ZERO PARADES
field manual
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The script
1,293
From inside the tuk-tuk comes the glottal androgeny of someone rapping in Rustamian.
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Fryer grease and desiccated shrimp tails.
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Garments drying, from smallest to largest. A family hung in order.
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Gloom beckons you beyond the rubble.
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Glowing, futuristic -- the epitome of Fuck.
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Gneiss, formed by pressure.
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Golden victories from a long time past.
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Good spot for eavesdropping.
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Good vantage over here.
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GOOD, PROLETARIAT VALVE.
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Gouge marks. These buttons were pried out and re-seated many times.
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Grass stains. Memory of mud.
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Great trees planted decades before the space program.
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Green tea and cannabis, their combined smells like a Ramses signature.
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H.S. Lastra's blood-obsessed pulp epic awaits you.
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Hairbrush, moisturiser, and an empty glass.
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Half-smoked roaches line the creases of the beanbag: an emergency cache.
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HANDS STOPPED. NO WAY TO KNOW HOW LONG YOU'VE BEEN STANDING HERE.
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Handwritten reports, all ear-marked. Lonely nights down here.
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Haphazardly pegged clothing, child-shaped.
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He ignores you, transfixed by the woman above.
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He spends his days sitting with his back to his memories.
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He stares straight ahead, trying to ignore PSEUDOPOD. He looks extremely uncomfortable.
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He turns his head toward you in slow-motion and barely.
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He's gone.
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He's polished the glass framing these degrees and awards.
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heavy breathing
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Heavy scuff marks from a roller chair.
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Heavy-duty chemical signatures. Not for partying.
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Her eyes follow you around the room, head unturned.
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Here's a box for an electric bidet with built-in seat warmer.
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High end, latest generation consumer tech, probably employing the same batteries as the device Yana gave you. You know what that means.
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High number. There's a whole fleet of these things.
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High-clearance badge request for 'Tiago Silva'. Dated 76.
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High-contrast paint, indicating sub-level FOUR.
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High-end medical equipment gathering dust.
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High-grade analogue gear, downy cones like immense eardrums.
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How many full moons have you seen in your lifetime?
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Huge black lenses, gaping and slick.
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I once knew a spy.
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If everything goes to shit, you can always come hang with the untergäng.
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Illegal repeater stations hidden somewhere in the city keep this TV playing Luzian music videos 24/7.
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Imported from the whole of the Developed World.
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Impressive bristle texture on these moustaches.
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Impressive sense for detail.
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Improvised wiring, machine guts spilling on the floor.
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In the dimness beyond the pane, a small, simian face.
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Incense. The smell reminds you of your childhood in Mircea.
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Increasingly negative newspaper articles pertaining to a 'Project AUTONOMÍA'.
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Industrial drainage. It'll flush away whatever drips through the floor.
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The script - ZERO PARADES - Page 12 of 26