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The universal sign for 'never heard of it'.

We've got no wounds here, mister.

Long-standing...?

Wait: Ignatz. The name from TAXMAN's ledger.

Approach cautiously. There may yet be gold hidden in that repulsive coat.

A likely story. More likely... he's viewing you right now.

Why's he starting at the end... ?

Or, message conveyed, he has cut the psychic link and stopped remote viewing you.

An ancient map to the catacombs of meaning.

Operant! You're so close!

Can't you just solve this fucking thing and be done with it?

You're with him now -- it sinks into place with a solid mental thunk. 'MBP' becomes 13/2/16.

In one, human forms emerge from the black depths of a dilated pupil. In another a man stands naked facing a guerilla batallion, his hand upraised pointing at the sky.

Scenes flash against the bedsheet screen of your mind -- framed in the same red veinage as the book's cover.

Trepanning, yes, yes, yes! Any book that contains skull holes is okay by the gäng, even if it has no pictures.

Trapped between hack-hire genre fiction, philosophical exploration and straight up gore fetish smut, the book cackles in your hands.

Masquerading as a pulpy exploitation novel, in reality it's a work of what the Treffe school of psychoanalysts call Vorbewusstseinweh.

It was you who taught him the cigarette trick in the first place. The Opera speaks to itself.

Dante's ticket out. He will need this.

Whether you choose to stamp his ticket or not is another matter.

Just the papers, no note. A sense of strange finality settles into you; he's gone.

More smokes, more secrets. Nearly everyone in-theatre learns this trick eventually.

Nearly everyone in-theatre learns the cigarette trick eventually. You've taught it to half a dozen assets yourself.

The sound reminds you of a die.

A little voice somewhere intones: 'No take-backs'.

For the gambler palming a final chip; for the veteran lacing up boots cracked at the heels; for the fool stepping into the current and demanding the river change course.

A pit of hopelessness opens in your stomach as you skim the rows of faces.

The shrine lacks the sacred air of Mircean churches you knew as a child -- it is an organic thing, maintained by locals of their own volition.

He was alluding to something.

One more drink and he won't make it.

HA-HA. THE DRUNK FASCIST CANNOT STOP HIMSELF FROM REVEALING ALL OF THEIR SECRETS.

Is he alluding to something?

Ah, no gäng, we're gonna start feeling sorry for him like this.

EXECUTION BY FIRING SQUAD IN A DILAPIDATED SHED BEHIND THE MUSIC FESTIVAL GROUNDS.

Keeping watch. The warden of the streets.

Alcohol on his breath.

He must have been going at it for a while.

SEIZE THE HISTORICAL MOMENT TO GET THIS HIGH-RANKING TECHNO-FASCIST OUT OF YOUR WAY.

This man should not be alone right now.

You really shouldn't waste your time with this.

You'd know that cadence anywhere...

Far past the realm of ordinary paranoia, you have stumble into the territory of superstition, the unknown areas of maps where monsters once proliferated.

This ends here. Close the door on the madness you have unleashed upon yourself.

A faded patch sewn into his pants, below the pocket. Twin black lines set against a yellow background -- Carriles de Portofiro, the oldest transit company in the city.

A cruel joke, most likely.

Look. Another bald spot bobs within your reach... this one even more pristine than the last.

2,870 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 34 of 58