The Ventriloquist

Saint Valentine's Day Massacre, 1929. A neoprene ventriloquist in the midst of true love lost.

                                                  

                             The Ventriloquist

   

pondered the day,   

       

                                    "what should I say?"

          

    before being seated in a propped scarecrow position upright sloped upon the iron barstool, velvet stage, whiskey, root beer, and cognac patrons; audience boasted frightful faces stunned that there in the middle of the platform was only his shadow behind him, the dummy its own ventriloquist, movements of the wooden mouth manipulated by screws just the same; the ventriloquist ran like a flash of lightning through the vacant meadow in summertime's dry, desolate wasteland.

    Now he slowly moved his wooden head from the right to the center of the audience, paralyzed at their Parisian tables and parlour chairs beneath the prop lights.

    They each secretly contemplated running away now, or wait for him to speak.

    His wooden mouth opened up, his white wooden teeth like jowls, howling to hear some music, his mechanical blue eyes moved from center to his left, to the rear corner of the saloon where with a nod, the cabaret man and his men lifted up to their mouths and bows in hands instruments of slight symphony of jazz, and then his other dimension eyes quickly moved back to the center of the dim room beyond, where moments before this puzzle there were soft smiles and toasts: a waiter offering carnations, dizzy heads and giddy laughter combusting from their ripe stomachs, and nibbles on earlobes in romantic, sweet evening, now stopped faintly in time at what next the ventriloquist would do.

    His eyes stayed on a lady in the midst who wore a purple flower in her long, curled locks, where it was pinned to one side over her left ear. The lighting man moved the cylinder dome light to send rays to illuminate her pouty lips of rouge, the strawberry-golden locks just at her slender shoulders, and sad, mysterious eyes engaged to capture the attention of the myth of the wooden object captivating the room.

    The mouth descended to close the helmet lips over the teeth. Specks of light dust rained particles of energy shining down upon her upright lady-like posture: her tall frame, exposed shoulders, smooth back; silk dress embroidered with lace; graceful, bashful lashes, waiting for him to speak.

    The saloon was so quiet. Here the music had stopped. Ice cubes could be heard tumbling over in a man's glass of whiskey just placed back down upon the table from his last sip, where just before this frozen moment in time the ventriloquist was contemplating his recollection of the meadow, and now suddenly, so still, the only sound which could be heard were the screws moving inside his mouth until he moved it again, open wide, and said:

    "Hey you, miss-with-the-purple-flower-and-the-black-dress, come dance with me."

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ucky Luciano and his chap Al Capone were seated, each with one woman at his side, scotch for the mobsters, and for the ladies, wine.

 

                         "What the hell just happened?" Lucky whispered to Al Capone's big, flappy ear as the ventriloquist and the lady with the purple flower dashed away off stage, hand in hand.

    "Flapp-eee, or flopp-ee?" the ventriloquist jabbered without losing breath as he and the lady with the purple flower ran through the meadow, trembling hands clasped. He could read the thoughts of his narrator's mind as she had written the words flappy ear , but contemplated between 'flappy' or 'floppy', the same ponder the ventriloquist had presented to the moonlight or the wheatgrass, since the lady with the purple flower couldn't read his mind and was nearly out of breath.

    The mobsters had been perspiring climatic excitement of their daily criminalistic behaviors which had them wiping sweat from their brows and temples with the white linen cloth napkins.

    Two tables over, an alien from the planet seen in Nebula during a full moon was having a vodka with fruit juice. From the outside layers she was a woman from Beruit and within her accompaniment date was a martian in a zoot suit. Both had just witnessed one of Luciano's henchmen in a hold-up at the State Bank of Chicago, where in the substratum of greed both ways, the aliens had perpetuated stolen thoughts of persuasion to gain some of the cash flow. Eventually down the alleyway as the bold intruders cooly exited the back and accidentally dropped a burlap sack containing $80,000.00 that the alien and martian only mentally manipulated for ownership, not permitted for spending, which was out of their element.

    The money the aliens had secularly set aside for themselves through psychological spawn of the henchman's delivery went unbeknownst to Luciano and Capone.

    At this point, the whole place was filled with servants of satan, save the lady with the purple flower, now fleeing through a fantastic mirage of the most illustrious botanicals, with the veneering ventriloquist now forbidding further vengeance within his own vernacular of vile transmission, overtaken by the soft soul of the rouged-mouth lady in silk, whose spirit could not be shaken, no matter the devil.

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It was time for music.

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    The percussion remedied to further enhance the crowd's intrigued trance by resumed symphony---to no avail: cigars were extinguished, one by one, and the place burned with confusion.

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    The ventriloquist stopped himself in his own running; paced himself for a breath to catch up with his own choke. He looked up at the silver streak emanating from the light of the moon casting both glow and shadow of separation diverted to unity between the two, he and she, who he wished to kiss. As a talisman sent by the shaman of the universe to deliver sweet regard to her, now so it was.

    He stood there in the wheatgrass on his tip-toes and drew his manufactured arms around her waist, to prompt her to bend down and kiss him, and as she did, the moon turned from winter to spring, arranging itself a new evening in a time warp that was observed only by the ventriloquist.

    In the moment before they candied, she contemplated with closed eyes if her kiss would be strange, unresponsive, or passionate sincerity.

    She bent down and kissed him.

    Simultaneously, in the bubble-film over the next realm over, Al Capone leaned in closer to Lucky Luciano's left ear, halfway covering his mouth in paranoia as if Thomas Dewey or

J. Edgar Hoover could hear, and in a hushed gruff, he said, "I have no ideeya. Let's get outta here."

    The gangsters and their ladies arose from the small round table, pushed in their parlour chairs and slowly shuffled out. Al Capone had his fat, chubby hand across the small of the lady's back, against her skin where her dress came to a V. He was looking over his shoulder to make sure they weren't being followed. Simultaneously, the alien kind who had appeared human grabbed their coats. One grabbed the burlap sack that was hidden on the floor beneath the table in the dim room, headed out the main entrance while Capone and company exited through the back. Alien and martian were headed for the L train at Roosevelt Road Station.

    When the thugs approached the car that was waiting, Capone turned to Luciano in the dense fog of the chilly night and said in a low voice, "I thought Dewey's men were in there."

    Charles Luciano, who earned the nickname 'Lucky' from having been beaten, stabbed, and left for dead on a beach in New York Bay, looked from left to right for rivals as Capone said this, wiped the lid of his droopy eye, and said, "yeah, me too."

    "They didn't hit Bugs Moran today."

    "Maybe the Commission will try again tomorrow," said Luciano.

    "Let's go get a bite to eat at that little joint on La Salle. The place is quiet. We'll sit away from the windows."

    Al Capone's stomach rumbled and the irony at the cabaret slightly shifted his mood. To this, he added, "what I don't understand is why and how the hell that dummy didn't have a ventriloquist." He contemplated this query and added, "and whose hands were those, the shadows?"

    "Yeah, and how could he run?" asked Luciano.

    "I don't know, weird, but that broad was real cute," Capone whispered so the ladies wouldn't be offended.

    The driver of the car saw the four approaching now, appearing through the fog. He could hear the sounds of their patent leather shoes and the ladies' heels clicking and tapping against the concrete of the alleyway. He stood at the right side passenger door and held it open. The ladies crawled inside.

    Then Lucky said to Capone, "yah, real tart. She must be one of the Scandinavians too." He took a breath and added, "I've seen her before. I think she's Lindgren's daughter." Lucky quieted and rode in back with the two raven haired ladies.

Al Capone sat in front.

    "Take us to that little joint on La Salle.."

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indgren  was one of the partners of the State Bank (of Chicago), which capital stock rose to one million in 1904.

Tonight, the alien and martian had a pinch of it in a burlap sack, courtesy of the south side clan.

As the L left Roosevelt Road station, the ventriloquist and his doll were still locked in a kiss, this moment lying on the soft spread of the meadow behind an abandoned factory.

The ventriloquist looked into her amethyst-emerald ocean eyes, the moonlight casting a soft glow upon her face.

    "Tell me all your secrets," it said, whilst the neoprene beneath the hard-head seemed to come alive with life, love.

    Perhaps in a sudden state of automatonophobia of this human size 42" puppet performing its own ventriloquism, the lady began to tremble in the breeze of the surreal spring evening, succumbed to the paralysis of being ensconced in the flexible latex of this strange stranger still with every second.

    The ventriloquist closed his wooden eyes shut and there was no more sound of screws.

Just then,

The Cosmos delivered battle to the envious wind.

    The ratio between the enemies (a vast difference without comparison)- the bad men and persuasion of good nature was lost at any gentle attempt to deliver futile ambition torn from its own evil intention, and so, here was the F.B.I., creeping slowly up behind them.

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    The cabaret man and his orchestra lifted their instruments once more to remedy the phenomenon but now there was hardly an audience to hear them play stolen music they failed to duplicate.

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    The milieux of the maniac's mind was wandering seven stories below, the gates at the driveway, a mesh the transmission crumbling at the meadowland at fuzzy peaches interception.

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    The Spanish (fly) on the wall had succumbed everyone to sickness.

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    The ventriloquist wanted, so lovingly (a feeling he could not realize), while being mechanically unresponsive and artificially inappropriate to love, to softly kiss and suckle pollenated honey spirit of the innocence of the lady with the purple flower.

Time did not yet meld: he prevailed himself to blue asphyxiation at speaking time.

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    Al Capone smelled the waft of garlic from mama Josephine's Italian garlic bread. The joint was a getaway elimination of vulture spies.

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    The ventriloquist said, "hold me tighter," with the familiarity of pauses between syllables and clicking sound of his wooden jowls snapping together open-shut with each word he spoke. [Now the ventriloquist was creeping up to her neck]. She clung to him at this instantaneous hello and goodbye. He held her tighter.

    On the outskirts of the south side of Chicago, the two were alone in their own little world, a world away from the beginning fate of the day: the massacre of the seven men, while Bugs Moran got away, escaping assassination, the hit orchestrated by Johnny Torio, Luciano, and Capone, a ruthless symphony entangled with Salvatore Maranzano.

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    The orchestra men halted the music in the Cabaret Room. The gloom lingered dates and double dates and mens' fates while in hiding, all pondering the astonishment of the evening's real and surreal, yet they were captive in a mirage of being mesmerized beyond assertive bizarre witness; so some who stayed in the cabaret and returned to their seats returned to their romantic states and swayed and stayed and ordered more drinks despite the highlight of the heightened luring like wind, entertainment, blow out or into, arrive like a breeze, mistaken judgment the ventriloquist ceased to perform, but the performed for removal, never justified performance, save performing for his creator, a being in search of the existence of the elixir of true love.

    But entertainment was all around: the mobsters had their day, until one by one they slipped away from the sovereignty cops and robbers- bad guys inevitably caught or killed.

    Another entertainment would resume. The cabaret man, a clarinetist and cellist, replaced the string and wood instruments in the cases and walked to center stage. The lighting man moved the rays to him. All eyes were upon him. He cleared his throat, then spoke.

   

    "Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for being here with us tonight in the Cabaret Room. We-uh-..." he began, faintly scratching at his dark brow with his thumb, "we apologize for the..."  he looked at the final crowd, then for words. "...For the strange back there."  (And as he said this, he leaned his tall, slender frame and long torso to a sudden tilt to the right, throwing his head back with a slight nod, moved the microphone closer to his lips) And continued:  "but we hope you'll stay and enjoy some music. I'm Tony, and the orchestra and I will be taking five. There are no other scheduled performances for tonight, so we'll take over from where that...dummy...heh hhmmm!...ventriloquist...uh....strange left off." And after a pause: "thank-you. We hope you'll enjoy more music."

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   The puppet, the man, the thing, etched closer to the lady with the purple flower with pouty lips of rouge. The night cadenced dismal doom but there was no longer room. His heart began to bloom. He said,"the cab-a-ret-man-is-orch-e-stra-ting-the-gloom."

'What?'  she asked without saying, turned her neck to look at him, puzzled, inched away from him.

     "Myoo-zic!" shouted the ventriloquist. He could feel her trying to squirm away.

    "No, no, no, come clo-ser!" mouthed the hard-headed knee figure, but when he turned his mechanical head and the live grass felt the thing's cheek upon it, crushing it, the dummy opened his eyes, reading the thoughts of grass,

    'the lady with the purple flower is gone, vanished.'

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    After taking five, the orchestra commenced orchestrating. The blades of grass blew softly like reeds of clarinets. Trumpets blared. The saxophone symphonized. A woman from Svalbard groaned. The ventriloquist threw his own voice, ventriloquism within, while the Commission's composition were representatives of the Five Families: New York, Philadelphia, Buffalo, Los Angeles, and the Chicago outfit of Al Capone, to paint the town with blood, red to brown.

    "Now -say- you're -not- a-lone," said the ventriloquist to himself, and with his soft cloth body, ran like a flash of lightning at lightning speed through the vacant meadow's snow. Now he slowly moved his wooden head from the right to the center and then straight up toward the stars in the sky at a cluster of Orion's beautific belt.

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    The woman from Svalbard's father was a coal miner.

    He said she was a butterfly; star in the sky; had the eyes of a bird.

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    The F.B.I. was soaring in in the background beyond fuzzy transmission to accommodate the surrender of the Commission, gangsters equivalent of the Supreme Court, menaces to mankind at a halt the abrasion to beseech God, shunning a smile.

    Luciano's men were teetering on the verge of dwelling in a makeshift hideaway: abandoned factory with a lone table placed in the center on the concrete, pushing stacks of Federal reserve bills for the fat, sweaty, hairy-knuckled greedy hands to fist into their money clips.

    The ventriloquist stared into the mystique of the sky which was opening and closing its gray clouds forming ancient tales through symbolism above his head. He yearned for the answers but was solely chosen since time began, to know. To see. He knew that eighty-three years into the future the world would not end, as in the end of the Mayan calendar or Nostradamus's dream, but the end of all evenings neverending, to sunrise the next day, [and here the narrator stopped and asked, 'which is better?...'but the end of all evenings neverending, to sunrise the next day infinite, or the next day forever?'

    The ventriloquist heard the inside thoughts of his transmitter, the writer, and replied,

"for-ev-er!" and went into our little future eighty-three years into the ventriloquist's predictment in the predicament of love (pondering away instead of cabaret). Forever, when the last bee shall die, disguised as a butterfly, disguised as a flower, the last woman of true love saved and held for a moved man. That knowledge could never make him understand, or make him real, or alive, but the living organisms of wood worked with the mechanisms of his disportioned mouth to move to speak.

    "Laaaydeee-with-the-purple-flowwwurrrr! Where are yoooou? We neeeeeed you!" he yelled into the current of the cosmos coming alive, secrets known as mistaken more mystified.

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    Lucky Luciano scratched his thumb at the tightest flesh at the top of his brow and took the last drag of his cigarette before its final ashes fell from the butt onto the ashtray.

   "I'll get this," he said to Capone, with one hand on the check and the other putting his cigarette out. For him and Capone and the two dolls, he'd pay $16.23. He left a generous tip of ten dollars to Freddy, who always had a good table ready, and followed his party out the door.

    The liberty of the February sky changed with colors from a charcoal-slate gray to purple, azure, and light orange hues, then the change in temperature dropped to a deeper freeze while Chicago winds blew the snowflakes more quickly to the piles of snow now blocking the entrances of doors, which had to be shoveled and the roads paved with salt.

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    The lady with the purple flower did not return to the meadow. She was already gone at the moment of disparage clutching's release.

    The cold air froze the atmosphere in time. The ventriloquist now had his only moment to interface with it.

    Telling their secrets, the clouds moved and conveyed a shifting of spectacular vernacular, just being, just in being, the sky the only sky that was ever known to exist as sky, no end and no beginning, hovering above and beyond the metaphysics of ventriloquism beneath, and beyond the beyond, God laughing unnervingly.

    A distant ant, the ventriloquist blinked. The sound of metal screws could be heard clanking within the jaw- his jowls tight, his facial movements shifting only familiar settings, few. The sky told him what to do.

    "I know it's yoooouuuuu," he said, snapping his wooden eyelids open and closed, open again. The screws holding the joints together screeched in its rust as he stood now before some rare violets in the meadow, where there a strange butterfly of mystique kind silently composed what a butterfly does in secret. The ventriloquist was paralyzed by his own unchanging, and because he would remain the same, he was defeated by sole paradox of disregarded transformation, a puppet at a loss where a butterfly could only thrive with beauty in the changes. The butterfly's vivid wings spread open while the ventriloquist's neoprene legs twitched below on the grass of the meadow.

    The green liquid blood flowed down his makeshift groin. The butterfly was music grown, glowing shown through the incandescent transformation.  Beyond the bullet-riddled buildings beneath the silver-lit moon, the lady with the purple flower stood away as fallen angel before the ventriloquist, who embraced silence on his own as he failed to get the message home- nothing on his own.

    Just there, before his very eyes, her presence faded and faded away, the soft light growing more dim until it went out all together, leaving the ventriloquist alone and in darkness.

    He moved his wooden head slowly from left to right. It screeched from right to left. He was lying on his back now beneath the stars. He listened for sounds of her light footsteps through the meadow, but she was gone.

    He closed his eyes shut. He blinked. He closed them again. In memory's image, he saw the lady with the purple flower staring into his face.

    'I know your eyes,' he imagined her whisper into his ear.

    For the first time, he had been humanized. He felt real, like live jazz music on a stage, and from his head he shed a tear which the petal of her purple flower brushed away as she kissed his mechanical face. He opened his eyes to the feel of this touch. He felt a faint kiss of the butterfly as it landed lightly upon his blood: there he saw the transformation.

    Each petal of the purple flower fell one by one softly onto the grass of the meadow, and when only the stem was left, there was suddenly a beautiful purple butterfly, lilac in color, but the lady vanished before his very eyes, now open without further need of screws in its place. This last glimpse of her frozen there in time at the moment the butterfly's chrysalis was free from molten debris as she emerged as a butterfly was complete transformation of ongoing growing.

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    The ventriloquist pondered the day, Saint Valentine's Day.

    "The-Mass-a-cre-of-Saint-Val-en-tine's-Day, the pa-pers-will-say!"

he shouted to the stars in the sky above that hung as his ceiling calling for his being to dissipate and dissolve as the remnants of tiny sparks in her heart.

He wanted to laugh, but it hurt instead.

    The only elements of life within his reach were blades of grass kissed with snow. All illusions were captive at empty silhouette of progression. Instead, he stayed in exhausted position of tormented, captive existence created solely alone. Pain and sorrow prone, he was beginning to groan beneath the moon. The disguise of human blood was an oozing element of small segments of collaborated pretend to a species which wanted more than anything to be human over existence as dead inability to truly feel.

    But now it/he was feeling it, in the cold, in this cold of each new year (and therefore unfamiliar moment), and so immediately remorse came over him of having removed himself from ever really truly knowing her, all on account of his actions being irrevocably interrogated by the universe as to what hindered any wisdom he may have learned in losing her.

    Still, he had nothing to speak for, not even him/itself.

    So instead, he muffled a cry by biting down on the neoprene hands clenched to the wooden jaw and barred down on the hope of releasing his first-felt internal pain, the pang of love, to hide it, as a dummy is only a puppet is only a fool.

    Just then, the pain of the gunshot wound was now real to the surreality he felt before in the prism of the worlds he moved through beyond. In this one, the night of February 14, 1929, the spirits of the descendants of portioned portrayals of love, Saints Valentine of Rome and Interamna were in the past exchanging cards between lovers in writing form, while in present day at the cabaret and within the mind of the ventriloquist, love could never be in love without one's deepest admiration for- and believing in it, and yet love was never love when forgotten. Mere wining and dining were never in the night's true elements: true romance, the philosophy of true love, for the two chosen to begin again the world the way it began, in honorable simplicity by the first man and woman (K&L) would still not exist for another eighty-three years, and seeing this in oblique staging in the next film wrapped over the next film's realm he warped through, the ventriloquist once again closed his eyes prematurely.

              

                                    

 e     needed to remember where his wound came from: only himself.

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    Moments before, while he dashed like a flash of lightning through the meadow, a car was parked in the snow.

    "Where the hell did he go?" Capone demanded.

    "I don't know, but he was just there," retorted Luciano.

    At this moment, the universe was reticent to the Commission, and so, the clouds in the Saint Valentine's night shifted, merging together as a dark covering over the ventriloquist, who had heard the men coming, stopped running, and now lay on his back upon the frozen meadow, himself in quiet hiding, his eyes staring at the sky, contemplating the srats' spectroscopic parallax. The stars twinkled brilliance further and further away while the mobsters drew closer and closer to him.

    Al Capone could see him. One patent leather shoe over the wooden foot pointed up towards the sky whilst the other ankle was turned inward without the limitations of a human's ligaments. Capone shot a bullet of a Colt .45 which hit the ventriloquist's makeshift groin, immediately sending him to the ground, and then he could not be found in the dark of the night in the meadow. Capone was creeping in, searching for him.        

   

eenly, Lucky Luciano's left ear was receptive to the whisper of certain paranoia embedded in Capone. In his face it was shown: the big, dark eyes widened, the thick, dark brows came to a point at the inner thoughts behind creased forehead lined with his guilt, suspicion, and worry beyond the mobster mystique, of the dummy, the thing, the ventriloquist possibly having been sent by Edgar Hoover himself as a spy to spy on Luciano and Capone, by having wired for transmission. Capone's big, flappy earlobe wormed back and forth as he scratched at it with his index finger, pondering this paranoia as real or as hoax in his own psyche's subconscious guilt.

    "Do you think that guy is wired, recording what we say, and sitting up there watchin' what we's were do-in, to get it back to them? Let's play stu-pid then, uh?"

    Was the ventriloquist's plight a ploy of J. Edgar Hoover's decoy?

"Because, 'eh, the timing was perfect," regarded Capone. Lucky had turned to him then and said, in a lesser hush than his counterpart, "the timing? What timing?"

      "When he just jumped down and took off with that broad when I was fixin' to leave with you's. He was watchin' me- how I dabbed my suit from spillin' my drink at the last drop, without orderin' another scotch, he must've known we were gonna leave."

    "So you think he was followin'?"

    "Yeah, but they musta had a car for him. Those goddamn spooks. Cause he was gone, so damn quick, too. They gotta be somewhere around here waitin' for that rat. Let's kill'm before he talks."

    So Lucky Luciano and Al Capone walked through the thick snow with a tommy gun and a Colt to hunt down the enemy dummy they thought was a mechanical F.B.I. accessory. They'd shoot him and dewire him, find how he was programmed, keep the evidence against them, and suit up to the policeman attire that would be their night's disguises, and add this first St. Valentine's Day ornament to the rest they'd collect to their victory in this era of prohibition.

    Their mission would conclude.

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    At the Silurian era, there were only plants and animals of plants and the planting of seeds below the same ground the gangsters were treading on as [somehow] transmitters, some 440 million years later, February 1929.

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    Unbeknownst to Luciano and Capone, the female alien from beruit and the martian in a zoot suit were creatures from the Celtic and Scandinavian tribes, the Silures, who had planted seeds in what now was formed as 1929 modern day Chicago, which would become plants emitting oxygens which would transmit to brain waves of mankind each thought from the moment of their births, but not interfere with their own memories, and these thoughts would all be controlled by the Silures, the incredulistic, antagonistic Silures, who would watch mankind's progression through the spacecraft and the silhouette of seeds. In their analysis, they concluded that humans who chose morals, virtue, kindness, and progression over immoral patterns of behavior, unkindness, and evil ways were the species of strength and true leadership, and by the fate of free will, those who formed allegiance with the latter were the weaker of the species, and a disgrace to the human race, and so were puppets to a civilization beyond which controlled them. In retrospect, the Silures had gotten the best of Luciano and Capone.

    The martian and alien had taken the burlap sack of money to their awaiting space craft, which could not be seen to humans with its invisible shield, where the first-ranks would hold the money as evidence of how mankind was wasting its time.

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    The ventriloquist was sent by the Highest Being to capture the lady with the purple flower for observation as a great condition, butterfly disguised as beauty disguised as myth denying what does not exist: therefore, he could never capture her.

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    The gangsters sent their driver to drop the ladies off each at home and as the ventriloquist could feel this new pain in his groin, he groaned once more and the moon shifted behind the clouds, closing in the nightlight it cast upon the meadow, now keeping the ventriloquist in hiding in the pitch black atmosphere.

    He opened his wooden eyelids to look at the stars one last time. He knew his time was through.

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  awn awakened. In the aftermath of the Saint Valentine's Day massacre, [which was a part of the doomsday of many doomsdays at the arrival of the Creator's saints-  and His one sacrifice] the abandoned factory was marked with blood for greed; the music stopped, the cabaret closed, the alien and martian disappeared, the gangsters fled, then were imprisoned; the secrets of man's behavior lay as seeds planted, and the footprints of the ventriloquist lay in the snow.

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    First sunrise, day One. The Creator walked along, unseen, stepping upon igneous and metamorphic Protorozoic rocks, looking for his lover, Mother Nature, and stopped there in a breeze which called him to the butterfly, which stayed in it, fluttering by.

ere in the butterfly's metamorphosis,  the Creator saw the wings flap, and in reverse chrysalis, the purple-orange winged insect transformed once more, but for the first time (as in this time-warp was before the ventriloquist saw her both ways) and admired His own daughter, or, the lady with the purple flower, the Creator's daughter, and Mother Nature her mother, their daughter the butterfly with her amethyst-emerald ocean eyes and hair of gold, and lips of a rose, who, after a long silence, sent a whisper to the ventriloquist some 440 million years into the future as he was lying on his back after Al Capone's attack, and he finally received the transmission in perfect understanding.

   

    "You should have said 'LOVE', felt it, everyone, without a moment blinking beyond truth or it's gone," she whispered, and the ventriloquist knew it, that she would forever deny him her presence because true love did not exist, nor the virtue of kindness in longevity amongst the masses, and he chose evil within his time warps over the gift of true love the Creator had given him since the beginning of time- settling for evil in his/its existence- disregarding the most rare and true love he would now never know- for he had neglected it, broken it, in his silence.

    He knew it now as he was lying there on his back upon the rocks, being dismantled by the Creator, who pulled apart the wooden parts and heard at last the pumping heart and looked into the wooden eyes of the ventriloquist one last time, just as they closed.

    The Creator called to the lighting man through the transgression of time, the mysterious capability of unimpossible passageways, transmitting thoughts to receptive action, and so the lights stayed on the ventriloquist on the Supreme Being's center stage, then slowly dimmed and went out as the Creator closed the curtain, leaving the ventriloquist to forever not speak, his curse.

                                  Began May 2010

                                  End date: January 2012