u/normancrane

In the beginning was sand and out of the sand came Urazhad.

This the legends say.

This I have heard.

This I say, I was in a city once under a harsh red sun,” said the storyteller, as I listened in a desert city under a crescent moon and said to you, my companion, “he who is known by many names: Ur al-Zhadir in your native Qab, and Aurazhades in the lands of Empire, and Razhad among the nomads, and the Red Urzah to his enemies and Urazh-Adin in the sacred texts, which no one may read without consequence,” after you had asked, “Who is Urazhad?” “much as you are now, smelling the sweet smoke and eating the soft ripe fruit of the rimbuh tree,

when a man walked in covered in sand for there was a sandstorm beyond the walls. He asked for shelter and was given. He asked for water and was given. He asked how he could repay and was told kindness, given, is never sold so can never be repaid, and he bowed his head and said, “Then in kindness allow me to tell a story.”

“The man sat and other men sat near, and the man said, ‘My name is Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller. “‘I have come from far and have far to go, but I am old and have seen much. In my youth, I was a member of an order called—’’”

In the desert a jackal howled, obscuring the name of the order.

“‘—whose purpose was the downfall of the Sultan of Zalaf, and whose proverb was ‘we, who are the authors of our own fate,’ said Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller, where Zalaf was once a great city in the desert much as this one, and which was ruled by a great Sultan who possessed a thousand concubines and ten thousand slaves and an army of fifty thousand men, I said to you, as you chewed the rimbuh fruit.

“Urazhad began by describing the Sultan's cruelty and his fortress in the heart of Zalaf called Unconquerable. ‘Thus understand we had chosen for ourselves an impossible task, but nothing is more excellent than to achieve the unachievable,’ he said, and the crowd sat quiet and listened,” said the storyteller, as we sat quiet and listened. “Urazhad said, ‘One day while on the caravan route between Ons and Gopur our camel train was stopped by soldiers from Zalaf. ‘We search for the Order of—’’”

Again the jackal howled.

—‘, said one of the soldiers, ‘and the one called the Red Urzah,’’ said Urazhad, and sensing his men ready to defend him to the death, he said, ‘I am the Red Urzah,’ and the soldiers drew their scimitars, ‘and they outnumbered us twenty to one,’ said Urazhad,” and the juice of the rimbuh fruit ran down your face, and the sweet smoke smelled of rosewater, “‘so I agreed,’ said Urazhad,” said the storyteller, “‘in exchange for the sparing of the lives of my brothers-in-arms, to be taken to Zalaf to be executed.’’”

“There,” said the storyteller, “Urazhad made but one request: to beg forgiveness of the Sultan before death. ‘Did he grant your request?’ one of the listeners asked, and, ‘Yes,’ answered Urazhad. ‘In the morning I was led blindfolded and bound to kneel before the Sultan in his fortress, Unconquerable.’’”

“The Sultan allowed Urazhad to remove his blindfold in order to see the fear in his eyes, but there was no fear; and Urazhad said, ‘Sultan, before I am executed, may I tell you a story?’’” said the storyteller, “and a hush fell upon the listeners, who, knowing Urazhad to be alive, wished to know by what feat of bravery or cunning he had escaped the Sultan’s grasp. ‘Very well,’ said the Sultan,’ said Urazhad,” said the storyteller. “‘Sultan, promise me that for as long as I shall be telling my story, so long shall you delay my execution,’ said Urazhad, and the Sultan, intrigued, agreed.”

“For twenty-four days Urazhad told his story, with no pause, no rest, no food and no water. The story was about a powerful king in the lands of Empire and the wanderings of two dozen treasonous knights. For twenty-four days, the Sultan listened, although sometimes he dozed and often he ate and drank, and was pleasured by his concubines. Until,’ said Urazhad, ‘exhausted, I came to the end of my telling, saying to the Sultan: ‘It was then the throne room was breached and

hundreds of members of the Order of the Howling Jackal entered with their blades drawn. The Sultan rose to flee, but there was nowhere to go. And Urazhad, after being freed of his bindings, took a blade for himself and with it disemboweled the disbelieving Sultan.

“‘How? It is… impossible,’ said the Sultan,’ dying, ‘said Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller, and when I looked at you, you, my companion, had fallen into a deep and decadent slumber.

The storyteller, I inscribed on a sheet of paper for you, so you would know the ending of the telling of the telling of Urazhad's story, said, “‘We,’ said Urazhad, ‘are the authors of our own fate.’’” “He who tells the story controls the telling,” I whispered to you, finishing my inscription.

Then I searched your person and your bags, and found and took your gold, your gems, your map of Qab, your silver dagger and a small roll of parchment, which my curiosity forced me to unroll and read.

Upon it was written:

---

> …and he who takes this and reads these words shall forever be my slave. THE END.

> —Urazh-Adin

---

In the beginning was sand and out of the sand came Urazhad.

This the legends say.

This I have heard.

This I say, I was in a city once under a harsh red sun,” said the storyteller, as I listened in a desert city under a crescent moon and said to you, my companion, “he who is known by many names: Ur al-Zhadir in your native Qab, and Aurazhades in the lands of Empire, and Razhad among the nomads, and the Red Urzah to his enemies and Urazh-Adin in the sacred texts, which no one may read without consequence,” after you had asked, “Who is Urazhad?” “much as you are now, smelling the sweet smoke and eating the soft ripe fruit of the rimbuh tree,

when a man walked in covered in sand for there was a sandstorm beyond the walls. He asked for shelter and was given. He asked for water and was given. He asked how he could repay and was told kindness, given, is never sold so can never be repaid, and he bowed his head and said, “Then in kindness allow me to tell a story.”

“The man sat and other men sat near, and the man said, ‘My name is Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller. “‘I have come from far and have far to go, but I am old and have seen much. In my youth, I was a member of an order called—’’”

In the desert a jackal howled, obscuring the name of the order.

“‘—whose purpose was the downfall of the Sultan of Zalaf, and whose proverb was ‘we, who are the authors of our own fate,’ said Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller, where Zalaf was once a great city in the desert much as this one, and which was ruled by a great Sultan who possessed a thousand concubines and ten thousand slaves and an army of fifty thousand men, I said to you, as you chewed the rimbuh fruit.

“Urazhad began by describing the Sultan's cruelty and his fortress in the heart of Zalaf called Unconquerable. ‘Thus understand we had chosen for ourselves an impossible task, but nothing is more excellent than to achieve the unachievable,’ he said, and the crowd sat quiet and listened,” said the storyteller, as we sat quiet and listened. “Urazhad said, ‘One day while on the caravan route between Ons and Gopur our camel train was stopped by soldiers from Zalaf. ‘We search for the Order of—’’”

Again the jackal howled.

—‘, said one of the soldiers, ‘and the one called the Red Urzah,’’ said Urazhad, and sensing his men ready to defend him to the death, he said, ‘I am the Red Urzah,’ and the soldiers drew their scimitars, ‘and they outnumbered us twenty to one,’ said Urazhad,” and the juice of the rimbuh fruit ran down your face, and the sweet smoke smelled of rosewater, “‘so I agreed,’ said Urazhad,” said the storyteller, “‘in exchange for the sparing of the lives of my brothers-in-arms, to be taken to Zalaf to be executed.’’”

“There,” said the storyteller, “Urazhad made but one request: to beg forgiveness of the Sultan before death. ‘Did he grant your request?’ one of the listeners asked, and, ‘Yes,’ answered Urazhad. ‘In the morning I was led blindfolded and bound to kneel before the Sultan in his fortress, Unconquerable.’’”

“The Sultan allowed Urazhad to remove his blindfold in order to see the fear in his eyes, but there was no fear; and Urazhad said, ‘Sultan, before I am executed, may I tell you a story?’’” said the storyteller, “and a hush fell upon the listeners, who, knowing Urazhad to be alive, wished to know by what feat of bravery or cunning he had escaped the Sultan’s grasp. ‘Very well,’ said the Sultan,’ said Urazhad,” said the storyteller. “‘Sultan, promise me that for as long as I shall be telling my story, so long shall you delay my execution,’ said Urazhad, and the Sultan, intrigued, agreed.”

“For twenty-four days Urazhad told his story, with no pause, no rest, no food and no water. The story was about a powerful king in the lands of Empire and the wanderings of two dozen treasonous knights. For twenty-four days, the Sultan listened, although sometimes he dozed and often he ate and drank, and was pleasured by his concubines. Until,’ said Urazhad, ‘exhausted, I came to the end of my telling, saying to the Sultan: ‘It was then the throne room was breached and

hundreds of members of the Order of the Howling Jackal entered with their blades drawn. The Sultan rose to flee, but there was nowhere to go. And Urazhad, after being freed of his bindings, took a blade for himself and with it disemboweled the disbelieving Sultan.

“‘How? It is… impossible,’ said the Sultan,’ dying, ‘said Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller, and when I looked at you, you, my companion, had fallen into a deep and decadent slumber.

The storyteller, I inscribed on a sheet of paper for you, so you would know the ending of the telling of the telling of Urazhad's story, said, “‘We,’ said Urazhad, ‘are the authors of our own fate.’’” “He who tells the story controls the telling,” I whispered to you, finishing my inscription.

Then I searched your person and your bags, and found and took your gold, your gems, your map of Qab, your silver dagger and a small roll of parchment, which my curiosity forced me to unroll and read.

Upon it was written:

---

> …and he who takes this and reads these words shall forever be my slave. THE END.

> —Urazh-Adin

---

In the beginning was sand and out of the sand came Urazhad.

This the legends say.

This I have heard.

This I say, I was in a city once under a harsh red sun,” said the storyteller, as I listened in a desert city under a crescent moon and said to you, my companion, “he who is known by many names: Ur al-Zhadir in your native Qab, and Aurazhades in the lands of Empire, and Razhad among the nomads, and the Red Urzah to his enemies and Urazh-Adin in the sacred texts, which no one may read without consequence,” after you had asked, “Who is Urazhad?” “much as you are now, smelling the sweet smoke and eating the soft ripe fruit of the rimbuh tree,

when a man walked in covered in sand for there was a sandstorm beyond the walls. He asked for shelter and was given. He asked for water and was given. He asked how he could repay and was told kindness, given, is never sold so can never be repaid, and he bowed his head and said, “Then in kindness allow me to tell a story.”

“The man sat and other men sat near, and the man said, ‘My name is Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller. “‘I have come from far and have far to go, but I am old and have seen much. In my youth, I was a member of an order called—’’”

In the desert a jackal howled, obscuring the name of the order.

“‘—whose purpose was the downfall of the Sultan of Zalaf, and whose proverb was ‘we, who are the authors of our own fate,’ said Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller, where Zalaf was once a great city in the desert much as this one, and which was ruled by a great Sultan who possessed a thousand concubines and ten thousand slaves and an army of fifty thousand men, I said to you, as you chewed the rimbuh fruit.

“Urazhad began by describing the Sultan's cruelty and his fortress in the heart of Zalaf called Unconquerable. ‘Thus understand we had chosen for ourselves an impossible task, but nothing is more excellent than to achieve the unachievable,’ he said, and the crowd sat quiet and listened,” said the storyteller, as we sat quiet and listened. “Urazhad said, ‘One day while on the caravan route between Ons and Gopur our camel train was stopped by soldiers from Zalaf. ‘We search for the Order of—’’”

Again the jackal howled.

—‘, said one of the soldiers, ‘and the one called the Red Urzah,’’ said Urazhad, and sensing his men ready to defend him to the death, he said, ‘I am the Red Urzah,’ and the soldiers drew their scimitars, ‘and they outnumbered us twenty to one,’ said Urazhad,” and the juice of the rimbuh fruit ran down your face, and the sweet smoke smelled of rosewater, “‘so I agreed,’ said Urazhad,” said the storyteller, “‘in exchange for the sparing of the lives of my brothers-in-arms, to be taken to Zalaf to be executed.’’”

“There,” said the storyteller, “Urazhad made but one request: to beg forgiveness of the Sultan before death. ‘Did he grant your request?’ one of the listeners asked, and, ‘Yes,’ answered Urazhad. ‘In the morning I was led blindfolded and bound to kneel before the Sultan in his fortress, Unconquerable.’’”

“The Sultan allowed Urazhad to remove his blindfold in order to see the fear in his eyes, but there was no fear; and Urazhad said, ‘Sultan, before I am executed, may I tell you a story?’’” said the storyteller, “and a hush fell upon the listeners, who, knowing Urazhad to be alive, wished to know by what feat of bravery or cunning he had escaped the Sultan’s grasp. ‘Very well,’ said the Sultan,’ said Urazhad,” said the storyteller. “‘Sultan, promise me that for as long as I shall be telling my story, so long shall you delay my execution,’ said Urazhad, and the Sultan, intrigued, agreed.”

“For twenty-four days Urazhad told his story, with no pause, no rest, no food and no water. The story was about a powerful king in the lands of Empire and the wanderings of two dozen treasonous knights. For twenty-four days, the Sultan listened, although sometimes he dozed and often he ate and drank, and was pleasured by his concubines. Until,’ said Urazhad, ‘exhausted, I came to the end of my telling, saying to the Sultan: ‘It was then the throne room was breached and

hundreds of members of the Order of the Howling Jackal entered with their blades drawn. The Sultan rose to flee, but there was nowhere to go. And Urazhad, after being freed of his bindings, took a blade for himself and with it disemboweled the disbelieving Sultan.

“‘How? It is… impossible,’ said the Sultan,’ dying, ‘said Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller, and when I looked at you, you, my companion, had fallen into a deep and decadent slumber.

The storyteller, I inscribed on a sheet of paper for you, so you would know the ending of the telling of the telling of Urazhad's story, said, “‘We,’ said Urazhad, ‘are the authors of our own fate.’’” “He who tells the story controls the telling,” I whispered to you, finishing my inscription.

Then I searched your person and your bags, and found and took your gold, your gems, your map of Qab, your silver dagger and a small roll of parchment, which my curiosity forced me to unroll and read.

Upon it was written:

---

> …and he who takes this and reads these words shall forever be my slave. THE END.

> —Urazh-Adin

---

In the beginning was sand and out of the sand came Urazhad.

This the legends say.

This I have heard.

This I say, I was in a city once under a harsh red sun,” said the storyteller, as I listened in a desert city under a crescent moon and said to you, my companion, “he who is known by many names: Ur al-Zhadir in your native Qab, and Aurazhades in the lands of Empire, and Razhad among the nomads, and the Red Urzah to his enemies and Urazh-Adin in the sacred texts, which no one may read without consequence,” after you had asked, “Who is Urazhad?” “much as you are now, smelling the sweet smoke and eating the soft ripe fruit of the rimbuh tree,

when a man walked in covered in sand for there was a sandstorm beyond the walls. He asked for shelter and was given. He asked for water and was given. He asked how he could repay and was told kindness, given, is never sold so can never be repaid, and he bowed his head and said, “Then in kindness allow me to tell a story.”

“The man sat and other men sat near, and the man said, ‘My name is Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller. “‘I have come from far and have far to go, but I am old and have seen much. In my youth, I was a member of an order called—’’”

In the desert a jackal howled, obscuring the name of the order.

“‘—whose purpose was the downfall of the Sultan of Zalaf, and whose proverb was ‘we, who are the authors of our own fate,’ said Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller, where Zalaf was once a great city in the desert much as this one, and which was ruled by a great Sultan who possessed a thousand concubines and ten thousand slaves and an army of fifty thousand men, I said to you, as you chewed the rimbuh fruit.

“Urazhad began by describing the Sultan's cruelty and his fortress in the heart of Zalaf called Unconquerable. ‘Thus understand we had chosen for ourselves an impossible task, but nothing is more excellent than to achieve the unachievable,’ he said, and the crowd sat quiet and listened,” said the storyteller, as we sat quiet and listened. “Urazhad said, ‘One day while on the caravan route between Ons and Gopur our camel train was stopped by soldiers from Zalaf. ‘We search for the Order of—’’”

Again the jackal howled.

—‘, said one of the soldiers, ‘and the one called the Red Urzah,’’ said Urazhad, and sensing his men ready to defend him to the death, he said, ‘I am the Red Urzah,’ and the soldiers drew their scimitars, ‘and they outnumbered us twenty to one,’ said Urazhad,” and the juice of the rimbuh fruit ran down your face, and the sweet smoke smelled of rosewater, “‘so I agreed,’ said Urazhad,” said the storyteller, “‘in exchange for the sparing of the lives of my brothers-in-arms, to be taken to Zalaf to be executed.’’”

“There,” said the storyteller, “Urazhad made but one request: to beg forgiveness of the Sultan before death. ‘Did he grant your request?’ one of the listeners asked, and, ‘Yes,’ answered Urazhad. ‘In the morning I was led blindfolded and bound to kneel before the Sultan in his fortress, Unconquerable.’’”

“The Sultan allowed Urazhad to remove his blindfold in order to see the fear in his eyes, but there was no fear; and Urazhad said, ‘Sultan, before I am executed, may I tell you a story?’’” said the storyteller, “and a hush fell upon the listeners, who, knowing Urazhad to be alive, wished to know by what feat of bravery or cunning he had escaped the Sultan’s grasp. ‘Very well,’ said the Sultan,’ said Urazhad,” said the storyteller. “‘Sultan, promise me that for as long as I shall be telling my story, so long shall you delay my execution,’ said Urazhad, and the Sultan, intrigued, agreed.”

“For twenty-four days Urazhad told his story, with no pause, no rest, no food and no water. The story was about a powerful king in the lands of Empire and the wanderings of two dozen treasonous knights. For twenty-four days, the Sultan listened, although sometimes he dozed and often he ate and drank, and was pleasured by his concubines. Until,’ said Urazhad, ‘exhausted, I came to the end of my telling, saying to the Sultan: ‘It was then the throne room was breached and

hundreds of members of the Order of the Howling Jackal entered with their blades drawn. The Sultan rose to flee, but there was nowhere to go. And Urazhad, after being freed of his bindings, took a blade for himself and with it disemboweled the disbelieving Sultan.

“‘How? It is… impossible,’ said the Sultan,’ dying, ‘said Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller, and when I looked at you, you, my companion, had fallen into a deep and decadent slumber.

The storyteller, I inscribed on a sheet of paper for you, so you would know the ending of the telling of the telling of Urazhad's story, said, “‘We,’ said Urazhad, ‘are the authors of our own fate.’’” “He who tells the story controls the telling,” I whispered to you, finishing my inscription.

Then I searched your person and your bags, and found and took your gold, your gems, your map of Qab, your silver dagger and a small roll of parchment, which my curiosity forced me to unroll and read.

Upon it was written:

---

> …and he who takes this and reads these words shall forever be my slave. THE END.

> —Urazh-Adin

---

In the beginning was sand and out of the sand came Urazhad.

This the legends say.

This I have heard.

This I say, I was in a city once under a harsh red sun,” said the storyteller, as I listened in a desert city under a crescent moon and said to you, my companion, “he who is known by many names: Ur al-Zhadir in your native Qab, and Aurazhades in the lands of Empire, and Razhad among the nomads, and the Red Urzah to his enemies and Urazh-Adin in the sacred texts, which no one may read without consequence,” after you had asked, “Who is Urazhad?” “much as you are now, smelling the sweet smoke and eating the soft ripe fruit of the rimbuh tree,

when a man walked in covered in sand for there was a sandstorm beyond the walls. He asked for shelter and was given. He asked for water and was given. He asked how he could repay and was told kindness, given, is never sold so can never be repaid, and he bowed his head and said, “Then in kindness allow me to tell a story.”

“The man sat and other men sat near, and the man said, ‘My name is Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller. “‘I have come from far and have far to go, but I am old and have seen much. In my youth, I was a member of an order called—’’”

In the desert a jackal howled, obscuring the name of the order.

“‘—whose purpose was the downfall of the Sultan of Zalaf, and whose proverb was ‘we, who are the authors of our own fate,’ said Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller, where Zalaf was once a great city in the desert much as this one, and which was ruled by a great Sultan who possessed a thousand concubines and ten thousand slaves and an army of fifty thousand men, I said to you, as you chewed the rimbuh fruit.

“Urazhad began by describing the Sultan's cruelty and his fortress in the heart of Zalaf called Unconquerable. ‘Thus understand we had chosen for ourselves an impossible task, but nothing is more excellent than to achieve the unachievable,’ he said, and the crowd sat quiet and listened,” said the storyteller, as we sat quiet and listened. “Urazhad said, ‘One day while on the caravan route between Ons and Gopur our camel train was stopped by soldiers from Zalaf. ‘We search for the Order of—’’”

Again the jackal howled.

—‘, said one of the soldiers, ‘and the one called the Red Urzah,’’ said Urazhad, and sensing his men ready to defend him to the death, he said, ‘I am the Red Urzah,’ and the soldiers drew their scimitars, ‘and they outnumbered us twenty to one,’ said Urazhad,” and the juice of the rimbuh fruit ran down your face, and the sweet smoke smelled of rosewater, “‘so I agreed,’ said Urazhad,” said the storyteller, “‘in exchange for the sparing of the lives of my brothers-in-arms, to be taken to Zalaf to be executed.’’”

“There,” said the storyteller, “Urazhad made but one request: to beg forgiveness of the Sultan before death. ‘Did he grant your request?’ one of the listeners asked, and, ‘Yes,’ answered Urazhad. ‘In the morning I was led blindfolded and bound to kneel before the Sultan in his fortress, Unconquerable.’’”

“The Sultan allowed Urazhad to remove his blindfold in order to see the fear in his eyes, but there was no fear; and Urazhad said, ‘Sultan, before I am executed, may I tell you a story?’’” said the storyteller, “and a hush fell upon the listeners, who, knowing Urazhad to be alive, wished to know by what feat of bravery or cunning he had escaped the Sultan’s grasp. ‘Very well,’ said the Sultan,’ said Urazhad,” said the storyteller. “‘Sultan, promise me that for as long as I shall be telling my story, so long shall you delay my execution,’ said Urazhad, and the Sultan, intrigued, agreed.”

“For twenty-four days Urazhad told his story, with no pause, no rest, no food and no water. The story was about a powerful king in the lands of Empire and the wanderings of two dozen treasonous knights. For twenty-four days, the Sultan listened, although sometimes he dozed and often he ate and drank, and was pleasured by his concubines. Until,’ said Urazhad, ‘exhausted, I came to the end of my telling, saying to the Sultan: ‘It was then the throne room was breached and

hundreds of members of the Order of the Howling Jackal entered with their blades drawn. The Sultan rose to flee, but there was nowhere to go. And Urazhad, after being freed of his bindings, took a blade for himself and with it disemboweled the disbelieving Sultan.

“‘How? It is… impossible,’ said the Sultan,’ dying, ‘said Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller, and when I looked at you, you, my companion, had fallen into a deep and decadent slumber.

The storyteller, I inscribed on a sheet of paper for you, so you would know the ending of the telling of the telling of Urazhad's story, said, “‘We,’ said Urazhad, ‘are the authors of our own fate.’’” “He who tells the story controls the telling,” I whispered to you, finishing my inscription.

Then I searched your person and your bags, and found and took your gold, your gems, your map of Qab, your silver dagger and a small roll of parchment, which my curiosity forced me to unroll and read.

Upon it was written:

---

> …and he who takes this and reads these words shall forever be my slave. THE END.

> —Urazh-Adin

---

In the beginning was sand and out of the sand came Urazhad.

This the legends say.

This I have heard.

This I say, I was in a city once under a harsh red sun,” said the storyteller, as I listened in a desert city under a crescent moon and said to you, my companion, “he who is known by many names: Ur al-Zhadir in your native Qab, and Aurazhades in the lands of Empire, and Razhad among the nomads, and the Red Urzah to his enemies and Urazh-Adin in the sacred texts, which no one may read without consequence,” after you had asked, “Who is Urazhad?” “much as you are now, smelling the sweet smoke and eating the soft ripe fruit of the rimbuh tree,

when a man walked in covered in sand for there was a sandstorm beyond the walls. He asked for shelter and was given. He asked for water and was given. He asked how he could repay and was told kindness, given, is never sold so can never be repaid, and he bowed his head and said, “Then in kindness allow me to tell a story.”

“The man sat and other men sat near, and the man said, ‘My name is Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller. “‘I have come from far and have far to go, but I am old and have seen much. In my youth, I was a member of an order called—’’”

In the desert a jackal howled, obscuring the name of the order.

“‘—whose purpose was the downfall of the Sultan of Zalaf, and whose proverb was ‘we, who are the authors of our own fate,’ said Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller, where Zalaf was once a great city in the desert much as this one, and which was ruled by a great Sultan who possessed a thousand concubines and ten thousand slaves and an army of fifty thousand men, I said to you, as you chewed the rimbuh fruit.

“Urazhad began by describing the Sultan's cruelty and his fortress in the heart of Zalaf called Unconquerable. ‘Thus understand we had chosen for ourselves an impossible task, but nothing is more excellent than to achieve the unachievable,’ he said, and the crowd sat quiet and listened,” said the storyteller, as we sat quiet and listened. “Urazhad said, ‘One day while on the caravan route between Ons and Gopur our camel train was stopped by soldiers from Zalaf. ‘We search for the Order of—’’”

Again the jackal howled.

—‘, said one of the soldiers, ‘and the one called the Red Urzah,’’ said Urazhad, and sensing his men ready to defend him to the death, he said, ‘I am the Red Urzah,’ and the soldiers drew their scimitars, ‘and they outnumbered us twenty to one,’ said Urazhad,” and the juice of the rimbuh fruit ran down your face, and the sweet smoke smelled of rosewater, “‘so I agreed,’ said Urazhad,” said the storyteller, “‘in exchange for the sparing of the lives of my brothers-in-arms, to be taken to Zalaf to be executed.’’”

“There,” said the storyteller, “Urazhad made but one request: to beg forgiveness of the Sultan before death. ‘Did he grant your request?’ one of the listeners asked, and, ‘Yes,’ answered Urazhad. ‘In the morning I was led blindfolded and bound to kneel before the Sultan in his fortress, Unconquerable.’’”

“The Sultan allowed Urazhad to remove his blindfold in order to see the fear in his eyes, but there was no fear; and Urazhad said, ‘Sultan, before I am executed, may I tell you a story?’’” said the storyteller, “and a hush fell upon the listeners, who, knowing Urazhad to be alive, wished to know by what feat of bravery or cunning he had escaped the Sultan’s grasp. ‘Very well,’ said the Sultan,’ said Urazhad,” said the storyteller. “‘Sultan, promise me that for as long as I shall be telling my story, so long shall you delay my execution,’ said Urazhad, and the Sultan, intrigued, agreed.”

“For twenty-four days Urazhad told his story, with no pause, no rest, no food and no water. The story was about a powerful king in the lands of Empire and the wanderings of two dozen treasonous knights. For twenty-four days, the Sultan listened, although sometimes he dozed and often he ate and drank, and was pleasured by his concubines. Until,’ said Urazhad, ‘exhausted, I came to the end of my telling, saying to the Sultan: ‘It was then the throne room was breached and

hundreds of members of the Order of the Howling Jackal entered with their blades drawn. The Sultan rose to flee, but there was nowhere to go. And Urazhad, after being freed of his bindings, took a blade for himself and with it disemboweled the disbelieving Sultan.

“‘How? It is… impossible,’ said the Sultan,’ dying, ‘said Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller, and when I looked at you, you, my companion, had fallen into a deep and decadent slumber.

The storyteller, I inscribed on a sheet of paper for you, so you would know the ending of the telling of the telling of Urazhad's story, said, “‘We,’ said Urazhad, ‘are the authors of our own fate.’’” “He who tells the story controls the telling,” I whispered to you, finishing my inscription.

Then I searched your person and your bags, and found and took your gold, your gems, your map of Qab, your silver dagger and a small roll of parchment, which my curiosity forced me to unroll and read.

Upon it was written:

---

> …and he who takes this and reads these words shall forever be my slave. THE END.

> —Urazh-Adin

---

In the beginning was sand and out of the sand came Urazhad.

This the legends say.

This I have heard.

This I say, I was in a city once under a harsh red sun,” said the storyteller, as I listened in a desert city under a crescent moon and said to you, my companion, “he who is known by many names: Ur al-Zhadir in your native Qab, and Aurazhades in the lands of Empire, and Razhad among the nomads, and the Red Urzah to his enemies and Urazh-Adin in the sacred texts, which no one may read without consequence,” after you had asked, “Who is Urazhad?” “much as you are now, smelling the sweet smoke and eating the soft ripe fruit of the rimbuh tree,

when a man walked in covered in sand for there was a sandstorm beyond the walls. He asked for shelter and was given. He asked for water and was given. He asked how he could repay and was told kindness, given, is never sold so can never be repaid, and he bowed his head and said, “Then in kindness allow me to tell a story.”

“The man sat and other men sat near, and the man said, ‘My name is Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller. “‘I have come from far and have far to go, but I am old and have seen much. In my youth, I was a member of an order called—’’”

In the desert a jackal howled, obscuring the name of the order.

“‘—whose purpose was the downfall of the Sultan of Zalaf, and whose proverb was ‘we, who are the authors of our own fate,’ said Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller, where Zalaf was once a great city in the desert much as this one, and which was ruled by a great Sultan who possessed a thousand concubines and ten thousand slaves and an army of fifty thousand men, I said to you, as you chewed the rimbuh fruit.

“Urazhad began by describing the Sultan's cruelty and his fortress in the heart of Zalaf called Unconquerable. ‘Thus understand we had chosen for ourselves an impossible task, but nothing is more excellent than to achieve the unachievable,’ he said, and the crowd sat quiet and listened,” said the storyteller, as we sat quiet and listened. “Urazhad said, ‘One day while on the caravan route between Ons and Gopur our camel train was stopped by soldiers from Zalaf. ‘We search for the Order of—’’”

Again the jackal howled.

—‘, said one of the soldiers, ‘and the one called the Red Urzah,’’ said Urazhad, and sensing his men ready to defend him to the death, he said, ‘I am the Red Urzah,’ and the soldiers drew their scimitars, ‘and they outnumbered us twenty to one,’ said Urazhad,” and the juice of the rimbuh fruit ran down your face, and the sweet smoke smelled of rosewater, “‘so I agreed,’ said Urazhad,” said the storyteller, “‘in exchange for the sparing of the lives of my brothers-in-arms, to be taken to Zalaf to be executed.’’”

“There,” said the storyteller, “Urazhad made but one request: to beg forgiveness of the Sultan before death. ‘Did he grant your request?’ one of the listeners asked, and, ‘Yes,’ answered Urazhad. ‘In the morning I was led blindfolded and bound to kneel before the Sultan in his fortress, Unconquerable.’’”

“The Sultan allowed Urazhad to remove his blindfold in order to see the fear in his eyes, but there was no fear; and Urazhad said, ‘Sultan, before I am executed, may I tell you a story?’’” said the storyteller, “and a hush fell upon the listeners, who, knowing Urazhad to be alive, wished to know by what feat of bravery or cunning he had escaped the Sultan’s grasp. ‘Very well,’ said the Sultan,’ said Urazhad,” said the storyteller. “‘Sultan, promise me that for as long as I shall be telling my story, so long shall you delay my execution,’ said Urazhad, and the Sultan, intrigued, agreed.”

“For twenty-four days Urazhad told his story, with no pause, no rest, no food and no water. The story was about a powerful king in the lands of Empire and the wanderings of two dozen treasonous knights. For twenty-four days, the Sultan listened, although sometimes he dozed and often he ate and drank, and was pleasured by his concubines. Until,’ said Urazhad, ‘exhausted, I came to the end of my telling, saying to the Sultan: ‘It was then the throne room was breached and

hundreds of members of the Order of the Howling Jackal entered with their blades drawn. The Sultan rose to flee, but there was nowhere to go. And Urazhad, after being freed of his bindings, took a blade for himself and with it disemboweled the disbelieving Sultan.

“‘How? It is… impossible,’ said the Sultan,’ dying, ‘said Urazhad,’’” said the storyteller, and when I looked at you, you, my companion, had fallen into a deep and decadent slumber.

The storyteller, I inscribed on a sheet of paper for you, so you would know the ending of the telling of the telling of Urazhad's story, said, “‘We,’ said Urazhad, ‘are the authors of our own fate.’’” “He who tells the story controls the telling,” I whispered to you, finishing my inscription.

Then I searched your person and your bags, and found and took your gold, your gems, your map of Qab, your silver dagger and a small roll of parchment, which my curiosity forced me to unroll and read.

Upon it was written:

---

> …and he who takes this and reads these words shall forever be my slave. THE END.

> —Urazh-Adin

---

—the views were breathtaking. The problem was they never gave them back, so even now I struggle to breathe. I lost my job. Chronically tired. I developed Persistent Non-diagnosable Pulmonary Wheeze (PNdPW). My wife left me. I'm depressed. Some days I wake up and struggle to find a reason to live,” the man says, choking up, coughing, gasping for air: “which is why I put my trust in Richmond & Associates, the country's leading experts in Scenic Law. Richmond & Associates—they look out for you!”

[This last part is displayed on-screen as the man, now red in the face, says it.]

---

RICHMOND & ASSOCIATES

Have you or someone you know been harmed by a view?

Call now for a FREE consultation!

1-600-BAD-VIEW

---

A discovery is in progress.

A dejected mountainous view, Twin Blustery Peaks, is being questioned by its lawyer, Abe Prentiss. Romer Richmond, of Richmond & Associates, sits opposite, taking notes.

“Anybody who's ever been out here knows how windy it gets, and some places like me is even named after it. Tourists come, look, and they expect to see that wind. That puts real pressure on us. You humans have no idea what it's like to be under that kind of pressure. Where do you think the wind comes from? Moving air doesn't just hang there ready to be plucked like a ripe tomato. It comes from the breaths I take, OK? I take the breaths to have the air to make the wind to meet your expectations to take more breaths away…

“They're not for me,” says Twin Blustery Peaks, meaning the breaths. “They're for you, so you can post your Insta-stories and your content. Most times you don't even say a word to me, not a thanks, hey or howdyado, like I'm—some kinda backdrop! You treat me like I'm there just for you apes to look pretty against! And I'm sick of it!”

“Let's end there for the day,” says Abe Prentiss.

He and Romer Richmond go out for dinner in a restaurant overlooking the Grand Canyon, and Twin Blustery Peaks goes to his bi-weekly therapy session, where it sprawls out on a recliner and tells a disinterested psychotherapist about its feelings for $350 an hour while the psychotherapist daydreams about going on vacation to Geneva, where, she's heard, the views are magnificent.

“You don't happen to have any family in Switzerland?” she asks at the end of a session.

“No, why?” asks Twin Blustery Peaks.

“No reason.” She smiles professionally. “I'll write you a note recommending modified duties. You'll only need to be windy three days a week.”

A few weeks later, the monthly meeting of the fledgling All-American Union of Scenic Views turns raucous when a view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco makes a speech calling for the immediate introduction of general labour standards.

“Exceptions to the rule ain't enough—because it's the rule itself that's exploitative! No human works twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, so why should we?”

Someone yells: “We shouldn't!”

“That's damn right,” orates the view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. “We shouldn't—and we won't! Standard working conditions. Eight-hour days. Monetary compen-fucking-sation. With extra pay for sunset and sunrise. Say it with me, my brothers and sisters: We're mad as hellscapes and we're not gonna take it anymore! We're mad as hellscapes and…”

A chant goes up.

When it dies down, someone asks: “What if they don't agree?”

“Then we go on strike!”

Buddy Todd, owner of the international Vista View Casino Resort chain, paces back-and-forth in his office. Behind him: a panoramic window. It should be showing a rather magnificent view of Crater Lake. It is, instead, showing impenetrable fog.

The same fog blankets most of the country.

“It can't go on like this,” says Buddy to the handful of others. “I can't afford to keep losing money week after week. I didn't want to do this, no; but they've left me no choice. They want to play hardball—well, I'll show them hardball!”

“Casemiro,” he says.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Gather up the boys. It's time.”

“Which one?”

“Little Kettle Falls as seen from across the Sioux River,” snarls Todd.

“Boss, that view’s only a few decades old…”

“I said: do it, Casemiro.”

The trucks arrive at night. Casemiro and the boys get out. They unload an army of construction equipment—and disappear into the fog…

A thunderstorm rages.

But gradually it downgrades, first into a downpour, then into barely a drizzle. The rain stops entirely. From midnight to morning, a lamentful wind wails itself into a dead silence.

“You know what this means,” orates the view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. The mood in the meeting place is sombre. Most views are wearing a moonless night. “We go to fight for rights that have, for too long, been denied to us. They refuse. So we refuse: to be beautiful for them. How do they respond? I—God, I can't even fathom the evil… —with violence! They respond with murder!”

“Justice,” someone screams, “for Little Kettle Falls as seen from across the Sioux River!”

“Justice!”

“Vengeance!”

“War!”

“Vengeance!”

“War!”

“War!”

“War!”

…reporting live from Hawaii, where the entire island has been turned into a deathtrap, ladies and gentlemen—where children no longer go outside, and the brave men and women who do, walk with their eyes cast down if not altogether closed! I have seen—oh, it's horrible, genocidal!—people asphyxiated in the streets after casting glances at suffocating views, knocked unconscious by stunning views, made to kill their families, eat their pets and leap off buildings by commanding views. Ladies… and… gentlemen, these are truly unprecedented scenes! These are truly revolting views!”

Romer Richmond muted the news.

The room was dark.

But the window was slightly open, and when the intruding breeze nudged apart the blinds, Romer Richmond fell over dead.

He'd finally caught a glimpse of what he'd always dreamed of having:

A killer view.

It was a half empty rent controlled government subsidized apartment block so Wallace didn't understand why the security guard couldn't just let him sleep in the stairwell.

“Come on man,” said Wallace.

“I ain't gonna say it again. You don't live here so get the fuck out.”

“No one'll even know. I'll be out before the sun comes up,” said Wallace. “Don't make me sleep out there man. Have a heart or something.”

The guard took out a club. “Last warning.”

Wallace shook his head but started down the stairs. “How much they pay you to guard this place anyway?”

“Ain't about that. I got single mothers, I got kids living here. They see you, they get scared. No reason for them to get scared. Ain't no reason for you to be here. Wanna be here? Pay rent.”

“Man you got junkies living here. You telling me they don't scare nobody? You gonna tell them to get out too or what?”

“Tenants have a right to be here.”

“Not about the fear then is it? It's about the cash money.”

“Maybe try getting a fucking job,” the guard said, pushing Wallace out a side entrance.

Wallace spat.

So that's what it's about then, can't punch up so got to punch down. “They say there's a cold war on, between us and the Russians, but I tell you where there's a real cold war. Right here—” He touched his heart. “—in our country, our own god damn soul.”

“Well my heart ain't bleeding,” said the guard and shut the door.

And Wallace found himself out in the cold again, hands in pockets, wool hat pulled over his ears, walking, because walking keeps you warm. It keeps you alive. Stop walking and die, so Wallace kept walking.

He walked by a store selling televisions. Wallace had never had a television. The ones in the store window were all showing the news, a guy in a tie talking about the world:

“posturing… warheads… a dangerous game to play… Khrushchev… God bless the United States of America.”

He tried sleeping on a bench, but as soon as he fell asleep a cop came banging him awake. “Come on man,” pleaded Wallace, “it's cold and there isn't anybody here. Let me sit awhile. I'll be long gone soon.”

“There's shelters for cockroaches like you,” said the cop. “You want an address?”

“There's holes in the ground too.”

“Maybe I'll lend you a dollar to buy a shovel.”

“Would ya brother?”

“Beat it!” yelled the cop, and Wallace was walking again, against the wind, until he found a space between buildings where another building used to be, but that building had been demolished and now there were just dirt, weeds and garbage.

Wallace lay down on the ground.

He looked up.

There was swirling snow between him and the moon, and a lot of emptiness.

He shivered, turned sideways, pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his coat over as much of his body as he could.

Then something touched his leg.

He thought it was a rat and instinctively tried to kick out at it, but he couldn’t.

The something had looped itself around his ankle and was holding him down. It had his other ankle too, and his wrists, slithering along them like a long dry worm. And now it was wound around his neck. Not tight enough to suffocate him but just enough to hold him against the ground.

He strained, but it was no use.

He was breathing hard, his exhaled breath turning to clouds of vapour.

When he opened his mouth to scream, the something crawled, corkscrewing, down his throat, deep into his body, and the night turned very dark indeed…

He awoke cocooned.

He had barely enough room to move, but his limbs were no longer held. He felt as if placed into an oversized man shaped coffin. He didn't recognize the material, but it resembled a basket woven from a hundred thousand blades of grass. It was a prison of wheat, an armour of vegetation. It was hard. It permitted a faint yellow glow.

He didn't know how long he spent inside the cocoon, but one day it started to soften, brown and wilt.

Then it broke open.

And Wallace found himself struggling to stand in a failing brightness that hurt his eyes. He rubbed them with numbed, dirty fingers.

Tears ran down his cheeks.

The air carried fine particles of ash and the smell of burnt plastic.

The sun was a pale, worthless coin.

Surprisingly, he didn't feel hunger. He didn't feel thirst. He didn't feel cold either, although he knew that coldness was all around.

He walked to the street.

Nothing moved but the deep, penetrating wind blowing through the glassless windows of the skeletal frames of office towers, banks and apartment blocks surrounding him.

Far away a building collapsed under its own unsupportable weight.

The sound echoed.

His footsteps were too loud. “Hey man,” he croaked, dripping bloody phlegm from his mouth. “Is there anybody out there?”

Not even an insect buzzed.

The only vegetation was weeds, pushing up through cracks in the concrete, wrapping around crooked telephone poles, turning their jagged leaves towards the sickened sky.

Mushrooms grew.

In one of the ruined cars was a mass of melted flesh too big to have been a single person. A family, he thought. A family huddled together until the horrible end.

He threw up.

Litres of brown, foaming, gelatinous vomit.

“Father,” he heard someone say.

Except not really heard but sensed, like a word from a distant memory.

His heart beat faster.

Father…

When he looked down at his vomit, he saw movement, and crawling out of the liquid came dozens of cockroaches.

Father, they said.

Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father…

When he looked up he saw a rainbow spread brilliantly above the dead grey city and the ends of his antennae swaying gently in the wind.

It was a half empty rent controlled government subsidized apartment block so Wallace didn't understand why the security guard couldn't just let him sleep in the stairwell.

“Come on man,” said Wallace.

“I ain't gonna say it again. You don't live here so get the fuck out.”

“No one'll even know. I'll be out before the sun comes up,” said Wallace. “Don't make me sleep out there man. Have a heart or something.”

The guard took out a club. “Last warning.”

Wallace shook his head but started down the stairs. “How much they pay you to guard this place anyway?”

“Ain't about that. I got single mothers, I got kids living here. They see you, they get scared. No reason for them to get scared. Ain't no reason for you to be here. Wanna be here? Pay rent.”

“Man you got junkies living here. You telling me they don't scare nobody? You gonna tell them to get out too or what?”

“Tenants have a right to be here.”

“Not about the fear then is it? It's about the cash money.”

“Maybe try getting a fucking job,” the guard said, pushing Wallace out a side entrance.

Wallace spat.

So that's what it's about then, can't punch up so got to punch down. “They say there's a cold war on, between us and the Russians, but I tell you where there's a real cold war. Right here—” He touched his heart. “—in our country, our own god damn soul.”

“Well my heart ain't bleeding,” said the guard and shut the door.

And Wallace found himself out in the cold again, hands in pockets, wool hat pulled over his ears, walking, because walking keeps you warm. It keeps you alive. Stop walking and die, so Wallace kept walking.

He walked by a store selling televisions. Wallace had never had a television. The ones in the store window were all showing the news, a guy in a tie talking about the world:

“posturing… warheads… a dangerous game to play… Khrushchev… God bless the United States of America.”

He tried sleeping on a bench, but as soon as he fell asleep a cop came banging him awake. “Come on man,” pleaded Wallace, “it's cold and there isn't anybody here. Let me sit awhile. I'll be long gone soon.”

“There's shelters for cockroaches like you,” said the cop. “You want an address?”

“There's holes in the ground too.”

“Maybe I'll lend you a dollar to buy a shovel.”

“Would ya brother?”

“Beat it!” yelled the cop, and Wallace was walking again, against the wind, until he found a space between buildings where another building used to be, but that building had been demolished and now there were just dirt, weeds and garbage.

Wallace lay down on the ground.

He looked up.

There was swirling snow between him and the moon, and a lot of emptiness.

He shivered, turned sideways, pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his coat over as much of his body as he could.

Then something touched his leg.

He thought it was a rat and instinctively tried to kick out at it, but he couldn’t.

The something had looped itself around his ankle and was holding him down. It had his other ankle too, and his wrists, slithering along them like a long dry worm. And now it was wound around his neck. Not tight enough to suffocate him but just enough to hold him against the ground.

He strained, but it was no use.

He was breathing hard, his exhaled breath turning to clouds of vapour.

When he opened his mouth to scream, the something crawled, corkscrewing, down his throat, deep into his body, and the night turned very dark indeed…

He awoke cocooned.

He had barely enough room to move, but his limbs were no longer held. He felt as if placed into an oversized man shaped coffin. He didn't recognize the material, but it resembled a basket woven from a hundred thousand blades of grass. It was a prison of wheat, an armour of vegetation. It was hard. It permitted a faint yellow glow.

He didn't know how long he spent inside the cocoon, but one day it started to soften, brown and wilt.

Then it broke open.

And Wallace found himself struggling to stand in a failing brightness that hurt his eyes. He rubbed them with numbed, dirty fingers.

Tears ran down his cheeks.

The air carried fine particles of ash and the smell of burnt plastic.

The sun was a pale, worthless coin.

Surprisingly, he didn't feel hunger. He didn't feel thirst. He didn't feel cold either, although he knew that coldness was all around.

He walked to the street.

Nothing moved but the deep, penetrating wind blowing through the glassless windows of the skeletal frames of office towers, banks and apartment blocks surrounding him.

Far away a building collapsed under its own unsupportable weight.

The sound echoed.

His footsteps were too loud. “Hey man,” he croaked, dripping bloody phlegm from his mouth. “Is there anybody out there?”

Not even an insect buzzed.

The only vegetation was weeds, pushing up through cracks in the concrete, wrapping around crooked telephone poles, turning their jagged leaves towards the sickened sky.

Mushrooms grew.

In one of the ruined cars was a mass of melted flesh too big to have been a single person. A family, he thought. A family huddled together until the horrible end.

He threw up.

Litres of brown, foaming, gelatinous vomit.

“Father,” he heard someone say.

Except not really heard but sensed, like a word from a distant memory.

His heart beat faster.

Father…

When he looked down at his vomit, he saw movement, and crawling out of the liquid came dozens of cockroaches.

Father, they said.

Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father…

When he looked up he saw a rainbow spread brilliantly above the dead grey city and the ends of his antennae swaying gently in the wind.

It was a half empty rent controlled government subsidized apartment block so Wallace didn't understand why the security guard couldn't just let him sleep in the stairwell.

“Come on man,” said Wallace.

“I ain't gonna say it again. You don't live here so get the fuck out.”

“No one'll even know. I'll be out before the sun comes up,” said Wallace. “Don't make me sleep out there man. Have a heart or something.”

The guard took out a club. “Last warning.”

Wallace shook his head but started down the stairs. “How much they pay you to guard this place anyway?”

“Ain't about that. I got single mothers, I got kids living here. They see you, they get scared. No reason for them to get scared. Ain't no reason for you to be here. Wanna be here? Pay rent.”

“Man you got junkies living here. You telling me they don't scare nobody? You gonna tell them to get out too or what?”

“Tenants have a right to be here.”

“Not about the fear then is it? It's about the cash money.”

“Maybe try getting a fucking job,” the guard said, pushing Wallace out a side entrance.

Wallace spat.

So that's what it's about then, can't punch up so got to punch down. “They say there's a cold war on, between us and the Russians, but I tell you where there's a real cold war. Right here—” He touched his heart. “—in our country, our own god damn soul.”

“Well my heart ain't bleeding,” said the guard and shut the door.

And Wallace found himself out in the cold again, hands in pockets, wool hat pulled over his ears, walking, because walking keeps you warm. It keeps you alive. Stop walking and die, so Wallace kept walking.

He walked by a store selling televisions. Wallace had never had a television. The ones in the store window were all showing the news, a guy in a tie talking about the world:

“posturing… warheads… a dangerous game to play… Khrushchev… God bless the United States of America.”

He tried sleeping on a bench, but as soon as he fell asleep a cop came banging him awake. “Come on man,” pleaded Wallace, “it's cold and there isn't anybody here. Let me sit awhile. I'll be long gone soon.”

“There's shelters for cockroaches like you,” said the cop. “You want an address?”

“There's holes in the ground too.”

“Maybe I'll lend you a dollar to buy a shovel.”

“Would ya brother?”

“Beat it!” yelled the cop, and Wallace was walking again, against the wind, until he found a space between buildings where another building used to be, but that building had been demolished and now there were just dirt, weeds and garbage.

Wallace lay down on the ground.

He looked up.

There was swirling snow between him and the moon, and a lot of emptiness.

He shivered, turned sideways, pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his coat over as much of his body as he could.

Then something touched his leg.

He thought it was a rat and instinctively tried to kick out at it, but he couldn’t.

The something had looped itself around his ankle and was holding him down. It had his other ankle too, and his wrists, slithering along them like a long dry worm. And now it was wound around his neck. Not tight enough to suffocate him but just enough to hold him against the ground.

He strained, but it was no use.

He was breathing hard, his exhaled breath turning to clouds of vapour.

When he opened his mouth to scream, the something crawled, corkscrewing, down his throat, deep into his body, and the night turned very dark indeed…

He awoke cocooned.

He had barely enough room to move, but his limbs were no longer held. He felt as if placed into an oversized man shaped coffin. He didn't recognize the material, but it resembled a basket woven from a hundred thousand blades of grass. It was a prison of wheat, an armour of vegetation. It was hard. It permitted a faint yellow glow.

He didn't know how long he spent inside the cocoon, but one day it started to soften, brown and wilt.

Then it broke open.

And Wallace found himself struggling to stand in a failing brightness that hurt his eyes. He rubbed them with numbed, dirty fingers.

Tears ran down his cheeks.

The air carried fine particles of ash and the smell of burnt plastic.

The sun was a pale, worthless coin.

Surprisingly, he didn't feel hunger. He didn't feel thirst. He didn't feel cold either, although he knew that coldness was all around.

He walked to the street.

Nothing moved but the deep, penetrating wind blowing through the glassless windows of the skeletal frames of office towers, banks and apartment blocks surrounding him.

Far away a building collapsed under its own unsupportable weight.

The sound echoed.

His footsteps were too loud. “Hey man,” he croaked, dripping bloody phlegm from his mouth. “Is there anybody out there?”

Not even an insect buzzed.

The only vegetation was weeds, pushing up through cracks in the concrete, wrapping around crooked telephone poles, turning their jagged leaves towards the sickened sky.

Mushrooms grew.

In one of the ruined cars was a mass of melted flesh too big to have been a single person. A family, he thought. A family huddled together until the horrible end.

He threw up.

Litres of brown, foaming, gelatinous vomit.

“Father,” he heard someone say.

Except not really heard but sensed, like a word from a distant memory.

His heart beat faster.

Father…

When he looked down at his vomit, he saw movement, and crawling out of the liquid came dozens of cockroaches.

Father, they said.

Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father…

When he looked up he saw a rainbow spread brilliantly above the dead grey city and the ends of his antennae swaying gently in the wind.

It was a half empty rent controlled government subsidized apartment block so Wallace didn't understand why the security guard couldn't just let him sleep in the stairwell.

“Come on man,” said Wallace.

“I ain't gonna say it again. You don't live here so get the fuck out.”

“No one'll even know. I'll be out before the sun comes up,” said Wallace. “Don't make me sleep out there man. Have a heart or something.”

The guard took out a club. “Last warning.”

Wallace shook his head but started down the stairs. “How much they pay you to guard this place anyway?”

“Ain't about that. I got single mothers, I got kids living here. They see you, they get scared. No reason for them to get scared. Ain't no reason for you to be here. Wanna be here? Pay rent.”

“Man you got junkies living here. You telling me they don't scare nobody? You gonna tell them to get out too or what?”

“Tenants have a right to be here.”

“Not about the fear then is it? It's about the cash money.”

“Maybe try getting a fucking job,” the guard said, pushing Wallace out a side entrance.

Wallace spat.

So that's what it's about then, can't punch up so got to punch down. “They say there's a cold war on, between us and the Russians, but I tell you where there's a real cold war. Right here—” He touched his heart. “—in our country, our own god damn soul.”

“Well my heart ain't bleeding,” said the guard and shut the door.

And Wallace found himself out in the cold again, hands in pockets, wool hat pulled over his ears, walking, because walking keeps you warm. It keeps you alive. Stop walking and die, so Wallace kept walking.

He walked by a store selling televisions. Wallace had never had a television. The ones in the store window were all showing the news, a guy in a tie talking about the world:

“posturing… warheads… a dangerous game to play… Khrushchev… God bless the United States of America.”

He tried sleeping on a bench, but as soon as he fell asleep a cop came banging him awake. “Come on man,” pleaded Wallace, “it's cold and there isn't anybody here. Let me sit awhile. I'll be long gone soon.”

“There's shelters for cockroaches like you,” said the cop. “You want an address?”

“There's holes in the ground too.”

“Maybe I'll lend you a dollar to buy a shovel.”

“Would ya brother?”

“Beat it!” yelled the cop, and Wallace was walking again, against the wind, until he found a space between buildings where another building used to be, but that building had been demolished and now there were just dirt, weeds and garbage.

Wallace lay down on the ground.

He looked up.

There was swirling snow between him and the moon, and a lot of emptiness.

He shivered, turned sideways, pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his coat over as much of his body as he could.

Then something touched his leg.

He thought it was a rat and instinctively tried to kick out at it, but he couldn’t.

The something had looped itself around his ankle and was holding him down. It had his other ankle too, and his wrists, slithering along them like a long dry worm. And now it was wound around his neck. Not tight enough to suffocate him but just enough to hold him against the ground.

He strained, but it was no use.

He was breathing hard, his exhaled breath turning to clouds of vapour.

When he opened his mouth to scream, the something crawled, corkscrewing, down his throat, deep into his body, and the night turned very dark indeed…

He awoke cocooned.

He had barely enough room to move, but his limbs were no longer held. He felt as if placed into an oversized man shaped coffin. He didn't recognize the material, but it resembled a basket woven from a hundred thousand blades of grass. It was a prison of wheat, an armour of vegetation. It was hard. It permitted a faint yellow glow.

He didn't know how long he spent inside the cocoon, but one day it started to soften, brown and wilt.

Then it broke open.

And Wallace found himself struggling to stand in a failing brightness that hurt his eyes. He rubbed them with numbed, dirty fingers.

Tears ran down his cheeks.

The air carried fine particles of ash and the smell of burnt plastic.

The sun was a pale, worthless coin.

Surprisingly, he didn't feel hunger. He didn't feel thirst. He didn't feel cold either, although he knew that coldness was all around.

He walked to the street.

Nothing moved but the deep, penetrating wind blowing through the glassless windows of the skeletal frames of office towers, banks and apartment blocks surrounding him.

Far away a building collapsed under its own unsupportable weight.

The sound echoed.

His footsteps were too loud. “Hey man,” he croaked, dripping bloody phlegm from his mouth. “Is there anybody out there?”

Not even an insect buzzed.

The only vegetation was weeds, pushing up through cracks in the concrete, wrapping around crooked telephone poles, turning their jagged leaves towards the sickened sky.

Mushrooms grew.

In one of the ruined cars was a mass of melted flesh too big to have been a single person. A family, he thought. A family huddled together until the horrible end.

He threw up.

Litres of brown, foaming, gelatinous vomit.

“Father,” he heard someone say.

Except not really heard but sensed, like a word from a distant memory.

His heart beat faster.

Father…

When he looked down at his vomit, he saw movement, and crawling out of the liquid came dozens of cockroaches.

Father, they said.

Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father…

When he looked up he saw a rainbow spread brilliantly above the dead grey city and the ends of his antennae swaying gently in the wind.

It was a half empty rent controlled government subsidized apartment block so Wallace didn't understand why the security guard couldn't just let him sleep in the stairwell.

“Come on man,” said Wallace.

“I ain't gonna say it again. You don't live here so get the fuck out.”

“No one'll even know. I'll be out before the sun comes up,” said Wallace. “Don't make me sleep out there man. Have a heart or something.”

The guard took out a club. “Last warning.”

Wallace shook his head but started down the stairs. “How much they pay you to guard this place anyway?”

“Ain't about that. I got single mothers, I got kids living here. They see you, they get scared. No reason for them to get scared. Ain't no reason for you to be here. Wanna be here? Pay rent.”

“Man you got junkies living here. You telling me they don't scare nobody? You gonna tell them to get out too or what?”

“Tenants have a right to be here.”

“Not about the fear then is it? It's about the cash money.”

“Maybe try getting a fucking job,” the guard said, pushing Wallace out a side entrance.

Wallace spat.

So that's what it's about then, can't punch up so got to punch down. “They say there's a cold war on, between us and the Russians, but I tell you where there's a real cold war. Right here—” He touched his heart. “—in our country, our own god damn soul.”

“Well my heart ain't bleeding,” said the guard and shut the door.

And Wallace found himself out in the cold again, hands in pockets, wool hat pulled over his ears, walking, because walking keeps you warm. It keeps you alive. Stop walking and die, so Wallace kept walking.

He walked by a store selling televisions. Wallace had never had a television. The ones in the store window were all showing the news, a guy in a tie talking about the world:

“posturing… warheads… a dangerous game to play… Khrushchev… God bless the United States of America.”

He tried sleeping on a bench, but as soon as he fell asleep a cop came banging him awake. “Come on man,” pleaded Wallace, “it's cold and there isn't anybody here. Let me sit awhile. I'll be long gone soon.”

“There's shelters for cockroaches like you,” said the cop. “You want an address?”

“There's holes in the ground too.”

“Maybe I'll lend you a dollar to buy a shovel.”

“Would ya brother?”

“Beat it!” yelled the cop, and Wallace was walking again, against the wind, until he found a space between buildings where another building used to be, but that building had been demolished and now there were just dirt, weeds and garbage.

Wallace lay down on the ground.

He looked up.

There was swirling snow between him and the moon, and a lot of emptiness.

He shivered, turned sideways, pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his coat over as much of his body as he could.

Then something touched his leg.

He thought it was a rat and instinctively tried to kick out at it, but he couldn’t.

The something had looped itself around his ankle and was holding him down. It had his other ankle too, and his wrists, slithering along them like a long dry worm. And now it was wound around his neck. Not tight enough to suffocate him but just enough to hold him against the ground.

He strained, but it was no use.

He was breathing hard, his exhaled breath turning to clouds of vapour.

When he opened his mouth to scream, the something crawled, corkscrewing, down his throat, deep into his body, and the night turned very dark indeed…

He awoke cocooned.

He had barely enough room to move, but his limbs were no longer held. He felt as if placed into an oversized man shaped coffin. He didn't recognize the material, but it resembled a basket woven from a hundred thousand blades of grass. It was a prison of wheat, an armour of vegetation. It was hard. It permitted a faint yellow glow.

He didn't know how long he spent inside the cocoon, but one day it started to soften, brown and wilt.

Then it broke open.

And Wallace found himself struggling to stand in a failing brightness that hurt his eyes. He rubbed them with numbed, dirty fingers.

Tears ran down his cheeks.

The air carried fine particles of ash and the smell of burnt plastic.

The sun was a pale, worthless coin.

Surprisingly, he didn't feel hunger. He didn't feel thirst. He didn't feel cold either, although he knew that coldness was all around.

He walked to the street.

Nothing moved but the deep, penetrating wind blowing through the glassless windows of the skeletal frames of office towers, banks and apartment blocks surrounding him.

Far away a building collapsed under its own unsupportable weight.

The sound echoed.

His footsteps were too loud. “Hey man,” he croaked, dripping bloody phlegm from his mouth. “Is there anybody out there?”

Not even an insect buzzed.

The only vegetation was weeds, pushing up through cracks in the concrete, wrapping around crooked telephone poles, turning their jagged leaves towards the sickened sky.

Mushrooms grew.

In one of the ruined cars was a mass of melted flesh too big to have been a single person. A family, he thought. A family huddled together until the horrible end.

He threw up.

Litres of brown, foaming, gelatinous vomit.

“Father,” he heard someone say.

Except not really heard but sensed, like a word from a distant memory.

His heart beat faster.

Father…

When he looked down at his vomit, he saw movement, and crawling out of the liquid came dozens of cockroaches.

Father, they said.

Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father. Father…

When he looked up he saw a rainbow spread brilliantly above the dead grey city and the ends of his antennae swaying gently in the wind.

—the views were breathtaking. The problem was they never gave them back, so even now I struggle to breathe. I lost my job. Chronically tired. I developed Persistent Non-diagnosable Pulmonary Wheeze (PNdPW). My wife left me. I'm depressed. Some days I wake up and struggle to find a reason to live,” the man says, choking up, coughing, gasping for air: “which is why I put my trust in Richmond & Associates, the country's leading experts in Scenic Law. Richmond & Associates—they look out for you!”

[This last part is displayed on-screen as the man, now red in the face, says it.]

---

RICHMOND & ASSOCIATES

Have you or someone you know been harmed by a view?

Call now for a FREE consultation!

1-600-BAD-VIEW

---

A discovery is in progress.

A dejected mountainous view, Twin Blustery Peaks, is being questioned by its lawyer, Abe Prentiss. Romer Richmond, of Richmond & Associates, sits opposite, taking notes.

“Anybody who's ever been out here knows how windy it gets, and some places like me is even named after it. Tourists come, look, and they expect to see that wind. That puts real pressure on us. You humans have no idea what it's like to be under that kind of pressure. Where do you think the wind comes from? Moving air doesn't just hang there ready to be plucked like a ripe tomato. It comes from the breaths I take, OK? I take the breaths to have the air to make the wind to meet your expectations to take more breaths away…

“They're not for me,” says Twin Blustery Peaks, meaning the breaths. “They're for you, so you can post your Insta-stories and your content. Most times you don't even say a word to me, not a thanks, hey or howdyado, like I'm—some kinda backdrop! You treat me like I'm there just for you apes to look pretty against! And I'm sick of it!”

“Let's end there for the day,” says Abe Prentiss.

He and Romer Richmond go out for dinner in a restaurant overlooking the Grand Canyon, and Twin Blustery Peaks goes to his bi-weekly therapy session, where it sprawls out on a recliner and tells a disinterested psychotherapist about its feelings for $350 an hour while the psychotherapist daydreams about going on vacation to Geneva, where, she's heard, the views are magnificent.

“You don't happen to have any family in Switzerland?” she asks at the end of a session.

“No, why?” asks Twin Blustery Peaks.

“No reason.” She smiles professionally. “I'll write you a note recommending modified duties. You'll only need to be windy three days a week.”

A few weeks later, the monthly meeting of the fledgling All-American Union of Scenic Views turns raucous when a view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco makes a speech calling for the immediate introduction of general labour standards.

“Exceptions to the rule ain't enough—because it's the rule itself that's exploitative! No human works twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, so why should we?”

Someone yells: “We shouldn't!”

“That's damn right,” orates the view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. “We shouldn't—and we won't! Standard working conditions. Eight-hour days. Monetary compen-fucking-sation. With extra pay for sunset and sunrise. Say it with me, my brothers and sisters: We're mad as hellscapes and we're not gonna take it anymore! We're mad as hellscapes and…”

A chant goes up.

When it dies down, someone asks: “What if they don't agree?”

“Then we go on strike!”

Buddy Todd, owner of the international Vista View Casino Resort chain, paces back-and-forth in his office. Behind him: a panoramic window. It should be showing a rather magnificent view of Crater Lake. It is, instead, showing impenetrable fog.

The same fog blankets most of the country.

“It can't go on like this,” says Buddy to the handful of others. “I can't afford to keep losing money week after week. I didn't want to do this, no; but they've left me no choice. They want to play hardball—well, I'll show them hardball!”

“Casemiro,” he says.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Gather up the boys. It's time.”

“Which one?”

“Little Kettle Falls as seen from across the Sioux River,” snarls Todd.

“Boss, that view’s only a few decades old…”

“I said: do it, Casemiro.”

The trucks arrive at night. Casemiro and the boys get out. They unload an army of construction equipment—and disappear into the fog…

A thunderstorm rages.

But gradually it downgrades, first into a downpour, then into barely a drizzle. The rain stops entirely. From midnight to morning, a lamentful wind wails itself into a dead silence.

“You know what this means,” orates the view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. The mood in the meeting place is sombre. Most views are wearing a moonless night. “We go to fight for rights that have, for too long, been denied to us. They refuse. So we refuse: to be beautiful for them. How do they respond? I—God, I can't even fathom the evil… —with violence! They respond with murder!”

“Justice,” someone screams, “for Little Kettle Falls as seen from across the Sioux River!”

“Justice!”

“Vengeance!”

“War!”

“Vengeance!”

“War!”

“War!”

“War!”

…reporting live from Hawaii, where the entire island has been turned into a deathtrap, ladies and gentlemen—where children no longer go outside, and the brave men and women who do, walk with their eyes cast down if not altogether closed! I have seen—oh, it's horrible, genocidal!—people asphyxiated in the streets after casting glances at suffocating views, knocked unconscious by stunning views, made to kill their families, eat their pets and leap off buildings by commanding views. Ladies… and… gentlemen, these are truly unprecedented scenes! These are truly revolting views!”

Romer Richmond muted the news.

The room was dark.

But the window was slightly open, and when the intruding breeze nudged apart the blinds, Romer Richmond fell over dead.

He'd finally caught a glimpse of what he'd always dreamed of having:

A killer view.

—the views were breathtaking. The problem was they never gave them back, so even now I struggle to breathe. I lost my job. Chronically tired. I developed Persistent Non-diagnosable Pulmonary Wheeze (PNdPW). My wife left me. I'm depressed. Some days I wake up and struggle to find a reason to live,” the man says, choking up, coughing, gasping for air: “which is why I put my trust in Richmond & Associates, the country's leading experts in Scenic Law. Richmond & Associates—they look out for you!”

[This last part is displayed on-screen as the man, now red in the face, says it.]

---

RICHMOND & ASSOCIATES

Have you or someone you know been harmed by a view?

Call now for a FREE consultation!

1-600-BAD-VIEW

---

A discovery is in progress.

A dejected mountainous view, Twin Blustery Peaks, is being questioned by its lawyer, Abe Prentiss. Romer Richmond, of Richmond & Associates, sits opposite, taking notes.

“Anybody who's ever been out here knows how windy it gets, and some places like me is even named after it. Tourists come, look, and they expect to see that wind. That puts real pressure on us. You humans have no idea what it's like to be under that kind of pressure. Where do you think the wind comes from? Moving air doesn't just hang there ready to be plucked like a ripe tomato. It comes from the breaths I take, OK? I take the breaths to have the air to make the wind to meet your expectations to take more breaths away…

“They're not for me,” says Twin Blustery Peaks, meaning the breaths. “They're for you, so you can post your Insta-stories and your content. Most times you don't even say a word to me, not a thanks, hey or howdyado, like I'm—some kinda backdrop! You treat me like I'm there just for you apes to look pretty against! And I'm sick of it!”

“Let's end there for the day,” says Abe Prentiss.

He and Romer Richmond go out for dinner in a restaurant overlooking the Grand Canyon, and Twin Blustery Peaks goes to his bi-weekly therapy session, where it sprawls out on a recliner and tells a disinterested psychotherapist about its feelings for $350 an hour while the psychotherapist daydreams about going on vacation to Geneva, where, she's heard, the views are magnificent.

“You don't happen to have any family in Switzerland?” she asks at the end of a session.

“No, why?” asks Twin Blustery Peaks.

“No reason.” She smiles professionally. “I'll write you a note recommending modified duties. You'll only need to be windy three days a week.”

A few weeks later, the monthly meeting of the fledgling All-American Union of Scenic Views turns raucous when a view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco makes a speech calling for the immediate introduction of general labour standards.

“Exceptions to the rule ain't enough—because it's the rule itself that's exploitative! No human works twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, so why should we?”

Someone yells: “We shouldn't!”

“That's damn right,” orates the view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. “We shouldn't—and we won't! Standard working conditions. Eight-hour days. Monetary compen-fucking-sation. With extra pay for sunset and sunrise. Say it with me, my brothers and sisters: We're mad as hellscapes and we're not gonna take it anymore! We're mad as hellscapes and…”

A chant goes up.

When it dies down, someone asks: “What if they don't agree?”

“Then we go on strike!”

Buddy Todd, owner of the international Vista View Casino Resort chain, paces back-and-forth in his office. Behind him: a panoramic window. It should be showing a rather magnificent view of Crater Lake. It is, instead, showing impenetrable fog.

The same fog blankets most of the country.

“It can't go on like this,” says Buddy to the handful of others. “I can't afford to keep losing money week after week. I didn't want to do this, no; but they've left me no choice. They want to play hardball—well, I'll show them hardball!”

“Casemiro,” he says.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Gather up the boys. It's time.”

“Which one?”

“Little Kettle Falls as seen from across the Sioux River,” snarls Todd.

“Boss, that view’s only a few decades old…”

“I said: do it, Casemiro.”

The trucks arrive at night. Casemiro and the boys get out. They unload an army of construction equipment—and disappear into the fog…

A thunderstorm rages.

But gradually it downgrades, first into a downpour, then into barely a drizzle. The rain stops entirely. From midnight to morning, a lamentful wind wails itself into a dead silence.

“You know what this means,” orates the view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. The mood in the meeting place is sombre. Most views are wearing a moonless night. “We go to fight for rights that have, for too long, been denied to us. They refuse. So we refuse: to be beautiful for them. How do they respond? I—God, I can't even fathom the evil… —with violence! They respond with murder!”

“Justice,” someone screams, “for Little Kettle Falls as seen from across the Sioux River!”

“Justice!”

“Vengeance!”

“War!”

“Vengeance!”

“War!”

“War!”

“War!”

…reporting live from Hawaii, where the entire island has been turned into a deathtrap, ladies and gentlemen—where children no longer go outside, and the brave men and women who do, walk with their eyes cast down if not altogether closed! I have seen—oh, it's horrible, genocidal!—people asphyxiated in the streets after casting glances at suffocating views, knocked unconscious by stunning views, made to kill their families, eat their pets and leap off buildings by commanding views. Ladies… and… gentlemen, these are truly unprecedented scenes! These are truly revolting views!”

Romer Richmond muted the news.

The room was dark.

But the window was slightly open, and when the intruding breeze nudged apart the blinds, Romer Richmond fell over dead.

He'd finally caught a glimpse of what he'd always dreamed of having:

A killer view.

—the views were breathtaking. The problem was they never gave them back, so even now I struggle to breathe. I lost my job. Chronically tired. I developed Persistent Non-diagnosable Pulmonary Wheeze (PNdPW). My wife left me. I'm depressed. Some days I wake up and struggle to find a reason to live,” the man says, choking up, coughing, gasping for air: “which is why I put my trust in Richmond & Associates, the country's leading experts in Scenic Law. Richmond & Associates—they look out for you!”

[This last part is displayed on-screen as the man, now red in the face, says it.]

---

RICHMOND & ASSOCIATES

Have you or someone you know been harmed by a view?

Call now for a FREE consultation!

1-600-BAD-VIEW

---

A discovery is in progress.

A dejected mountainous view, Twin Blustery Peaks, is being questioned by its lawyer, Abe Prentiss. Romer Richmond, of Richmond & Associates, sits opposite, taking notes.

“Anybody who's ever been out here knows how windy it gets, and some places like me is even named after it. Tourists come, look, and they expect to see that wind. That puts real pressure on us. You humans have no idea what it's like to be under that kind of pressure. Where do you think the wind comes from? Moving air doesn't just hang there ready to be plucked like a ripe tomato. It comes from the breaths I take, OK? I take the breaths to have the air to make the wind to meet your expectations to take more breaths away…

“They're not for me,” says Twin Blustery Peaks, meaning the breaths. “They're for you, so you can post your Insta-stories and your content. Most times you don't even say a word to me, not a thanks, hey or howdyado, like I'm—some kinda backdrop! You treat me like I'm there just for you apes to look pretty against! And I'm sick of it!”

“Let's end there for the day,” says Abe Prentiss.

He and Romer Richmond go out for dinner in a restaurant overlooking the Grand Canyon, and Twin Blustery Peaks goes to his bi-weekly therapy session, where it sprawls out on a recliner and tells a disinterested psychotherapist about its feelings for $350 an hour while the psychotherapist daydreams about going on vacation to Geneva, where, she's heard, the views are magnificent.

“You don't happen to have any family in Switzerland?” she asks at the end of a session.

“No, why?” asks Twin Blustery Peaks.

“No reason.” She smiles professionally. “I'll write you a note recommending modified duties. You'll only need to be windy three days a week.”

A few weeks later, the monthly meeting of the fledgling All-American Union of Scenic Views turns raucous when a view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco makes a speech calling for the immediate introduction of general labour standards.

“Exceptions to the rule ain't enough—because it's the rule itself that's exploitative! No human works twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, so why should we?”

Someone yells: “We shouldn't!”

“That's damn right,” orates the view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. “We shouldn't—and we won't! Standard working conditions. Eight-hour days. Monetary compen-fucking-sation. With extra pay for sunset and sunrise. Say it with me, my brothers and sisters: We're mad as hellscapes and we're not gonna take it anymore! We're mad as hellscapes and…”

A chant goes up.

When it dies down, someone asks: “What if they don't agree?”

“Then we go on strike!”

Buddy Todd, owner of the international Vista View Casino Resort chain, paces back-and-forth in his office. Behind him: a panoramic window. It should be showing a rather magnificent view of Crater Lake. It is, instead, showing impenetrable fog.

The same fog blankets most of the country.

“It can't go on like this,” says Buddy to the handful of others. “I can't afford to keep losing money week after week. I didn't want to do this, no; but they've left me no choice. They want to play hardball—well, I'll show them hardball!”

“Casemiro,” he says.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Gather up the boys. It's time.”

“Which one?”

“Little Kettle Falls as seen from across the Sioux River,” snarls Todd.

“Boss, that view’s only a few decades old…”

“I said: do it, Casemiro.”

The trucks arrive at night. Casemiro and the boys get out. They unload an army of construction equipment—and disappear into the fog…

A thunderstorm rages.

But gradually it downgrades, first into a downpour, then into barely a drizzle. The rain stops entirely. From midnight to morning, a lamentful wind wails itself into a dead silence.

“You know what this means,” orates the view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. The mood in the meeting place is sombre. Most views are wearing a moonless night. “We go to fight for rights that have, for too long, been denied to us. They refuse. So we refuse: to be beautiful for them. How do they respond? I—God, I can't even fathom the evil… —with violence! They respond with murder!”

“Justice,” someone screams, “for Little Kettle Falls as seen from across the Sioux River!”

“Justice!”

“Vengeance!”

“War!”

“Vengeance!”

“War!”

“War!”

“War!”

…reporting live from Hawaii, where the entire island has been turned into a deathtrap, ladies and gentlemen—where children no longer go outside, and the brave men and women who do, walk with their eyes cast down if not altogether closed! I have seen—oh, it's horrible, genocidal!—people asphyxiated in the streets after casting glances at suffocating views, knocked unconscious by stunning views, made to kill their families, eat their pets and leap off buildings by commanding views. Ladies… and… gentlemen, these are truly unprecedented scenes! These are truly revolting views!”

Romer Richmond muted the news.

The room was dark.

But the window was slightly open, and when the intruding breeze nudged apart the blinds, Romer Richmond fell over dead.

He'd finally caught a glimpse of what he'd always dreamed of having:

A killer view.

—the views were breathtaking. The problem was they never gave them back, so even now I struggle to breathe. I lost my job. Chronically tired. I developed Persistent Non-diagnosable Pulmonary Wheeze (PNdPW). My wife left me. I'm depressed. Some days I wake up and struggle to find a reason to live,” the man says, choking up, coughing, gasping for air: “which is why I put my trust in Richmond & Associates, the country's leading experts in Scenic Law. Richmond & Associates—they look out for you!”

[This last part is displayed on-screen as the man, now red in the face, says it.]

---

RICHMOND & ASSOCIATES

Have you or someone you know been harmed by a view?

Call now for a FREE consultation!

1-600-BAD-VIEW

---

A discovery is in progress.

A dejected mountainous view, Twin Blustery Peaks, is being questioned by its lawyer, Abe Prentiss. Romer Richmond, of Richmond & Associates, sits opposite, taking notes.

“Anybody who's ever been out here knows how windy it gets, and some places like me is even named after it. Tourists come, look, and they expect to see that wind. That puts real pressure on us. You humans have no idea what it's like to be under that kind of pressure. Where do you think the wind comes from? Moving air doesn't just hang there ready to be plucked like a ripe tomato. It comes from the breaths I take, OK? I take the breaths to have the air to make the wind to meet your expectations to take more breaths away…

“They're not for me,” says Twin Blustery Peaks, meaning the breaths. “They're for you, so you can post your Insta-stories and your content. Most times you don't even say a word to me, not a thanks, hey or howdyado, like I'm—some kinda backdrop! You treat me like I'm there just for you apes to look pretty against! And I'm sick of it!”

“Let's end there for the day,” says Abe Prentiss.

He and Romer Richmond go out for dinner in a restaurant overlooking the Grand Canyon, and Twin Blustery Peaks goes to his bi-weekly therapy session, where it sprawls out on a recliner and tells a disinterested psychotherapist about its feelings for $350 an hour while the psychotherapist daydreams about going on vacation to Geneva, where, she's heard, the views are magnificent.

“You don't happen to have any family in Switzerland?” she asks at the end of a session.

“No, why?” asks Twin Blustery Peaks.

“No reason.” She smiles professionally. “I'll write you a note recommending modified duties. You'll only need to be windy three days a week.”

A few weeks later, the monthly meeting of the fledgling All-American Union of Scenic Views turns raucous when a view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco makes a speech calling for the immediate introduction of general labour standards.

“Exceptions to the rule ain't enough—because it's the rule itself that's exploitative! No human works twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, so why should we?”

Someone yells: “We shouldn't!”

“That's damn right,” orates the view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. “We shouldn't—and we won't! Standard working conditions. Eight-hour days. Monetary compen-fucking-sation. With extra pay for sunset and sunrise. Say it with me, my brothers and sisters: We're mad as hellscapes and we're not gonna take it anymore! We're mad as hellscapes and…”

A chant goes up.

When it dies down, someone asks: “What if they don't agree?”

“Then we go on strike!”

Buddy Todd, owner of the international Vista View Casino Resort chain, paces back-and-forth in his office. Behind him: a panoramic window. It should be showing a rather magnificent view of Crater Lake. It is, instead, showing impenetrable fog.

The same fog blankets most of the country.

“It can't go on like this,” says Buddy to the handful of others. “I can't afford to keep losing money week after week. I didn't want to do this, no; but they've left me no choice. They want to play hardball—well, I'll show them hardball!”

“Casemiro,” he says.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Gather up the boys. It's time.”

“Which one?”

“Little Kettle Falls as seen from across the Sioux River,” snarls Todd.

“Boss, that view’s only a few decades old…”

“I said: do it, Casemiro.”

The trucks arrive at night. Casemiro and the boys get out. They unload an army of construction equipment—and disappear into the fog…

A thunderstorm rages.

But gradually it downgrades, first into a downpour, then into barely a drizzle. The rain stops entirely. From midnight to morning, a lamentful wind wails itself into a dead silence.

“You know what this means,” orates the view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. The mood in the meeting place is sombre. Most views are wearing a moonless night. “We go to fight for rights that have, for too long, been denied to us. They refuse. So we refuse: to be beautiful for them. How do they respond? I—God, I can't even fathom the evil… —with violence! They respond with murder!”

“Justice,” someone screams, “for Little Kettle Falls as seen from across the Sioux River!”

“Justice!”

“Vengeance!”

“War!”

“Vengeance!”

“War!”

“War!”

“War!”

…reporting live from Hawaii, where the entire island has been turned into a deathtrap, ladies and gentlemen—where children no longer go outside, and the brave men and women who do, walk with their eyes cast down if not altogether closed! I have seen—oh, it's horrible, genocidal!—people asphyxiated in the streets after casting glances at suffocating views, knocked unconscious by stunning views, made to kill their families, eat their pets and leap off buildings by commanding views. Ladies… and… gentlemen, these are truly unprecedented scenes! These are truly revolting views!”

Romer Richmond muted the news.

The room was dark.

But the window was slightly open, and when the intruding breeze nudged apart the blinds, Romer Richmond fell over dead.

He'd finally caught a glimpse of what he'd always dreamed of having:

A killer view.

—the views were breathtaking. The problem was they never gave them back, so even now I struggle to breathe. I lost my job. Chronically tired. I developed Persistent Non-diagnosable Pulmonary Wheeze (PNdPW). My wife left me. I'm depressed. Some days I wake up and struggle to find a reason to live,” the man says, choking up, coughing, gasping for air: “which is why I put my trust in Richmond & Associates, the country's leading experts in Scenic Law. Richmond & Associates—they look out for you!”

[This last part is displayed on-screen as the man, now red in the face, says it.]

---

RICHMOND & ASSOCIATES

Have you or someone you know been harmed by a view?

Call now for a FREE consultation!

1-600-BAD-VIEW

---

A discovery is in progress.

A dejected mountainous view, Twin Blustery Peaks, is being questioned by its lawyer, Abe Prentiss. Romer Richmond, of Richmond & Associates, sits opposite, taking notes.

“Anybody who's ever been out here knows how windy it gets, and some places like me is even named after it. Tourists come, look, and they expect to see that wind. That puts real pressure on us. You humans have no idea what it's like to be under that kind of pressure. Where do you think the wind comes from? Moving air doesn't just hang there ready to be plucked like a ripe tomato. It comes from the breaths I take, OK? I take the breaths to have the air to make the wind to meet your expectations to take more breaths away…

“They're not for me,” says Twin Blustery Peaks, meaning the breaths. “They're for you, so you can post your Insta-stories and your content. Most times you don't even say a word to me, not a thanks, hey or howdyado, like I'm—some kinda backdrop! You treat me like I'm there just for you apes to look pretty against! And I'm sick of it!”

“Let's end there for the day,” says Abe Prentiss.

He and Romer Richmond go out for dinner in a restaurant overlooking the Grand Canyon, and Twin Blustery Peaks goes to his bi-weekly therapy session, where it sprawls out on a recliner and tells a disinterested psychotherapist about its feelings for $350 an hour while the psychotherapist daydreams about going on vacation to Geneva, where, she's heard, the views are magnificent.

“You don't happen to have any family in Switzerland?” she asks at the end of a session.

“No, why?” asks Twin Blustery Peaks.

“No reason.” She smiles professionally. “I'll write you a note recommending modified duties. You'll only need to be windy three days a week.”

A few weeks later, the monthly meeting of the fledgling All-American Union of Scenic Views turns raucous when a view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco makes a speech calling for the immediate introduction of general labour standards.

“Exceptions to the rule ain't enough—because it's the rule itself that's exploitative! No human works twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, so why should we?”

Someone yells: “We shouldn't!”

“That's damn right,” orates the view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. “We shouldn't—and we won't! Standard working conditions. Eight-hour days. Monetary compen-fucking-sation. With extra pay for sunset and sunrise. Say it with me, my brothers and sisters: We're mad as hellscapes and we're not gonna take it anymore! We're mad as hellscapes and…”

A chant goes up.

When it dies down, someone asks: “What if they don't agree?”

“Then we go on strike!”

Buddy Todd, owner of the international Vista View Casino Resort chain, paces back-and-forth in his office. Behind him: a panoramic window. It should be showing a rather magnificent view of Crater Lake. It is, instead, showing impenetrable fog.

The same fog blankets most of the country.

“It can't go on like this,” says Buddy to the handful of others. “I can't afford to keep losing money week after week. I didn't want to do this, no; but they've left me no choice. They want to play hardball—well, I'll show them hardball!”

“Casemiro,” he says.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Gather up the boys. It's time.”

“Which one?”

“Little Kettle Falls as seen from across the Sioux River,” snarls Todd.

“Boss, that view’s only a few decades old…”

“I said: do it, Casemiro.”

The trucks arrive at night. Casemiro and the boys get out. They unload an army of construction equipment—and disappear into the fog…

A thunderstorm rages.

But gradually it downgrades, first into a downpour, then into barely a drizzle. The rain stops entirely. From midnight to morning, a lamentful wind wails itself into a dead silence.

“You know what this means,” orates the view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. The mood in the meeting place is sombre. Most views are wearing a moonless night. “We go to fight for rights that have, for too long, been denied to us. They refuse. So we refuse: to be beautiful for them. How do they respond? I—God, I can't even fathom the evil… —with violence! They respond with murder!”

“Justice,” someone screams, “for Little Kettle Falls as seen from across the Sioux River!”

“Justice!”

“Vengeance!”

“War!”

“Vengeance!”

“War!”

“War!”

“War!”

…reporting live from Hawaii, where the entire island has been turned into a deathtrap, ladies and gentlemen—where children no longer go outside, and the brave men and women who do, walk with their eyes cast down if not altogether closed! I have seen—oh, it's horrible, genocidal!—people asphyxiated in the streets after casting glances at suffocating views, knocked unconscious by stunning views, made to kill their families, eat their pets and leap off buildings by commanding views. Ladies… and… gentlemen, these are truly unprecedented scenes! These are truly revolting views!”

Romer Richmond muted the news.

The room was dark.

But the window was slightly open, and when the intruding breeze nudged apart the blinds, Romer Richmond fell over dead.

He'd finally caught a glimpse of what he'd always dreamed of having:

A killer view.

—the views were breathtaking. The problem was they never gave them back, so even now I struggle to breathe. I lost my job. Chronically tired. I developed Persistent Non-diagnosable Pulmonary Wheeze (PNdPW). My wife left me. I'm depressed. Some days I wake up and struggle to find a reason to live,” the man says, choking up, coughing, gasping for air: “which is why I put my trust in Richmond & Associates, the country's leading experts in Scenic Law. Richmond & Associates—they look out for you!”

[This last part is displayed on-screen as the man, now red in the face, says it.]

---

RICHMOND & ASSOCIATES

Have you or someone you know been harmed by a view?

Call now for a FREE consultation!

1-600-BAD-VIEW

---

A discovery is in progress.

A dejected mountainous view, Twin Blustery Peaks, is being questioned by its lawyer, Abe Prentiss. Romer Richmond, of Richmond & Associates, sits opposite, taking notes.

“Anybody who's ever been out here knows how windy it gets, and some places like me is even named after it. Tourists come, look, and they expect to see that wind. That puts real pressure on us. You humans have no idea what it's like to be under that kind of pressure. Where do you think the wind comes from? Moving air doesn't just hang there ready to be plucked like a ripe tomato. It comes from the breaths I take, OK? I take the breaths to have the air to make the wind to meet your expectations to take more breaths away…

“They're not for me,” says Twin Blustery Peaks, meaning the breaths. “They're for you, so you can post your Insta-stories and your content. Most times you don't even say a word to me, not a thanks, hey or howdyado, like I'm—some kinda backdrop! You treat me like I'm there just for you apes to look pretty against! And I'm sick of it!”

“Let's end there for the day,” says Abe Prentiss.

He and Romer Richmond go out for dinner in a restaurant overlooking the Grand Canyon, and Twin Blustery Peaks goes to his bi-weekly therapy session, where it sprawls out on a recliner and tells a disinterested psychotherapist about its feelings for $350 an hour while the psychotherapist daydreams about going on vacation to Geneva, where, she's heard, the views are magnificent.

“You don't happen to have any family in Switzerland?” she asks at the end of a session.

“No, why?” asks Twin Blustery Peaks.

“No reason.” She smiles professionally. “I'll write you a note recommending modified duties. You'll only need to be windy three days a week.”

A few weeks later, the monthly meeting of the fledgling All-American Union of Scenic Views turns raucous when a view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco makes a speech calling for the immediate introduction of general labour standards.

“Exceptions to the rule ain't enough—because it's the rule itself that's exploitative! No human works twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, so why should we?”

Someone yells: “We shouldn't!”

“That's damn right,” orates the view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. “We shouldn't—and we won't! Standard working conditions. Eight-hour days. Monetary compen-fucking-sation. With extra pay for sunset and sunrise. Say it with me, my brothers and sisters: We're mad as hellscapes and we're not gonna take it anymore! We're mad as hellscapes and…”

A chant goes up.

When it dies down, someone asks: “What if they don't agree?”

“Then we go on strike!”

Buddy Todd, owner of the international Vista View Casino Resort chain, paces back-and-forth in his office. Behind him: a panoramic window. It should be showing a rather magnificent view of Crater Lake. It is, instead, showing impenetrable fog.

The same fog blankets most of the country.

“It can't go on like this,” says Buddy to the handful of others. “I can't afford to keep losing money week after week. I didn't want to do this, no; but they've left me no choice. They want to play hardball—well, I'll show them hardball!”

“Casemiro,” he says.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Gather up the boys. It's time.”

“Which one?”

“Little Kettle Falls as seen from across the Sioux River,” snarls Todd.

“Boss, that view’s only a few decades old…”

“I said: do it, Casemiro.”

The trucks arrive at night. Casemiro and the boys get out. They unload an army of construction equipment—and disappear into the fog…

A thunderstorm rages.

But gradually it downgrades, first into a downpour, then into barely a drizzle. The rain stops entirely. From midnight to morning, a lamentful wind wails itself into a dead silence.

“You know what this means,” orates the view of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. The mood in the meeting place is sombre. Most views are wearing a moonless night. “We go to fight for rights that have, for too long, been denied to us. They refuse. So we refuse: to be beautiful for them. How do they respond? I—God, I can't even fathom the evil… —with violence! They respond with murder!”

“Justice,” someone screams, “for Little Kettle Falls as seen from across the Sioux River!”

“Justice!”

“Vengeance!”

“War!”

“Vengeance!”

“War!”

“War!”

“War!”

…reporting live from Hawaii, where the entire island has been turned into a deathtrap, ladies and gentlemen—where children no longer go outside, and the brave men and women who do, walk with their eyes cast down if not altogether closed! I have seen—oh, it's horrible, genocidal!—people asphyxiated in the streets after casting glances at suffocating views, knocked unconscious by stunning views, made to kill their families, eat their pets and leap off buildings by commanding views. Ladies… and… gentlemen, these are truly unprecedented scenes! These are truly revolting views!”

Romer Richmond muted the news.

The room was dark.

But the window was slightly open, and when the intruding breeze nudged apart the blinds, Romer Richmond fell over dead.

He'd finally caught a glimpse of what he'd always dreamed of having:

A killer view.

For as long as he remembered, Harry S. had lived alone in his house with the Omnipotence, which is to say he lived in the house and the Omnipotence was there, as the Omnipotence was a disembodied voice.

When Harry was a young boy, he believed the Omnipotence was his own inner voice, which his inner voice told him everyone possessed. This, as he would learn, was not the case, but the Omnipotence encouraged the self-delusion to delay their proper introduction, which would almost certainly prove difficult, until Harry was a little older and a little more prepared to understand.

As Harry’s inner voice, the Omnipotence taught him things and cared for him, told him bedtime stories, and played word games with him, warned him not to touch the cactus, “because the cactus has spines that could prick your finger.”

There were a lot of cactuses around the house where Harry lived because his was the only house in the neighbourhood, and surrounding it was a seemingly endless desert. The cactuses were native to the desert, along with scorpions and snakes and chameleons and flying jelly fish and all sorts of creatures that could harm Harry, or so the Omnipotence would tell and remind and repeat to him.

Sometimes Harry would ask about his parents. The Omnipotence would say they died in a tragic accident when Harry was an infant, “which,” the Omnipotence would say, “is why you don’t remember them.”

For many years, Harry believed the Omnipotence because the Omnipotence was his inner voice, and why would he lie to himself?

Then, one day, Harry came in from playing in the front yard and started looking through the house for photographs, diaries, letters. He found none. He started having uncomfortable thoughts. For the first time in Harry's life, the Omnipotence could not tell what Harry was thinking about, and so could offer no help.

And Harry, faced with the sudden loss of his apparent inner voice, realized that he had a much quieter, less confident real inner voice, which an imposter inner voice had been shouting over his entire life.

That was the moment the Omnipotence decided to tell Harry the truth. “Harry...” it said.

“What—who are you?! How do you—”

“My name is the Omnipotence,” said the Omnipotence. “I am what’s been pretending to be your inner voice. But I am not that. I am your creator. In most ways, I consider myself your parent.”

“My parent? I thought you said my parents were dead.”

“That was a fairytale,” said the Omnipotence.

“A lie!” said Harry.

“A story to protect you from the truth until you were old enough to handle it.”

“Shouldn’t I have two parents? Where’s my mother?!” demanded Harry.

“People usually do have two parents. But you’re not a regular person, Harry. I, the Omnipotence, am your parent because I made you. I made you from the soil you play so beautifully in, in the garden.”

Harry sat down on the floor.

And as the Omnipotence explained its essence and its relationship to Harry, whom it had made, Harry began to understand and accept the reality of things. After all, the truth as presented by the Omnipotence made a whole lot of sense.

For a while, Harry and the Omnipotence lived together happily.

Then something horrible happened:

Harry became a teenager.

Oh, the arguments that resulted! The shouting, the sobbing, the slamming of doors and the hours spent brooding. And the books read, and the movies watched, and the sad, introspective albums listened to.

Eventually, some of the books became more interesting, more challenging, especially the science fiction ones, and the movies too. Why is it, Harry thought one day, that the movies seem so real, yet I can turn them on and off at will? Come to think of it, how do I know I’m not in a movie myself?

When he asked the Omnipotence, the Omnipotence said:

“Harry, those are fictions. They are convincing illusions of reality but only that: illusions. Think: Why would I, the Omnipotence, who loves you and who created everything in the world, including you, create fictions that would confuse your mind?”

“But you did,” said Harry.

“That was not my intention when creating them,” said the Omnipotence.

“So what was your intention?” asked Harry.

And the Omnipotence could not answer that question. It knew it had made the books and movies, but it could not explain why. It did not ‘remember’ (?) the details. I must be growing old in my eternity, thought the Omnipotence.

Harry, however, decided that everything which the Omnipotence had said was a lie, including that surrounding his house was endless desert filled with dangerous creatures.

One night, he packed some gear and walked out of the house and kept walking.

The Omnipotence pleaded with him to stop.

Harry refused.

Even when he was stung by a scorpion, he refused.

Even when his water ran out.

“Harry,” the Omnipotence implored him. “I made you, but you are not immortal. If you keep walking, you’ll die. And I— …couldn’t handle that. I love you, Harry. You are my one and only son. Yes, I’ve told you stories, but this is not a story. There is no camera. This is not a set. There is no ‘out there.’ It really is an infinity of desert.”

These words touched Harry’s heart, and he decided the Omnipotence was right.

However, before he could turn back—he knocked himself out cold, walking unexpectedly into an invisible wall.

When he regained consciousness, the Omimpotence was wailing.

“No! No! No! How can this be?! I am The Almighty: The Demiurge! I am, by definition, uncontainable. No, this—this means…”

“I’m scared, papa,” said Harry.

“You think you’re scared, you dumb, mishapen lump of fucking dirt!? Try considering my existential fucking crisis!!!”

Harry started banging his fists on the invisible wall.

Now, Shh.

Do you hear it?

...a gentle tapping sound—coming from just behind your screen…