“Behold this man Potashius,” quoth the Great Cicero, “…non intelligit quid profiteatur.” What a man, indeed, that Potashius, and what a befitting tribute. He lived and he died- for that is the coat fashioned for Mortal Man by his Couturiers Clothos, Atropos and Lachesis. A prole he was, this Potashius, but a prole of noble spirit.
When he died, no colours were trooped nor bugles blown but in the squalid depths of the ancient metropolis- where his peers dwelt- a collective sigh rose from all to a man: Requiescat in Pace!
Centuries later when Caesar’s sted was long tethered and Regina had appropriated the roe of the Commonweal emasculating it- with the Black Widow’s lack of foresight- Potashius was reborn. He was reborn at an invariably squalid and distant outpost of the Empire. That outpost, in previous reckonings referred to as Naiapolis, is today known as Nairobi. And his name was rendered Potash in the- Lingua Franca- tongue of the Imperialist of the day.
And Potash, as Cicero had hailed his primogenitor, Potashius, does not know his real profession. He is a Young Urban Poser.
And that Potashius, that is in this day and age known as Potash, lives again in this blog!
Even in this age, anarchy; chaos and treachery reign in the Prefecture of Naiapolis as the Senate bickers and the Public- ever stiff-necked foolish- switches loyalty faster than it can switch Government. Yet that loyalty is always to one member of the Incestuous Aristocracy or other. The cavalry can never produce Knights- that there is the prerogative of the Blue Bloods- who will be the Lords and Barons of tomorrow. A seat in the Senate of Naiapolis, leave alone the Fruit-Punch-Throne, is the preserve of the Chosen: Naiapolis’ Knights of the Round Table!
The angst of the Knights is played out in loud chest thumping for public consumption. But for those that remember the manly battles of The Coliseum, this is a mere simulacrum of rivalry. And indeed it is for behind the palace walls, when the moat bridge is drawn in to shut out Johannes Q. Publius, the knights engage in bacchanal camaraderie with the Lord High Chancellor brusquely asking for the tab and nonchalantly swiping a Credit Card gilded with what the Citizens gave to Caesar, under pain of death, against Lord Publicanus’ arse.
Then the next day, they rise to hung-over speeches sans cogitation. Once again Brutus lunges at Caesar’s bosom for ‘honour’s spoils.’ But what honour when none of them can willingly fall on their own blade in lieu of losing face. And what honour, really, when they fight with juvenile invectives and squishy objects as though it was all a school-girls’ pudding party!
Where battle worn blades should be stained crimson, the 'blades' of these cowards are yellowing- maybe from disuse- right through their fruity soft cores.
In the meantime, their foot soldiers run amok and the King’s Highway is paved with putrefied corruption and bleached by the blood of innocent youth. Metropolitan youth who grow restless by the day; youth like the Reborn Potashius that was hounded out of the city into his humble country seat among the pacified Barbarians in the Native Reserves.
But he prepares for his imminent and inevitable return into the Metropolis. He returns, pen in hand, screaming of Hostile Takeovers and setting his life up as Collateral. Look to the West as Venus hails the New Dawn and see him march with the pride of Lucifer’s steed. His brain remains mighty sharper than the phalluses of your tin-gods…!
I am in receipt of your summons. I will be in the city anon; in time for the Third Caucus. But I already feel the animosity hurled against me cutting through the Mary Jane vapour. I hear the full clip plug in; across the grassy field I hear the chambers turning; over there I see the bridge and when the train hoots in my dream, I wake up shuddering. That for I have seen you settle scores- losing lives where small talk over booze and clenched fist salutes would suffice…!
I hate audiences; they are a vexation to the creative spirit. But since you have your employers’ Bandwidth to play with, I cannot keep you out of my space. Beginning next Monday- and on every Monday, thereafter- reporting from the trenches and behind enemy lines is yours truly: Col. Potashius Nairobus (A.o.W, Sun Tzu; BA, Mwakenya; Sexually Transmitted Diploma in War Studies).
Aluta Fuckus Continua