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**PRINT: SMALL COUNTRY, by Lauren Pretnar, is No. 28 in our broadsheet series. Pretnar, a frequent contributor in recent months, has crafted a grand wedding tale, a deft rendition of the raw emotion of life forever tugged by the past, present and future. This issue comes with an excerpt from Spencer Dew's wonderful new book, Songs of Insurgency **WEB: THE PLATYPUS: PART 7 Zach Plague
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THE PLATYPUS: PART 7
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Zach Plague
In the previous installment of this serialized novel excerpt (from Plague's first, boring boring boring, the gray papers became the fake papers, and Punk was given yet another mission by Ollister. Meanwhile, the Platypus....
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The Platypus' desk phone rang. He watched the ancient gold-encrusted receiver dance around on its cradle like a fish dying on a rock. He'd been meaning to get rid of the thing for this very reason. He couldn't stand for his thoughts to be interrupted. They were getting more important all the time.
After the caller had failed to ring off, despite being ignored for 15 minutes, The Platypus decided he might as well act. He placed his pipe in its holder and picked up the phone instead, hacking into it by way of greeting.
"Sir, it's Euphrates. Sorry to be... I mean... I don't want to bother you at home... I wouldn't call if it weren't..."
"What is it? Be quick."
"Certainly. It's uh... the retrospective show, I mean, rather, Redcote specifically. He's out of control. I mean, we hadn't heard a word from him for weeks, because, well, he says he ate a spoilt duck, but I have it on good authority that he was at the bathhouse last Thursday, around..."
"What's the problem?"
"Yes. I was just coming to that. He's refusing to curate the show. He called the entire show... cat shit. He threw his cell phone at one of the artists' assistants. He put all the works outside in the empty lot next door, where some were rained on... And the Johansson piece suffered what seems to be a cigarette burn. As you know it's worth 250. I have no idea what to..." Euphrates paused. He thought he'd heard a snort on the other end. The silence ballooned. He decided to carry on. "He's filled the gallery with cat litter. 150 bags, shipped in by truck. My phone is ringing off the hook; the artists that know are livid. And it is spreading to the others quickly. They're calling him incompetent, pretentious, and..."
"Pretension is the brother of all invention."
"Oh... well, yes... certainly, I mean, I see your point, it's just that, well, the show opens tomorrow night..."
"Listen, we've got real problems. Surveillance on Ollister's associates continues to turn up nothing. He's still nowhere to be found."
"Well, sir, if I may say so, I've always thought we should just bring the girl in. You know how I feel about her, and all the..."
"Here's what we're going to do. Get her the formal invitation to the White Ball. If she comes, he'll come too. We'll bring him out of hiding. It worked the first time. He went crazy with her behind that mirror." The Platypus suddenly felt better. This was right.
"Ok, well, what should I do about the show then? I mean, this crazy guy is the appointed curator, and I don't... I don't know what to do..."
"Fuck him."
"I agree completely, sir. His behavior warrants immediate removal. We all know you are the only one with the clout to oust him, and I'm so glad that you see the..."
"No. I mean fuck him."
"Oh. I..."
"It's an order." The Platypus dropped the phone back in its cradle and looked up. Isadora's eyes met his as she looked up over her star chart. She was perched in her usual corner of the study, completely nude, soaking in purple lamplight.
"He is an intolerable curator when he doesn't get laid."
Isadora blinked assent and returned to her private divinations.
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