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security vans, the surging fluorescent vests of the riot police are transformed into intense chromatized waves breaking back and forth in front of the tide of protestors that froths at the barricades. Patches of lilies are being cruelly stumped on, only to instantly sprout again, vibrant and cheerful. Upturned vehicles are burning nearby, spreading willowing oranges against a timid blue sky that announces fair weather, a coming season of oleanders and cherry blossoms. A flock of seagulls materializes in the colorful haze above. The revitalizing spirit of the pastoral radiates through the scene.

In the background draped over a broken bank window, behind its wrought iron tracery, is a fey Pre-Raphaelite painting of a starving Afro-asian child advertising a charity bank account in beautiful script; some illegible graffiti is scrawled on the simulated travertine wall beside it. As we watch, a young woman dressed as a clown with ‘CAPITALISM IS BORING’ written on her forehead in bubble letters is dragged from the crowd by the police – pulled back into their ranks, swallowed up. Blows rain down on her body and crack into her face. One of the policemen, freeze-framed mid-swing, the theater light beam caught by the chrome of his helmet, a perfect tableau-vivant, his erection sticking out of his pants. The purple tip of his member haloed red by a burning van behind him.

As we look on, in a separate scenette, a group of police hammer at the prone body of a man lying on the floor in a stiff-limbed modernist reenactment of the Rodney King beating of ‘92’. The atmosphere is entirely different here. The undulating good vibes of the countryside are replaced by the orthogonal logic of the modernist glass box. Lying on his back, the main performer, in jagged Bretchian gestures, reveals an awareness of his condition, an alienation effect that has gone too far: he has shit himself and a pool of urine is spreading out across the crete, catching the sunlight and transforming it into burning gold, with reflections of the protesters distorted into amoeboid shapings. The biomorphism runs like a line of interference over the controlled aesthetics of the work--a note played in the wrong key. This hardly stops one of the policemen in cheekless chaps from sucking him off to the very climatic end.

Hassan Nassim looks on, finally recovering from the drag of the previous night’s insomnia. He muses on the complexities of the contemporary capitalist context, jolted out of his comfortable and passive spectatorship by the harsh and problematic juxtaposition of performances of/in the name of the (non) realities of other people’s oppression, with the lush aesthetics of real-time nu-porn. The performance is a post-performance organised by Tundi McKenzie – one of his now famous reenactment-mash-ups - commissioned to coincide with the opening of the Art Fair. To demonstrate his complicity within the event, and simultaneous exclusion from it (in this aestheticised confrontation with various formats of ‘the Other’) Tundi sits centre-right on an exaggerated mockery of a director’s chair shouting: ‘The forces are made visible! The forces are made visible!’ And jerking in a strange, epileptic dance as if possessed by the demonic flows of capital (but in a knowingly over-played caricature, as a way of exposing and ridiculing his own position as artist-author-cultural-consumer, while cashing in on the knowingness). To the left a dance troop (composed of terminal bowel cancer victims) performs a routine depicting the L.A riots, in a kind of Kubrick choreography-pastiche, which morphs into a depiction of the Jakarta massacre of 2052 and then into the Disney scene where Bambi’s mother is killed but this time by being impaled through her vaginal cavity with an Andre Cadere stick that Tundi just picked up at an auction. Some of the performers are convicted pedophiles and will be paid in starving Afro-asian starving children, also picked up at auctions.

Visitors twist by this problematic and antagonistic scene, ushered by gallery guards into the vast interior of the Minsk Art Dome. The Minsk art fair is now the most important event in the art world calendar. Taking place in a purpose-built arena – a vast Mother-Hole of a construction, set like a tumour in the remorseless immensity of the East Euro wilderness – a vast non-territory that occupies a space of imagination as much as geographical coordinates – a kind of embodied hostile philosophy in its vastness, burnt blue-black in the Second Hostilities, wind-scoured and storm-polished into coagulated black glass and threaded with alumino-flex. Visitors arriving by pods are aqua-zoned down and ushered through the cog-chex by uniformed guard-droids with manual scanners and senso-dogs to search out for illegals and excess-narcos. From the outside the building seems to be just another standard example of excessive post-poc brutalist architecture, but as guests descend from the main entrance by grav lift they become aware of an unexpectedly vast interior space opening up beneath them.

The building is set over what was once the largest open cast diamond mine in the world – a vast inverted cone cut down into the Siberian landscape, glowering like a hollowed out eye socket or a huge opened pore. The mine was so large - three kilometres in diameter - that in the before-days the air zone above the mine was closed to aircrafts after incidents where these were sucked in by downward air-flow, an inverted stack effect, like squitoes into an air vent. The Minsk Art Centre is now clustered around by an impenetrable fortification of the tower blox and habitu-nests of the army of workers that staff it, like fuck-roaches clustered in a cupboard.

Hassam looks down the grav escalator as a coral reef of approximately 22,700 gallery booths zeroes into view (one gallery per every 1,000 humans on earth) laid out in a spectacular display of category and genre. The interior of the building also becomes clearer. In a bizarre and unique display of architectural bravado, the architect Yuan Lo designed for the vast crater to be filled up with ‘stolen’ and intricately preserved examples of landmark historical architecture collected from around the globe. All bought with the unlimited oil-wealth of Bolan Melinski, transported stone by stone and meticulously reassembled at this venue. So, for instance, The Great Pyramid from Egypt is inverted and lowered into the point of the chasm. Near it is the original version of Corbusier’s Villa Savoye, the El Castillo Mayan temple, the Taj Mahal, The Louvre, the Sphinx, a large section of the Great Wall of China and in a mischievous and up-lifting display of brazen fuck-you-oneupmanship the MOMA building from New York (including all its art works). All piled in like discarded toy blocks. Then, the crater had then been filled to half way with transparent plasti-crete covering and encasing the collection like a vast paperweight. YOUR CULTURE IS OUR LANDFILL MUVVAFUKKAS!.The day the plasti-crete was poured a paid army of actors in period customs were hired to go down, unaware of what was happening, into the structures. They are still in there, some of their faces slightly disfigured. A grimace of half-terror was all the virtually non-existent drying time of the material allowed them to perform. Frozen, manikined, preserved from the ravages of time, as a biblical scene – faces tilted upwards towards the onrushing Golgotha--or a natural museum diorama.

The hardened pellucid plasti-crete now creates a vast gleaming conference floor which stretches away below the feet of visitors who are able to look down into the interior of the embedded buildings below. For instance, you can peer down into the fluted folds and gothic spiraling of the inverted interior of Chartres Cathedral frozen many hundreds of meters below. You can also see an up-side-down manikin-actor in 13th century bishop garb. His red robe opened like an umbrella by the plasti-crete. Or like a jellyfish. Without underwear, his tiny genitals are hard to make out from up the heights of the conference floor.

To compliment this bottom-heavy architectural diorama, Yuan Lo sought a solution that would return symmetry, balance and serenity to the project. He scooped up the entire range of mountains into which the Lilabela church complexes of Ethiopia were carved and brought it here. The entire collection of sacred mountains is grav-suspended up-side-down over the Mother-Hole, like a gigantic rock-cloud or frozen-in-place asteroid. Or better still: like a mirror image of the coruscated interior of the mine hole below. In a gesture that marks his genius, Yuan Lo left in place the thousands of flying buttresses that held up the mountain range before the grav-suspension systems could be fired up. So, between the suspended mass and the apex of Mother-Hole, there are a thousand structures that rise like the legs of an upturned insect. They give a mechanical poetics to the place, as a kind of ornate parody of functionalist aesthetics, literally crowning the nu-brutalist structure.

Hassan is taking a long drag from his contraband cigarette, the police beating/fucking scenes are reaching yet another crescendo. It’s his second cigarette tonight. He’s trying to fill the space between his unhappiness and his chronic insomnia with a little fog, with the nearly-forgotten taste of bitter tobacco, with the scents of a life that has been lost. He thinks back to the night before when, naked, he threw the covers off himself, and looked over his thin hairy legs, his exhausted organ, his semen-glistening stomach. And to how he blew smoke over his body, hiding it in the haze, tasting the rank tobacco on his tongue, just as he is tasting it now. He wasn’t covering his lanky limbs because he felt ashamed of them. It wasn’t shame that he felt, but a desire for the moment to grow more enchanted, a degree less brutal than the world he lived in. He smiles—as he remembers listening to the jet of the shower in the bathroom next door. And remembering how he was pounded, the imprecise sensations that coursed through him, the jolt of electricity every time Anton’s flesh collided against his, every time Anton’s sharp pelvis bones stabbed his anaemic cheeks, ground against his own rickety bones. He remembers how red his hands grew, how white his knuckles were, as they pressed against the hovering transparent plane of soft-plas that serves as his bed, keeping his entire body from being flung across the room by Anton’s beastial thrusting. He remembers the disfiguration of Anton’s face as he unleashed whatever it was that propel his movements. And the delirium. Nassim remembers the delirium that pulled the oxygen from the room. And the post-delirious residual throbbing sensation as he lay on the bed listening to the shower. If there was something like a moon left, a view of it, a shaft of moonlight to cut through the blinds and bathe the pile of clothes on the floor, he could have forgotten the world he lives in. But forgetting is one of those things whose stock is depleted in this world.

Even the impending insomnia couldn’t taint his moments with Anton.

A security guard flashes a look of disapproval at the smoke curling from Hassam’s before-days cigarette. But it is clear from Hassam’s prominently displayed pink ‘Exhibitor A’ badge that the security guard can say nothing to him. In fact, even a look of disapproval is not wise – but Hassan lets it slide. As his anti-grav boots float him down the corridor past booth after booth in the direction of 20,179A and the Head Gallery.

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On his way he passes the gallery booths of Kurriman Zutto, Neu Galerie, CFA, Galerie Buchholz, Galerie Meyer Kainer, Luhring Augustine, D’Amelio Terras. Deitch Projects, Museo Tamayo, Misako & Rosen and Otero Plassart. All of these galleries have demonstrated over the course of many years their enduring nature as high class cultural institutions, with an unerring knack of identifying the kind of genuine artistic excellence which ensures longterm investment. And past the publication stand stocking all the top art publications including Art-Death, Ram Lounge, Culture Games, DeathFukk and Bidoun.

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Hassam is one of the few artists who have emerged from the Southern Caliphates and have garnered mainstream visibility. And this, of course, is what matters to The Head Gallery. They are using the fair as an opportunity to release the most recent of his olfacto-narcos which use the newest. still-unregistered hallucinogens and ampheto-suggestives. The whole show that he is putting together for the double-sized booth with its raking pseudo-critique of corporate capitalism and its coquettishly, faux-naif, post-irony titling has led to a frisson of expectation spreading amongst the headgall cognisati. People are pumped, speculative impulses teased into action.

Nassim’s olfacto-narco’s summon up the history of his people – this is the claim - from the Time of the Pharaohs to the Crystallization of the Crude. Reviving the antiquated and lost technique of the fresco but through the sense of smell, Hassam employs a mixture of self-altering plasmas as image substitute. They produced destabilizing results: ever-morphing sense-vistas.  From golden and majestic desert-scapes to sand-covered ruins of cities, and on the way victories, warriors, affronts and exiles. The Mythical Camel, often endowed with the all-seeing eye of Ra, is a recurring motif. And all this conveyed only through scent--and the hallucinations that a jacked up olfactory system can produce from a series of free-bobbing blob-plasmas.
 
The self-altering plasmas are doubly effective in producing what Nassim is after, as they pump out, at regular intervals, massive doses of olfacto-narcos. The morphing imagery of the plasma rendered by the chemical alterations in the viewer’s brain, create halfway between the eye and the object an insane and unshareable hallucination, a liminal reality that explodes all the geometries that we have ever imagined.

These works are the result of more than just the actual hours that Nassim puts into making them—there are all the hours of thinking; the research in what remains of the scorched libraries of nu-Persia and whatever is stored in private vaults through the Southern Caliphates; the bleeding out of the long history he carries in his genes and that his people carried through their exodus out of The Desert. Since there is all this to compensate him for, the Head Gallery has simple purchased his creativity. All of it. And is making its money back by selling whatever products it delivers. But what it really owns, to be clear, what it has a deed on, along with a cadre of secret investors, is Nassim’s immaterial creative labour. He receives a robust stipend for it every month that allows him to keep his upmarket penthouse filled with hovering transparent furniture, his collection of priceless Hezbollah paraphernalia in electromagnetic bell jars, and a parade of shabby adolescents coming in and out at all hours.
 
Of course, owning all his creative thinking safeguards against difficulties that may arise from any rash decision on Nassim’s part to radically change style or media, to grow self-reflexive or brooding, or even from the involuntary decline of his faculties or talent. Owners of everything that he will ever make, the Head Gallery can disappear whatever it feels isn’t up to par, or may prove problematic in the market or devalue previous production. They own not only Nassim’s future, but his oblivion.
 
Nassim’s works begin as projected scenes. Jacked into his massive sense assembler, while he lies submerged to his neck in his hydro-chamber, his head reclined on a vintage silk cushion. His face serene, fazing into deep meditation, allowing the machinery to trace out the shapes and imagery that his thought-currents conjure up and transform them into scent. It can often take Nassim months to visualize in his mind’s eye a single work, and just as long for the assembler to translate each of the pulses that he sends out. The task for both artists and machine is taxing, as every little detail, to the most miniscule one—say, a mole on a Caliph or a scar on a camel—has to be both experienced and captured, synaestheticised and olfactured. The assembler then configures an animated sense-relief that lines up perfectly with the architectural dimensions of whatever space Nassim has been assigned, and that hovers an inch from the actual physical structure, never making any contact with anything. It undulates slightly at the presence of any living body in the room with it. It breathes and pulses, subtly, in the presence of breathing and pulsing bodies.
 
The image inside Nassim’s head has to be translated into mathematical units, into a variation of simple and complex algorhythms, by the assembler in order for it to be scent-rendered. Nassim has never attempted to hide this mechanical fact. On the contrary, from the very beginning, he has exploited the potential that it opens up. Nassim has programmed his assembler to introduce into his frescoes structures that unleash evolutionary and biophysical processes for the algorhythms and, hence, for the physical structures/ hallucinations that they generate. That is, the frescoes continue to change, their content shifts, the longer they exist. Plasma sections or tissues, as Nassim calls them, expire and new ones emerge from the molecular debris left behind by the ones that have run the finite courses that the algorhythms had established for them.
 

The evolutionary, emoto-diverse and quasi-biophysical structures of regeneration and change that Nassim inserts at the genesis of the frescoes means that it becomes increasingly difficult to predict the outcomes of the tissue formation of his olfactos and they hallucinations they induce. Wild asymmetries could emerge where identicals once butted up against one another. This is one of the things that Nassim cherishes about his work. Even if the Head Gallery owns his creativity, they can’t control it, because neither can he. These works grow increasingly impersonal; they seek and follow their own routes. Although they begin with glorious scenes of the history of the people he was born to, in time they become something else, something that neither Nassim nor anyone else has the capacity to predict or control. He stoically let’s go. He sense-creates his works, but then, like a shipbuilder on a port, is left stranded as they sail off into an indeterminate and warping horizon, toward that place where they will make their own shapes--shapes that he has never imagined. They have their own destinies.

And this impossibility of control is compounded by the release of the olfactos. These, too, as lab reports funded by the Head Gallery show, can morph over time. Like viral communities that bump up against specific antibodies and other resistant zones, and slowly develop emergent qualities with which to penetrate them, so the olfactos begin to compound their narc content as populations grow accustomed to their effects. They function in feedback loops. The level of delirium they generate determines how fast they will move toward intensifying their chemical and opiate compounds. If they render devastating hallucigenic spells, they slip into dormant states from which any minor change in the climate of delirium can wake them from. This guarantees Nassim a double victory in de-subjectification, in distancing his sense-scapes from the puny range of his--of everyone’s--brain.
 
The Head Gallery booth seems to be empty but this might be a planned gesture of affected carelessness. From an office space at the back two people emerge. Vialli Trocci and Jane Davis, both are soberly dressed but appearances are deceptive. No one can forget that memorable night after the Andrea Fraser post-post-retrospective (after her deep-frozen corpse was resurrected from ezzeee-sleep), when they took nu-xtasy and Jane ended up fellatioing and having plunger and berry juice sex with an ambiguous-gender tiger that was strapped to rape bed at New York nu-zoo’s forced procreation unit. This has gone down in artworld folklore.

As Nassim approaches he realises a crowd is gathering. He nods to a man dressed in an orange Cossack costume, but there is little ceremony. He walks through the thickening crowd, up to a plinth in the centre of the booth and presses a red button at its centre. Nothing for a few seconds. Then:

… a small plume of pink smoke puffs upwards.

1 – 60 seconds: The effect is subtle at first. Perhaps a slight bitter tang in the mouth, a tickling sensation in the throat – nothing much. People move back and forth. Nassim scratches at the implant in his nose – micro air filter – and smiles.

1-3 minutes: A feeling is growing/developing intangibly – an attitude - and things are starting to happen. At first its butterflies – two or three of them flipping around, delighted faces and soft hands reach out to them, as if picking flowers in a meadow.

3 – 8 minutes: hundreds of butterflies– brightly coloured, darting amongst the crowd, some of them bright primaries, some of them metallic, some of them with strange symbols on their wings. They fill the space, saturate it with joy. Their graceful darting back and forth is amazingly beautiful. One butterfly lands on a man’s nose and melts his stern countenance in a delicate face, coloring with an innocence that he lost long ago. The faces of the audience are screwed up in childlike delight. Entranced, smiling, gurning with joy, an intense happiness, intense, intense, almost painful. But something starts to peel off. Doesn’t add up. Butterlies against a desertscape? Nomadic tribe tents pop up in the distance. Plumes of smoke from stomped-out fires rise.

8 – 15 minutes: intense, intense - o its twisting a bit, going somewhere else and the collective joy is turning, twisting, cranking, too much, oh shit, changing – there is a move towards purples and blue-greys, the detail intensifies. The number of butterflies continues to swell. They shrink the space, push the crowd up against the walls. Claustrophobia. The bodies of the butterflies are human – or almost so. Bodies shaped like humans which are actually colonies of maggots, tightly configured.

15-18 minutes: cured goatskins over the nomadic tents swell. They grow heads, limbs. Goats again, giant goats, they run off into the horizon. A murmur is a kind of pseudo-Yiddish accent. It could be one of the dead desert languages no one knows any longer. It comes from the torsos of the maggot-colony-bodies. They whisper as they plod away.

18-19 minutes: The wooden branches that make up the frame of the tents unfold into strange stick figures. They start walking. Awkwardly. On their hind legs. Like stretched-out insects.

19-25 minutes: then from somewhere a giant figure steps into the scene - moving unsurely over the polished surface, loosing its step, slipping and recovering its balance - a giant albino preying mantis, tattooed with a grain pattern. An epidermis like wood, but drained of all color. Nine feet tall. Some kind of insect-humanoid hybrid. With an element of dragonfly. Similar to the vast mutoid-extended versions in the far south. Its Achilles tendons have been cut. Footless, it stumbles forward slowly, trailing blood, balancing on its lower leg bones. Its arms outstretched. Its face racked with emotion. And desperately attempting to keep its balance over the shiny surface of the gallery floor like some translucent, white-fucked, stilt walker. Or a crab-spider distortion from a Bosch painting. Close ups of the mantis' face reveal red-dew, ruby-tear drops. Like a glass fawn slipping over its first steps, like an insect-giraffe on ice - collapsing forward in a literally unbearable gesture of sorrow. Mouth hanging open, omitting a sound of absolute pitiful despair. Unbearable sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, sorrow. As Dooley O’Garcia has written “.. like a terrifying quasi-mutation of Rodin’s Burghers of Calais, spliced with Goya's white shirted execue in a Wagnerian display of cataclysmic shitness, it moved, if such a set of paintful gestures can be called motion.”

26-60 minutes: maybe the narcos are vibing off the affect of Tundi’s antagonistic scenes outside. But the emotion is cutting tangibly through the air and the crowd is torn and infected. Pulsations of guilt. And breaking hearts. An excruciating, swelling sadness. Stripping away. Pearlised blue-green tears run off cheeks (obviously we are all familiar with the now famous and coveted stills of these multi-coloured tears running down faces). As the crowd rips off clothes, falling on each other. Something like sorrow-fucking starts. Fucking away the void. Fucking away the guilt, the dirt. Naked, punishing themselves with coitus interruptus, men just amble about. They wail. It’s as if some dam that was holding all this pain inside them just gave. The more they wail, the more their organs swell. It’s as if they are crying because this swelling is painful. It smothers something in them. It stretches their genital skin, awakening the possibility...no, the necessity of martyrdom. They stumble around, fist clenches, hardened veins carved into their necks and phalluses alike, tears streaming down, mucus tendrils dangling from their noses, drool. They stare up at the heavens, at the massive hovering sacred mountains of Lilabela above. The women too are sobbing and wailing. A Pieta scene of sorts. Mothers soothing their fallen children, sobbing as a way to make theirs the unfathomable pain digging inside their offspring. Men lick out their vaginas--a kind of just reward for their efforts. The lap the vaginas of the women, but also those of the goats that have begun to amble into the scene. They run around checking the gender of these animals. Instantly slaughtering the males, they pick up the severed heads like grails and pouring all their contents into their open mouths. The goat blood drips all over the bodies, starts to pool on the floor.

60-90 minutes: The men start fucking the neck holes of the decapitated goats. And also through the neck hole, just below the sharp edge of the peeking spine bones. They pump mercilessly into their swelling bodies, until the animal’s viscera start slithering out of their asses onto the ground. The wailing won’t subside; the forced group fellatio and dead animal fucking has. People start scraping their faces down the walls. Scraping off skin. People fit to smash their foreheads. Blood splatters. Deserved self-punishment. Wailing men and women, covered in red veils of their own viscous blood, now mixed with the dried and caked blood of the goats. The men start to rub their throbbing and oversized members with it. To lubricate the operation. Some have to use both hands, as cocks grow into spires like those of Chantres. The men continue to cry. The masturbating is a labor of sorrow, of mourning. Foreskins are ripped away from the shaft, bitten off like rind from fruits. One woman crouches in a corner, all huddled up. Channeling pain. The entire scene feels ancient, Biblical. Some of the men begin to collapse, spasm, foam at the mouth. The rest feel the divine call to intensify things, to testify to this millennial sorrow that courses through them with actions that defy the limits of the human.

90-120 minutes: Some of the men, now with penis that stretch over a metre and wrapped in finely-crafted wrought-metal carapaces that sprouted right out of their muscle tissue. Against a rising geyser of piercing wails, they sodomize whoever happens by--gallerinas, security guards, fair management. Or rather: they just skewer them, ass to mouth, with their spire-penises. The men start to stumble around, crying. Dead bodies, pierced by their members, just dangle from them, like lifeless frogs on skewers. Sands starts to pour out of the women’s orifices and they start to fold in on themselves like emptying piñatas. The rest of the men start doing a strange praying mantis dance that is really an invocation. The albino mantis with the missing feet returns. The men lay face down and the mantis sodomizes eight of them, who lying on the floor form an eight-pointed star, unmistakable symbol of the armies of the beatified Caliph Omar.

120-150 minutes: deflated carcasses are strung up from lighting system. A handful of the men martyred by the sacred mantis-rape. The mantis slumped over, nearly dead from exhaustion. And the people left, overwhelmed by the sadness of what they see, by the fact that they haven’t been martyred themselves, by their inadequacy and inferiority in the face of the Divine, wail louder. They are growing weak. Distraught because even their voice is now betraying them, all they can think is: How will we convey the depths of our sorrow? How will we remain faithful to it, which is our only way of being faithful to God? They start pulling at their already-torn up faces. Pulling at flesh. Digging in. Tearing into their cheeks until the touch bone. Bitting through their lips. They pull away clumps of face, rip off their ears, gouge out their eyes. They end up with grotesque flesh masks. Pulling away at their masks as an escape, as a way to rid themselves of this sadness through extinction. All this drawing on the intense attitude of sorrow emanating from the mantis’s pale body.

150-160 minutes: Then, the mantis turns away and bends over reaching back and pulling its labia wide. A shuddering scream coming out from deep inside it. This is the clever bit because he/she opens up a black hole vortex positioned over the sense-image of her vagina. Immediately audience members are plucked out from where they stand, sucked through the vortex, flipped/teleported out into deep space vacuum on the other side of the universe, life crushed out, floating like trash.

IIIIn the office space. Vialli Trocci - allegedly one of the Head Gallery management- has taken a laz-knife and surgically cut himself open from his neck down to his groin. He is now wanking furiously, trying to ejaculate into in own cut, to slim the peeking viscera. He is sat at his desk, wearing a suit, and just opened his jacket and shirt. From the back it is just the mundane image of a balding businessman in a suit masturbating in his office. Something secretaries the world over are confronted with. Only the rope gold chain, a fashion accessory that he has appropriated from cataxtropha-hip-hop kids, slimes the scene with a vestige of difference, opening up that something else. Something unexpected is afoot here. That slight glint on the chain, as the Art Fair bad lighting hits it, stands in for the emoto-fuckedupness that has overtaken Vialli. He’s crying - tears of iridescent pearlised blue/green.

 

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 Six hours later, Nassim lies in bed in his hotel room. It’s a repeat of the night before. Nassim thinks this, and smiles again. Happiness is this, he convinces himself. The shower stops running. A tiny charge climbs Nassim’s body. He’s giddy, nervous, anticipating something, he’s not sure what, something that promises elation, something that in the future will be remembered with absolute fondness. Anton steps out of the bathroom. He is dripping, naked. His cock looks small next to his artificially elongated legs. With the bathroom light hitting him from behind, Anton’s silhouette looks like that of a preying mantis. There is something repulsive in this. His proportions aren’t human any longer. As he comes out of the half-shadow, Nassim realizes just how insectoid-like his facial features are, too. Nassim always knew that Anton plunged head first into the New Faciality trends, but he had never really noticed that the alterations and the use of the elasto-epidermic layering had gone that far. For the first time Nassim noticed the long legs, the strange fly-like hunched shoulders. He felt sick. He put out his cigarette, covered himself, and screamed at Anton for wetting the floor. The night had just taken a turn for the worse. Anton had set something inside Nassin’s stomach in erratic motion. His bug-body was becoming the shape that Nassim began to associate with the nausea that was climbing up his oesophagus.
 
Nassim turned to his side brusquely. He knew—and dreaded the prospects—that he would have to find a way to fall asleep with his stomach turning, with that repulsive insect next to him, and wake up to search for an excuse to send him home. Nassim laid there, completely awake, following the arabesques of smoke dancing out of the tip of his extinguished cigarette. Before long, they seduced him into placid chambers of sleep, beating his insomnia for the first time in months.  

¡Que viva México!

 

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