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Part 19 of Alexander’s Accounts, continuing from some drugmaking and conspiring

The St Mildred community centre is a dreary place, but waiting here is a valuable use of time.

I walk around. I know where I’m going, moving, travelling.

The museum is a better place. It shows the finest spoils of a very hopeful era of the British Empire, crushing the dreams of those in faraway places and turning them into its own. The history drips here like water from the gutter outside. It’s a stormy day, after all.

It brings me back to an imagined era when steamboats and sailboats sailed into London with the blooded result of plundering and thieving, the meterials from and for trade, the fruit of others’s labour. Prosperity plundered into Britannica.

I hate that part of the museum, but it’s important to spend time here. My office and space, in many ways, is deep inside the archives, hidden from the public. There, Latin books abound, spanning from the late Roman (which I barely touch out of fragility) to the more modern Victorian scientific books. I’ve learnt to read all of them.

This place makes me sad. I hate thinking of my ancestors doing this kind of thing.

Looking to my left, I see the plain fields in the middle of werewolf country. They remind me of a bus ride I once took through Siberia — the tundra, the expanse, the desolation. We do not own this planet; we have not taken it yet.

I walk through them, the long grasses tickling me. The plain is; it’s the gamut between the south’s crispy yellow and the north’s snowy blues and white. Winter brings cold, sending a chill down my legs.

I open my eyes; I’m awake. A dream is a window, they say.

The bed is empty. Only the vague scent and a few loose hairs lie in the space Artemis had taken. There’s nothing for me to hold onto to get me through the night.

I’m on my own again. Just as i was back then. I refuse to sleep, instead clinging to the hope that he’d come back. Artemis is shadier than i thought, a drug dealer reaping the night for money.

It’s money i’d need to begin my adventure… possibly a misadventure.

I worry — how late is it? Those steps up the stairs… they match Artemis’s gait.

They continue up.

I drifted to sleep despite the chills.

---

A warm bunch of hair hugged my face. I used my arms to grab him, my fluffy bear, my Artemis. “Artemis…?”

“Hmmm?”, said the groggy werewolf.

“Should i go do the thing?”

He pondered for a second, high as a cave. “I’ll miss you… but i want to see where we can go with it.”

“And northern money?”

“It’ll take a while,”, he said. “Just go, and we’ll use it on the bill.”

I nodded, accidentally tickling my nose, so I stopped and instead murmured affirmation.

“Why don’t I go now?”

“No, spoon me some more”, groaned Artemis.

---

Morning, everyone. In each sofa sat the members of what i might as well call my gang The oven has been loaded by Biblia and drug money will be arriving.

No coffee or hot drinks can be seen anywhere. There is our morning soup though, probably laced with herricane given that it was cooked in the same saucepan.

“I’m leaving soon”, I said to the silent, contemplative room. “Any tips?”

“Don’t”, said Biblia. “Just get yourself some letters sent and all will be fine.”

“Ask for the werewolvian guide in the checkpoint”, said Cubit. “It’s written in obfuscated English so if you use the Zaragoza portal all will be fine.”

There exist taxi services from the werewolf world to Lleida, just west of Barcelona — the smallest big city out there. Expensive. Like herricane. All will be fine.

“And how much cash do we have?”

“About ¤750 gross after Artemis’s midnight exploit”, said Biblia. “Deduct ¤250 for the prostitute and there’s a good ¤500, still.”

“In earthly currency?”

“A little more than €400.”

“I don’t think that’s enough.”

Nods all around. Herricane is a stimulant, so they’re not sleepy. I need to practice, so I guess I’ll sell to the café around the corner here, and maybe a few more.

“Where’s our flesh paste?”, I asked.

“In the fridge, just above the soup.”

I took it, put it into bags, and left the flat.

I walk down the street, basking in the high morning sun. Nobody’s really that awake yet, save for the occasional human sauntering down the street.

A morning café with a dreamy barista stood here. Cafés are the one solace of the modern millennial-type graphic design so prevalent on earth and its souless corporations.

I say hi to the barista, a short werewolf zoned out. They snapped in and asked me what I want.

“Hey, I have herricane flesh”, I confessed.

His eyes widened, wild. “How much?”

“About a kilogram and a half.”

“Purified or raw?”

“Straight from the tartfruit, freshly picked.”

He licked his lips, looking at the bag. “I’ll offer ¤10.”

I shook my head - I didn’t explore Asia to forget how to haggle. “¤100.”

He bit his lip, shaking his head. “I have a guy here who gives me double the amount for ¤50!”

“So you’ll pay ¤70?”

He chuckled. “No, ¤50 at most.”

“¤55…?”

A policeman walked past outside, staring at us. “It’s apple paste!”, shouts the barista.

It’s too early for the blue-vested bloke to give a fuck, so he walks past.

“I’ll give you ¤52”, said the barista.

“Not ¤57?”

“52”, he said with a faked serious frown.

I threw my hands to the side in protest. “At least round it up!”

“Fine, ¤55”, he says, licking his lips.

I put the bag on the counter, and he gave me the banknotes, which I eagerly stuffed in my pockets.

I walked over to the next café, somewhere slightly less put-together. They saw the bag and narrowed their eyes. “Selling drugs? Seriously?”

“No, just tartfruit flesh… with herricane.”

He chuckled at me. “I’ll give you ¤60.”

“¤75”, I responded, deadpan.

He didn’t chuckle, instead frowning. “No, I’m not playing - ¤60, it’s store policy.”

“It’s fresh from the tree, I can’t take any less than ¤75!”, I said, forcing a friendly smile.

“On me, then, ¤62.”

“Round it up…”, I said, pushing for that 3 more.

He rolled his eyes in a grand and hyperbolic way. “¤70, then. No more!”

I smiled and took the money, scared of risking anything more.

I arrived at the flat again. “I haggled and got ¤70 and ¤55!”

Biblia frowned. “The going rate for a kilogram of flesh is ¤150 with the crackdowns.”

“They lowballed me?!”

“Of course they did!”, Biblia said matter-of-factly. “The drug trade is very opaque, you should know ????”

“Do we have enough for the mission?”

“Let me think… ¤200 for the taxi and ride to Lleida, maybe €20 for a bus or train to Barcelona, some €20 for bouncing around on the metro, and then a maybe €200 for a few nights in a hotel.”

“Hostel”, I corrected. “I don’t need much.”

“Treat yourself”, Biblia insisted.

“Of course, let the little wolf pervert get his fill back home!”, shouted Cubit. “Take the hostel but not the metro. I want you to suffer for defecting.”

“I’m going there to help us”, I protested.

Cubit rolled his eyes in defiant affirmation. I’m half-sure he just wants Artemis and I to be separated.

“I can go now”, I said. “Just give me cash.”

“Are you not packing?”, asked Artemis.

“Don’t need anything”, I repeat. “Just cash.”

I was going headstrong here. Every time I think of returning, a pang of homesickness strikes me. Not until yesterday had I seriously entertained the possibility.

Biblia ran the conversions in her head. “¤100 for the hoste- hotel, ¤50 for transport, and ¤210 for the taxi, I’m betting. Add ¤200 for hidden fees.”

“That’s ¤560”, I stated. “Well within our means, with my little trip out.”

The cash was handed to me, a real thick bunch. I shoved it in my pocket and said my goodbyes. I go onto the streets, a tear almost coming out of my eye. Something felt wrong, but I tossed that doubt into the future worries pile — this bitch is going to Barcelona!

I barely have a grip on the process myself; I’ll have to go to a taxi terminal to order a taxi, I think. Currency is probably possible at the border.

It’s a long walk to get there, but if I keep my back straight and appear as if I know where I’m going, I fit into the bunch walking down the street as part of their commute.

The taxicab centre. Minibuses were also here, adapted for the speed. I went to the clerk and asked for a service to the Zaragoza portal. She narrowed their gaze. “¤200… and ¤20 for my commission”

10%, steep.

I don’t mind, forking over the cash, as she picked up the phone. “A homesick human, prepaid.”

Some squeaking from the voice on the other end.

“Return trip or single?”, she asked. I said return

Communication through the phone. Yes, it’s a trip to conduct business, yes, I would like to get a warehouse for some stock to pass through, no I can’t pay for it now, yes, I would like an invoice, no I do not need refreshments, yes I do want the implant removed when I come back, yes, I do want the book. Tons of questions more.

The minibus driver will arrive soon, set to have 4 people in its 5 seats.

---

We passed a 10 km to the Zaragoza portal sign. Going 6 kilometres a minute.

We moved into the crawler lane as we lowered our speed to a mere 200 km/h, eventually splitting from the motorway, passing a massive crash barrier at the nose, and ending up on a straight-as-hell two-lane road. Passing traffic made loud booms as the door was sucked against its lock mechanism, the passing signs yet still massive. It’s a thrill, being here, crossing an empty country.

The road was kind of bouncy, jolting me about. We passed distance signs; Portal Zaragoza still some 100 km, what must be the regional town of El Basurapolbo, population some hundred about 210 km, the eastern motorway some 300 km, leading to north city at 832 km away.

The distances humbled me, realising just how empty the space we were travelling in was.

A different sign came after; povle bacía some 78 km and Reservas Salvajes some 97 km on a dirt road. Plenty of other villages and tiny settlements.

The Reservas Salvajes aren’t predeveloped backwaters as their name would suggest - they’re instead retreats onto a special digital detox self-sufficient way of living. The tourist brochure said that.

We passed car after car, exit onto dirt road after exit, landscape and landscape, all the hallmarks of the wild werewolf world, and it’s “taming”.

Eventually we left the road and followed a more bumpy road down into this area of stopping and electric fences and automatic gates. I recognised it from years ago, when I was first pulled out of them by that kind werewolf who took me from my shitty life on earth.

And I was going back.

We reached the compound, a surprisingly desolate shed, a gate, and a window onto a Zaragoza dusk. Outside, if the minibus clock was correct, it was only 13:00. Timezones go hard.

A breeze passed the minibus, whistling through its corners into the cold night air.

“Into the compound!”, announced the bus driver, turning off the engine just there, opening our doors.

We entered. I was taken to a waiting room and selected for interview first, having the “easiest circumstances”.

I walk into the room, downstairs, under the tiny shed - the institute is bigger than I thought. The man at the desk glared at me in the traditional border agent way.

“Return visit, right?” he asked.

“Return.”, I confirmed.

He scribbled something down on his clipboard. “How long?”

“Several days”, I said.

“Exact”, he commanded.

“Like 2 or 3.”

He nodded, grimaced slightly, looked to the left, and mentally discarded whatever he was thinking about.

“And you’re seeking a werehouse for business?”

“Yes, conducting business, don’t mind a warehouse or warehouse.”

“The werehouses are cheaper, better hidden.”, shrugged the guard. “Taxes?”

Shit, what do I do? “I do not know of them.”

He rolled his eyes. “25% import tax and a 10% commission for space in the werehouses”

35%, steep… but I guess it’s fair.

“The courier service - what are you carrying?”

Couriers, damn. From what I’ve heard, the way they stock the werehouses is that they use this one unmarked werehouse to process goods, allowing them to be transferred from the morning deliveries to the evening exports. “Technology.”

He ticked a few items off. “That’ll be 1% for class B knowledge risk. Is the technology turned on?”

“All at factory defaults”, I said. “Prepared for sale in boxes.”

The clerk nodded his head. “0.5% for class B-II knowledge risk.”

“How many more taxes do we have left to set?”, I asked.

“We’re on page 2 of 76 and a half”, he said.

I rolled my eyes. Let’s go.

---

After that half-hour passed of testing and questioning and handling of interrealm business under the laws of the UN, EU, Southern government, Werewolvian lobby, and a little bit of China and Spain, things began moving quicker. There are subsidies for those who seek to improve the world. They aren’t percentages, though, just fixed numbers, seemingly designed to rate-limit.

“Where do you seek to travel?”, he asked.

" I’m going to Barcelona.", I said.

He nodded, ticking off a few checkboxesitems. “A temporary NIE and possibly a class D diplomat’s passport…”

“Do you seek to have a bug implant or a skin-attached bug?”

“What?”, I asked. “We can either implant the bug into your brainstem or have a pin for you to attach to your skin.”, he said, as if it was the most obvious thing. “Look at the guide.”

I looked at the poster he was pointing at. There were four types; the class A implant, the class B fabric bug, the class C skintag, and the class D pocket tracker. Each had their use; the fabric bug for daytrips and the implant for those moving back. The class D was being phased out.

I looked at the pictographic signs and a chill ran down my spine - danger of false hearing and danger of explosion.

“I’ll take the skin tag.”

He nodded. “Wise choice.”

He passed me a small handful of cards - a plastic NIE with my details, valid until next week, a EU health insurance card, a “hair border yellow” card, and a “balance card”. “You can add to it at any ATM. Use either Caixa or Sabadell, our official Spanish partners, for no fees.”

I was taken out into another room where I was met by a doctor. “Give me your thigh”, he said.

I pulled down my trousers, and he brought in a rather scary looking device akin to an anti-theft fabric tag. A needle and a transmitter. “The way it works is simple - the needle expands underneath the skin and only releases after the time period. If removal is attempted, a neurotoxin is released. Do not mention the werewolf world nor a collection of themes relevant to it. You are being monitored by the microphone.”

He looked to the ceiling, a fly bouncing around. “I must tell you that if you block the microphone or it does not hear your heartbeat, it will detonate and release the toxin in both gas and liquid form. There is no escape except to wait your assigned time period.”

" I’m fine with it, plug it in“, I said.”My thigh’s getting cold."

“No, not finished - if you do not arrive back at the werewolf world before the assigned time period, the tag will remain inside you. When it runs low on battery, it will release the neurotoxin.”, he continued. “The tag is pretty foolproof by now but don’t do anything silly - don’t pull on it or expose it to anymore water than your sweat.”

“Done?”, I asked.

“Yes”, he said with a sick smile. He stabbed the machine into me and pressed the trigger. With a loud beep and a painful movement from under my skin, the needle expanded and I was now being tracked.

“The transponder for this one is at this portal. Do not use any other portal. After 24 hours, whenever you pass the portal, the tracker will fall off. Throw it out into the forest, where it’ll explode. It’s biodegradable.”, he finished.

“Next!”, he called.

I moved out into the institute’s waiting room.

I could hear lorries and stuff moving past, chatter as cards and ID is checked, and the occasional beep as recent past and future memories are wiped, and wrong drivers are sent back out.

When we moved out of the waiting room, the minibus was underground, having used a hidden ramp.

We passed through up to the portal layer and the driver rolled down the window to meet the guard. His card was scanned, we passed our confirmation cards, and we finally travelled through the portal.

Stay tuned for part 20, in which we explore Barcelona

---

Some notes:

• Dreams are fun and i’ve only started analysing them like i can books. What’s fun is listening to music and seeing what visualisations appear. I got wire coat hangers (signifying resistance), intertwining spooning electrical wires (probably representing internet friends) and a familiar place. It’s a window onto the surreal world of the subconscious.

• Dreams are a good window into Alexander’s past, i think. Their surreal nature makes them fun to write.

• High as a cave is the phrase “as high as a kite” rebuilt to suggest sobriety.

• I once haggled a wallet from €10 to €9 (it’s a nice wallet though and i still carry it when i need to (this country has too many pickpockets)) :))))

• https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5b/Estaci%C3%B3\_de\_Pla%C3%A7a\_de\_Catalunya.svg will help you understand what the extract means about the station.

• Werehouses are pronouned like “were houses” as in “the rubble piles were houses” and not “were” as in “werewolf”. It’s confusing but IDRC because the spelling remains different and they aren’t homophones. I’m in France RN, not Spain, so i’m steeped in different ideas of spelling system cohesiveness - be glad English spelling doesn’t have a bunch of diacritics naïvely kept in (even if our rules are much less regular than French ones).

• “hair border yellow” is obsufication for “werewolf portal Zaragoza” - Zaragoza is yellow for its plains.