Furious

chapter 12



Nine notes in their binding song. Nine notes repeated twelve times. One hundred and eight in the melody. Three digits—108—that add up to 9, the product of three 3s.

Divide 108 by 3 to get 36; 3 plus 6, another 9. Another 3 to that ordained third power.

I bow to the malicious music.

You are expecting your stasimon, the curtain down between acts, the promise of clarity and comment. And here I am, your guide, going off on wild, arithmetic tangents.

What I want to say is this: I sure know how to pick ’em. Don’t you adore those three lovely, ugly girls? I do.

How quickly they learn. I’m thrilled to see the light come on behind their eyes as they begin to understand their capabilities. The way they got into that ant’s brain, twisted and tweaked it. They taught it a lesson: There is no escape from the terrors of the mind. Brava!

Let me reiterate where we stand at this point in time. And yes, it is only a matter of time.

Alix. Alecto. I hardly have to tempt her. Her fury has been so fine-tuned by others for so long. I ought to send her parents—and her parents’ parents and even her parents’ parents’ parents—fruit baskets for instilling in her so much animosity toward humankind.

And Stephanie, Tisiphone, sheer delight. We can thank so many for shooting down her earnest, peaceful attempts to bring about change. She’s a product of the whole world with its endless greed, materialism, lies, and unabashed self-interest. The warlords and presidents of countries; the lying media and corrupt priests; the insatiable real estate developers and corporate polluters; the autocrats, plutocrats, and bureaucrats; the fascists, communists, and every other ist—there’s no end to those who deserve my utmost and sincere thanks for creating Tisiphone. I could give them all hugs.

Which brings me to Megaera—quiet, still-developing Meg—with the potential to have the most fury of all. Abused by both individual and society, cast aside by parent and the system’s so-called parent substitute. Look what the human race is doing to her.

She is my third, the one I have been waiting for.

But she’s got this one blessing—a curse, in my view—that she manages to keep things in perspective. Damn her open heart and mind. Damn her optimism, the way it dilutes her well-deserved anger. I must get those moccasins off her feet, not allow her to walk the proverbial mile in someone else’s shoes.

I must keep her away from that meddlesome goddess of justice disguised in teacher’s clothing. You know who I mean.

Plus there’s her little friend, Raymond. He’s a question mark. Will I have to do something to keep that interfering ray of light from fiddling sunshine notes into her ear?

Three plus one is four, and four is not an acceptable number. Never four. Never two. It’s always three.

SECOND STASIMON, THE BOOK OF FURIOUS





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