when the Lamb utters the yell. That’s how it
should be or not all. I love the script too much.
Q.: You are a deluded impostor out of every luck. Scouting the void like nobody’s spy. Tracing your own
trails backwards in dead time. The gigantic failure of an adamant ant. A slave of the wild frontiers.
A.: The spectrum of my reconnaissance is intergalactic. I am setting a transcendent example of persistence.
Everybody should belong to himself all alone. That would guarantee true equity. The likeness of None.
I am living as a symbol and so I wanna die. An antecedent of the universal refugee without genome and
bloodline. A self-made master of alien yoga. I never speculate and never doubt. I have sold my soul to
the spirit of reproduction. I am my own unborn child.
Q.: It must be a great illumination by any socio-pathological standard. I can see why you are so reluctant
to spill those parlous beans. But that’s all you have. You’re not working for them, don’t you forget!
You’re working for yourself. Instincts should overcome the blockade of reasons.
A.: The UR is a Front of self-made mutants dedicated to kill the crime anytime anywhere. An elite corps
of supreme rights recruited against the worlds at war. An alliance of diversity joining their forces to
liberate justice from the evil bondage of Christian humanism. A merciless militia of ethic cleansing.
No more pardon for the devil. Total eradication of Hell is the mark of the Beauty. That’s the Word’s
pawn of untainted love to the Bride of New Jerusalem. My poisonous wedding cake.
Q.: Well repeated, groom of the room. I’d like to hear it again. If you could once get a good glimpse of how
ludicrous you altogether are! You and your antiquated terminology. We all are living under the grey
rainbow of indifference. It won’t be you who’ll separate black from white. You who has no sense of
nuances.
A.: But I know the line better than the normal seem to. It is drawn between sin and crime. What we are doing
belongs to the former category. The media are what you’re using them for We do not act – we play. As
written by the Chief Commander of our subhuman comedy.
Q.: You are an imbecile bathtub-sailor, Spiel! Trying to stir a storm whereby to proceed. Challenging the
culture from within is youthful folly from a Sexagenarian. The art industry is managed by jealousy and
greed. It is a diabolical Mafia of witches and wizards defending their parallel emporiums. They have no
sense of humour for the outside.
A.: I shall never retreat. The Party is governed by a higher intelligence. In the People’s Kingdom Logos
reigns supreme. It is my sacred heart that’s up to auction with this delicate farce. Let’s see if Anthony
Amore buys it.
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