Just as J.S.W. breaks into a full-body sweat, the door can be heared to open with many voices crowding in. C.K., tranquility himself, gets up and disappears down the hallway. Shortly a whole company of little people comes romping into the living room, ebulliently conversing but lapsing into brief silence upon seeing the beautiful, tall, pallid, blasted Joelle Snow White who feels her mind reel against the total disappearance of her previous everyday realities.
Oh heavens! Oh heavens! What a lovely child!
They all exclaim in unison, then introduce themselves: Cynthia Biggo-Ego, manager of the wholefood store “Emerald Squash”; her husband Heyman Hungrey, undistinguished salesrep; Abiola Sneezy-Wheezy, a severe lady wielding the financial whip and cracking West-African aphorisms; her boyfriend Saul Sleepy, sales and transport, looking his name; Gaetano Grumpy who works in a gfx company, an ageing bachelor; a jeweller of Korean-descent called Dae-Jung Dopey and of course, the narco-savant Charlie Kreyzey. Joelle suspects that he finances part of their operations or even supplies them with the harder-to-come-by herbs.
J.S.W is still fighting the outwards signs of her craving for cocaine, which is getting worse by the second. Her rapidly changing proprioceptive delusions have moved to the background at the expense of a disturbing, purely mental impression of being a character in a story and thus solely consisting of letters and adjectives and convoluted sentences, sprung into life at the whim of a reader’s fickle fantasy and will to read. Though overpowering, this too passes.
How have you come to our appartment?
Inquires Gaetano Grumpy, irritably combing his beard with his fingers. Then she tells them the whole story: that her hellcat stepmother had wished to have her killed but that a merciful hitman had spared her life and that she has been wandering about all night and ended up in this appartment block, she doesn’t quite know how.
The party looks at one another in wonderment. Only Charlie K. is leaning cooly against the wall, next to an expansive, expensive plectage [an early work titled “Goldfall”], not making any discernible type of face. Abiola Sneezy-Wheezy takes matters into her own mouth and sternly says:
If you will take care of our appartment, cook, make the beds, wash, sew, knit and run errands for the “Emerald Squash” and if you will keep everything neat and clean, you can stay with us and you shall want for nothing.
Contemplating her situation and the outlandishly old-fashioned, bemusing offer, J. “Snow” White consents. Later that evening, Charlie Kreyzey slips her a dime bag [making extremely vague allusions to oral intercourse] and J.S.W. wonders if this will end well or what: Where is the button to press for things to go back the way they were before she-devil Henriette Trefoil? Avant the detestable decapitation that had severed so much more?
Meanwhile back home in Altra Luna, the lunar dominion, stepqueen H. T. is experiencing significant contretemps of her own. Contrary to her badly thought through extrapolations the absence of his daugher has not lead King White to lavish more time on his new fiendish wife but rather sends him into nights of insomnia and underling-directed brutality , not to mention bloody revenge killings against rival drug syndicates, e.g. the Terra Infinita cartel …whom he thinks capable of anything. All this to the point where after not even a week’s M.I.A. of his comely child, Nicholas White is only a shadow of his former, impressive, regal self and is indeed unable to fullfill his manly duties vis-à-vis an ever bluer stepqueen Trefoil. This par consequence sparks off severe bouts of insecurity in the 40-something year old manipulative black widow of A. Luna’s delinquent shadow world until at last “la Trefoil” resorts to that magical mirror she doesn’t like much but can’t help staking her self-image on.
Looking-glass, Looking-glass, on the wall,
Who in this land is the fairest of all?
And the glass, vexed by eternally the same question is maliciously glad to reply:
Oh, Queen, thou art fairest of all I see,
But over the seven seas, where the seven small people dwell,
Joelle Snow White is still alive and well,
And none is so fair as she.
Then she is astounded, for she knows that the looking-glass never speaks falsely and she realizes that Jesus “No Worries” Mercurio has caused her in point of fact great worries. The termagant knows she will find no rest until Princess J.S.W. will be lying down as still and white and cold as snow itself. This time around she will have to take matters into her own murderous hands if she wants to be certain of success. Once King White will see his daughter’s dead body, thus getting psychologically much-needed closure, he will mourn for a while but eventually this will allow her to become the unchallenged, top-most-beautiful woman and win 100% of his love and affection.
And when Henriette Trefoil has at last thought of something to do she paints her face, hands, neck dark brown, throws on a wig and dresses herself like an aged, contemporary African lit expert. She titles herself Professor Christiane Dialo and to great fanfare announces a discussion series “Writing in light of blackness”. This she will kick off in a tiny, community bookstore in Luceria. The little bibliophilia-caterer is overjoyed to host such a nice-sounding literary event even though she is unfamiliar with any scholar name of Prof. C. Dialo, 64, from the University of Dakar. ‘Tis a most wondrous thing.