No byline, again.
Da effin Guinea.
How do I know? I know, and let’s just leave it at that.
What am I after?
Let’s just say I’ve been put on notice, warned, so to speak, by a number of individuals who claim to know a thing or two about the Half Guinea, some even claiming a kind of esoteric “expertise” regarding that half-immortal freak.
Yes, for they’ve told me about how the Guinea is in possession of certain powers, which use is always aimed at someone, or any number of people, with malicious intent, typically yielding for the Guinea some very satisfying results, and the badness of his intent remains constant, notwithstanding whether he exerts those powers subtly, directly and overtly, or crudely, with the latter most often being the case.
Other than when he is merely toying with the vulnerabilities of some other half-immortal, such as, for example, the Hunched Cornish, who, though physically more powerful, in aspect far more gruesome, and in his own powers potentially far more terrifying than the Guinea, is arguably psychologically less stable than his off-again, on-again colleague-cum-nemesis, if only for the thousands of years of sexual frustration the Hunched Cornish has suffered at the hands, so to speak, of his own particular curse.
In all cases, the Guinea’s motivations seem to be the derivation of a perverse personal satisfaction and pleasure from the results of his actions rather than changing the world for the worse, generally speaking – something the Guinea does not seem capable of achieving and, to his chagrin, he knows it.
Whether the Guinea was granted these powers as a sort of compensation for his Fall, or whether they automatically became part of his Fallen condition, or whether he managed to develop them himself during all that extra time he’s had on Earth, I’ve been told, is a question irrelevant, insofar as I should simply watch it with regard to the Guinea, if I know what’s good for me.
But to such warnings and admonitions, I ask: Regardless of how the Guinea has come by his powers, according to Whose will did he gain them? Surely, it is the same will Who cursed (not damned, which will come later) the Guinea at the drop of a cloak, instantly transforming him into the tormented overliving freak that he is?
Therefore, it is out of my hands. I have nothing to do with it.
Because I want to be free.
And that is all I have to say, for now, regarding the Guinea. Except for this one passage in the “Nightfall” frame being referenced in this Notice; and I quote:
‘A cloud of white smoke fills the air from a thin opening between the Half Guinea’s moist purple lips, which curl into a smile, revealing a neat row of small but perfectly straight teeth.’
Is the Guinea perhaps reminiscing about the rugged, strapping young soldier he’d been, before his Fall; his finely chiseled Mediterranean features alluringly handsome, a masculine magnetism coursing just under his swarthy, darkly glowing skin? A strong jaw set somewhat back between the cheek plates of his galea, shadowing the lips of a firmly set but sensuous mouth? That, when occasion gave him cause to smile or laugh with it, he’d reveal, whether to his comrades-in-arms, or his wife, or his female lovers (many of them Black), two perfectly even, healthy rows of pearly white teeth?
For is not the Guinea’s mouth in actuality grotesque; its inside a cruel waste of time-beveled Ancient Roman ruins?
For again I quote – this time from Vol. 1 of The Kyiv Commix, No. 43, in which the Hunched Cornish expresses his annoyance at being suddenly discovered and rudely interrupted by the Guinea while in the midst of penning a Kyiv eatery review; a moment he describes, in part, thusly:
‘The Half Guinea, as he usually somehow manages, ruined this fine and cheap lunching experience for The Hunched Cornish by once again finding him, baring his jagged teeth, the two central incisors jutting over the lower lip in a shearing crooked V, taunting…’;
And again, from Vol. 1 – No. 97 – in which the wreck of the Guinea’s choppers is given thusly:
‘… says The Guinea through the V formation of his incisors, which make his canine teeth look like columns, and his premolars like box seats in a coliseum.’;
Written by none other than… the Guinea himself!
And now, Guinea, you schlep and lurch around wartime Kyiv, in your green corduroys, cheap, three-quarter-length black leather jacket, and some kind of large, floppy hat, I guess; each item of clothing greasy and oily to one extent or another – chasing after Black chicks!
Is that why you’re in Kyiv, Guinea? Not for Black chicks, obviously, which here are few and far between – for now… But… because of the war. A thing you knew would be coming all along, which is why you furtively slipped and quietly insinuated your way into town, just before it all began, igniting in 2013 and 2014 on Independence Square before blowing up into the full-scale horror and tragedy it is today; a thing by you foreseen, through a perverse gift of dark prophecy – one of your twisted powers. Because you wanted to be here, to see it – it’s your thing – to usher it along, to take your pleasure in the pain.
Is that not so, Guinea?
Because I know it’s you, Guinea.
It’s you!
It’s you!
It’s fucking you!!!
So just sign your name to the frame, Guinea, and be done with it. Is that too much to ask for? Is that so hard to do?
Just sign your stupid, fuckin’ Half Guinea name!!!