This entangled skein must now begin to be straightened, the knot loosened, the ball of paperclips unhooked piece by piece. Who could not have seen the eternal figure of Platu even in his modern guise and known we are dealing with one of the eternal figures, a living totem, and incarnation of the Sophic spirit? His alignment was with Ceres as indicated by the mystical representations of Greenback tower and the placement of one of the stones within his possession. The force of agriculture, the civilizing force, covering and growing upon Gaia.
The first mask is shed, the first face revealed.
Yet still the face of Da Bomb as it bobs about in frothy waters made turbulent by his own frantically beating arms remains unclear. Black and inky water, the void within, the eternal hollowness, this is the alignment of Da Bomb and the pit-temple, the bottomless grail, the pathway to the hidden telluric power, untapped within. Enigma, paradox, riddle and contradiction. His art is a half-smile, his number an endless sequence. Yet in itself an unsatisfying answer.
That was one of his many names.
His symbols are the wheel and the lever, coincidentally made flesh in his body now, as it was suspended, semi-buoyant, with arms and legs flailing in useless pinwheels, describing arcs and ellipses. His own words mock him "Epur si muove."
He was Dionysus, another primal force - art and culture and tradgedy. He was the madness that pulled Nietzche down to his grave, the hand that held David Hume's pen as it joyfully anihilated both God and the universe by narrowing the knowable to the infitessimal of immediacy. Da Bomb was god to the modern age, but a god who could not save itself from that dreadful substance that fills voids, substance that began to suffocate him.
Big'un had watched him for a moment with a silent curiosity. He reflected on how he had once seen a hummingbird whose legs had inhumanely pulled off. The bird had thrashed about just so as it tried to find a way off the hard earth. Big'un turned his back and walked off just as Da Bombs head slipped under the oily water and disappeared.
A cry from the guards, they brushed by Big'un as they sprinted towards the sea wall. It was deep there. Twenty-five feet of sheer rock to water at least again as deep. The guards wore body armor and were in no position to attempt a rescue. They called out desperately to the men of a nearby dredge. But the distance was too great and the sound of the BRU machinery too loud for their voices to reach the workers.
Da Bomb sank down into the murkiness, the overcast sky permitted no faint beam of light to reach him, yet looking up, the polluted water seemed to have the crimson cast of an ancient vintage he had once drank. That was of course, before he went out into the night.