Prelude

Beginning chapter.

Beneath borrowed moonbeams of a particularly cold December night, the Children of the New Century stood in a tight circle, waiting for the day to come to an end. The Tolstoïen Prince rolled his cigarette meticulously, the flesh of his hands appearing nearly as transparent as the papers which he held between his fingers. As the Prince concentrated on his task, the Countess of Paved Streets looked on maternally at these companions and the New Rimbaud shrugged his shoulders indifferently as he looked on at the passing crowd.

“Tonight everyone goes home to chestnut stuffed turkey,” sighed the new Rimbaud.

“Those girls you were staring at over there with the short skirts and ridiculous transparent tightsk, If I were a man, I wouldn’t envy their mates. They have legs more like chickens rather than juicy turkey thighs!” retorted the Countess, giving him a cross look.

“I always got indigestion from those chestnuts, anyway,” quirped Tolstoy, feeling the singe of the jealousy in the Countess’s voice.

“Forget the turkey, boys! We’ve better than that tonight!”

The New Rimbaud sighed and smiled smugly, not showing if he noticed or not the sadness in the Countess’s remark, or only the jealousy. She had yet to forgive Rimbaud for how he lustfully yearned after the Black Cowbird that one June evening, as he sat and shamelessly held the Countess’s tiny hand in his.

“The Night of all Nights! Oh Ave Maria! Yipeeeeeeeeee!!” exclaimed the Tolstoïen Prince, his mouth watering already, as he imagined what he had concocted that night for his friends.

“That the spirit, Tolstoy! We’d better accomplish what we must!” said Rimbaud, impatient, and at least showing some emotion.

“Lets divide the Blue Cow’s eggs and rendez-vous chez Rimbaud!” The countess unfolded a golden knitted sac from her bosom where she had held it tight all night, and distributed the golden and blue spotted eggs to the gentlemen. The group of three scattered off into the opposite directions of the city, In order to complete their duties.

That night was the twenty-fourth of December and the Children were united for the first time that winter, each trapped within their own solitude. The family of the Tolstoïen Prince fled one another, the duchesses retreating into their austere dachkas far from the City of Cularo. Without pity, the left Tolstoï to shake and shiver in the city alone, as his beard began to overgrow.

Ever faithful to her own Estate, the Countess was forced into exile and stood her ground on foreign soil, and her cheeks were stained as she endured the blows of sorry and the horrors of a Nation whose passion and forever been numbed. Despite the cruelty and false love once shown by Rimbaud, she felt a great pity for him, as he was also menaced this night by the agony of his ambivalent poetry. He then united with these noble comrades without hesitation, because tonight was to be The Night of All Nights, and even the unbelievers are welcomed to watch the Fruit of the Virgin’s Womb enter the world for the two-thousand and eleventh time.

***