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greater than he there have never been, are, nor will be—never.”
    Fillono tipped his brimmed hat in salutation.
    Moroni continued. “Ah—and here in our camp we have Marcel the Champ: painter and sculptor for fun … grandmaster of chess who will reign victorious over and then humbly give his thanks to just about anyone….”
    The Champ stood up, performed an exaggerated bow and shook my hand.
    Moroni pointed at me. “Yes, sure—and you, my good sir, please do not be shy … give us your moniker and what you do, by-the-by….”
    Loose shards of memory were attempting to surface in my head. “My name … is Bikaver. I think I’m a writer….”
    “Bravo! Just what we need: a scribe, Reality Author, court recorder ye shall be … well, then this shall fit the bill—ahh yes—here is your hallowed pencil.” He brandished a pencil from his coat pocket and handed it to me. On the side were inscribed the letters “F-T-W-C.” He gave me an extravagant wink.
    I gave him my thanks.

I WILLINGLY joined this band of transients and ingratiated myself as Moroni had invited. While we were a bevy of transients, we invited various other vagrants who happened to be endowed with any form of creative nature into our little raggedy troupe.
    Moroni manned the helm of the ship as its captain and spokesperson—its “top dog.”
    Many spiels on the virtues of free thought issued forth from the man: free thinkers—being painters, musicians, philosophers, writers, poets, playwrights, mimes, performance artists, and stunt-men (Moroni’s own words)—were in fact civilization’s only hope for survival. “For it is they….” he would exclaim, “who are least likely to be brainwashed by the corporate-mass-media-manipulation melee…! We are, indeed, on the brink; I am because I think, if I have nary my own thought—then I am naught.”
    His “fire-sideways chats” every Saturday night were delivered with the fervor of a fire-and-brimstone preacher or the classic military dictator’s zeal. His dictums covered everything from unknown enemies, varying means of mind-control, false realities, and the systematic duping, doping and dumbing-down of the human race to the fact that our kitchen sinks were spying on us.
    We listened respectfully, but didn’t take seriously his wild pronouncements.
    He was our ringleader, in charge of the entertainment and festivities. For us, his vast and incessant paranoia—which fueled his fine rants—was part of the show. We detected neither menace nor danger from the man, quite the contrary: upon his initiative and leadership, a viable forum for transient artists to share with one another time, camaraderie, companionship and entertainment had been achieved. We had become a tribe, a family, a roving band of misfit artists. And we would present our works regularly.
    Upon the seventeenth of every other month, Fillono projected one of his films via a hand-cranked projector. A common theme that ran throughout his oeuvre of work was that of mind-manipulation via higher powers upon an unknowing protagonist or group of protagonists. Every single one of his movies contained a character called “The Telepathic Ventriloquist,” played by the dashing and youthful actor Lethan O’Leery, whose outright cynicism was eclipsed only by his love of whiskey, which was far eclipsed by his handsome young Paul Newman looks. Why hadn’t Lethan O’Leery gone “mainstream” and become a big screen “heartthrob?” His theory (in his genteel North Carolina accent): “Because I ain’t nobbed the gatekeeper. And I ain’t ever gonna.”
    Each eve of Mercury’s “retrograde” cycle, Marcel “The Champ” unveiled a new painting or sculpture. Why Mercury’s retrograde cycle? “Because it happens about three or four times a year, and not always at the same time. So it is fixed, but not too fixed. That way I have a schedule, but not too tight.”
    Did he subscribe to the “astrological” nuances of the cycles?