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Notes02/23/2021
Bloodxclat
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Bloodxclat
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24
The ÄÖS and the far-reaching consequences of a leather bag
The old dirty leather bag stood there in the corner. Crumbs of earth stuck to the worn leather.
What a curse, the deep drilling in the old zone. Constantly our troop was pulling strange things out of the earth. On the pocket, barely legible, stamped on an already almost black brass plate: ErrisMnte Calo. A relic of the old days? Ferris? When there was still human-spoken music? I laughed tinily to myself at the thought. Or the decadent city-state from the history books? I opened the bag.
Brimful of charred papyrus. Real paper. Unbelievable. Yellowed pages. Writings from the patchouli era. My internal search function had already scanned the writing and was translating it. Apparently dated before the great war against the Vetiverans. What a dense, dirty scent came out of that bag. I was thrilled.
After the essential oil ban in 2164 (all of Schwizerlandia had grown only essential oils, forests were cleared for air-conditioned oud plantations, mountains were hollowed out for underground breeding grounds for patchouliers, lakes were pumped out for calone raised beds and sea fennel fields) so-called chemtrail perfumes had usurped world domination. Artisanal perfumers were accused of essential oil smuggling (OES) and taken to the secret laboratories of the Pirouette Man. There, you were sprayed with chemtrails for testing purposes, and you were no longer given cheese to eat.
A blast what came out of that bag. I remembered the old smelly rag I found at the last drill. I kept it in the relics room. As a joke, I christened it "Tauerlumpen." It reminded me of a 6-D documentary about the junkyard of Zürichia I had seen once in training. I took the "Tauerlumpen", which smelled strongly of turpentine, scrap metal and petroleum attar, and set about scrubbing the leather bag. The leather remained dirty, as you might expect. Damp dirty. And it now smelled like the "Tauerlumpen" too. I unwrapped the dry papyrus and found a casket among burnt birch tar and dried resin. "Private Label" was engraved on it. Inside the box was a bottle of Wolfenbüttel horn whisky. On a note on the neck of the bottle: "for Ernst August. Your Meggi. 26.03.2015"
Smiling, I fold up the note. Bitters. That I still get to experience this. I look around. None of my colleagues take any notice of me. I'm looking forward to it. To the liquor.
What a curse, the deep drilling in the old zone. Constantly our troop was pulling strange things out of the earth. On the pocket, barely legible, stamped on an already almost black brass plate: ErrisMnte Calo. A relic of the old days? Ferris? When there was still human-spoken music? I laughed tinily to myself at the thought. Or the decadent city-state from the history books? I opened the bag.
Brimful of charred papyrus. Real paper. Unbelievable. Yellowed pages. Writings from the patchouli era. My internal search function had already scanned the writing and was translating it. Apparently dated before the great war against the Vetiverans. What a dense, dirty scent came out of that bag. I was thrilled.
After the essential oil ban in 2164 (all of Schwizerlandia had grown only essential oils, forests were cleared for air-conditioned oud plantations, mountains were hollowed out for underground breeding grounds for patchouliers, lakes were pumped out for calone raised beds and sea fennel fields) so-called chemtrail perfumes had usurped world domination. Artisanal perfumers were accused of essential oil smuggling (OES) and taken to the secret laboratories of the Pirouette Man. There, you were sprayed with chemtrails for testing purposes, and you were no longer given cheese to eat.
A blast what came out of that bag. I remembered the old smelly rag I found at the last drill. I kept it in the relics room. As a joke, I christened it "Tauerlumpen." It reminded me of a 6-D documentary about the junkyard of Zürichia I had seen once in training. I took the "Tauerlumpen", which smelled strongly of turpentine, scrap metal and petroleum attar, and set about scrubbing the leather bag. The leather remained dirty, as you might expect. Damp dirty. And it now smelled like the "Tauerlumpen" too. I unwrapped the dry papyrus and found a casket among burnt birch tar and dried resin. "Private Label" was engraved on it. Inside the box was a bottle of Wolfenbüttel horn whisky. On a note on the neck of the bottle: "for Ernst August. Your Meggi. 26.03.2015"
Smiling, I fold up the note. Bitters. That I still get to experience this. I look around. None of my colleagues take any notice of me. I'm looking forward to it. To the liquor.
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