The Last Victorian stirred again in his archival sleep. Flesh was still with him, advantaged in its fineness but greying slowly into powder. A slight blush of makeup, the badge of the aesthete, colored his lips and cheeks just enough to push him through the bellcurve of behavioral norms and suggest a predatory eros that bordered on depravity. Something ancient this way comes, an elegant algorithm, used to getting its way in the world. The elliptic warped and brought her into his gravitational field with an unceremonial thunk. He carried a boom-box, outmoded antique, from which the operatic strains of magisterial productions wafted to embrace him, weaving their ornamental tapestry of sound around his craven profile. Handsome devil, he exuded seductive pheromones through the psychic atmosphere.
'Is there love? Is there love?' The
buzzed, a little bit out of control at his proximity. Her good dog, Mute, hovered by her side.'Of course, my child,' the Victorian patted her head, letting the base of his volumetric sound surround her. She bit through his hand. Sparks flew. A smell of scorched insulation burnt into the atmosphere. The little
spit vile epithets that circled, malevolent bats, around his head. Patronage was not what she had in mind. Her tracer trail twitched with an adult gesture of displeasure.Erkku, the dark one, wrists like a girl's, orchestrated change through a shift in the paradigm removing the vowels and twisting the characterization. Her intriguing annoyingness zapped through the bog-swamp filters he kept in his input ports. Errku sent an ancient, crudely brutal Pac-vigilante in her direction, letting it reroute her course. There was no moral fiber in Erkku, only a drive toward renewable interest. Mute barked.
The Victorian tread lightly on the thick carpet pyle of the
receptive inclinations. His dark vestments exuded an aura of rich intellectual brocade, warm, complex, alluring as aged meat. The gasped and opened a trap door in her soul, letting herself plunge for a moment into the nurturant vortex of his energy. Erkku is the crush, flashing dark through the pale nerves of his optic drive. The Last Victorian, steeped in love, courtly, auratic is something else entirely.A Teletubby chorus squeaked, the tiny peals of their infant laughter breaking the silence with a puerile twist of perversity as the boundaries of the
dissolved and then reformed before their eyes. 
The Last Victorian, amused at her antics, leaned back in his seat and
laughed. Sleek voluptuary, cloaked in cultivated intensity, he flushed the
atmosphere around him with charisma. A heat detector would have blushed
from the rush of magnetism that leaked from his experienced pores with
their cultivated capacity to distill elixir from experience. Indulgence and
control repressed and expressed themselves in equal measure across the map
of texture that graced his flesh. The
Immediately, there followed a sleepless night of dreams that display, like a list serve, the inappropriately expressed longings of an overheated heart.
'You made me feel brand new,' the ever-hopeful
sighed, intersecting the esoteric trajectory of the Victorian and tweaking the thin stream of the boy's attention. Such sentiment sickens the healthy atmosphere.Errku, future boy, massaged the script, throwing another variable into the mix. Dialogue reinvented itself, writing backwards into the matrix. Torn, the
felt a twinge, almost like pain, at the thought of being separated from the soap opera sensations that broadcast through the set of her soul. Errku contemplated a gross reprogramming operation, but paused, a twinge of interest halting his slender wrists just as the sensate ends of his digits brushed the keys.The Victorian's magnetism composed itself like prose, carefully constructed and articulate, gaped a wide chaisma at one pole of the
course. Errku's random variable matrix of mutating textuality beckoned at the other. A voluptuous attraction to new heights of giddiness spurred the dizzying jokester race. She moved with inconsolable appetite, her electric urgency tricked out with eccentric humor. A bitter wind could rip her into another orbit at any moment. She treasured the poignant dilemma with a connoisseur's appreciation of the ephemeral. Hot charge and a transient impulse, washed down with a touch of innocent expectation. She put all the extra changes in her purse, as if she might spend them later in the mocked-up mall of a virtual end-game where a new heaven and hell figured the emotional cosmology of another era, in a product tie-in campaign designed to sell non-existent real estate by mortgaging the future. Cheap plastic holograms rotated with vulgar regularity. A slow throb, crude and muscular, gave hell a slightly bulging masculinity, primitive and frankly unappetizing. The bland paleness of heaven, inspiring its own form of quease, had been conceived without any claim to spirituality or enlightenment.