Exquisite Corpse

Deep within the earth's crust, half-way between Honduras and Hades, riding in a hot-rod made of leather, on a tank of gusto, eating a tangerine is a speed racing Micheal Jackson impersonator. His skin torn and melting. His ice-skates in the trunk. His copy of Boethius' “Consolation of Philosophy” in his lap. He is chewing on the thread of time. Ready to tackle the thought-provokers (movers and shakers) of the Intelligenstia underworld.

The bricklayer Sartre and baseball champion Baudrillard wait at the nearby gas station “Ixion”. A black car pulls up, belching thick clouds of smog in its wake. Sartre runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth, spitting the taste of grease onto the dirty floor. “Is that him?” Sartre asks.
Baudrillard doesn't answer, just turns around and walks towards the diner. “Is that him?” Sartre repeats. The car door opens just a crack, and a figure dressed all in black spreads out of and separates from the car, his coat the exact same shade of dark. Sartre starts, turns around, but Baudrillard has already reached the door of the diner and is disappearing inside, seemingly heedless of what is going on behind him.

Sartre feels the old rage building in his temples, and feels for the semiautomatic hidden inside his coat. He gropes the gun with lust and unbridled pleasure.

He aims the machine gun at Baudrillard.

“This is for what you did to Simone de Beauvoir!” he bellows.

The bullets spurt out out of the muzzle like sperm from a firehose.

“This is for the gentrification of Montparnasse! And the failure of the 1968 Student Riots! And the future rise of Lepenistes! This is for the divorce of Segolene fucking Royale!”

Baudrillard clutches his heart and staggers to the ground.

“But it was only a simulation...” he meekly mumbles.

“It was a simulacra, salaud. There was no original. You oughta know. You wrote the mere-foutrant book!”

And as Baudrillard breathes his last gasp, he speaks the cursed words...

“Jean-Paul... I am your father...”

-written by Ng Yi-Sheng, Sime Knezevic and Jerome Chua in a workshop by Olivia Allen.