Galatea's Noon

A Story by Abishai100

Narrated claim of a calculating prince whose 'fortune-view' of Earthling-capitalism makes for a 'leviathan' IQ concerning (incomplete) diamond-language.

A bright fanfiction of Purple Noon (Alain Delon). Thanks for reading,

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I'd been making consumerism reflection items for cyber-boards and came across a cyber-age warrior-woman avatar who instantly became my Galatea. As you (maybe) know, Galatea's that ancient beauty-sculpture who came-alive to her artist-creator and an object of great metaphysics debate. Well, this cyber-age warrior-princess avatar was now my (official!) Galatea, and I knew she'd inspire me to go to Monaco and share my consumerism/lifestyle arts (somehow).

Friends, this fable isn't normal, because I'm not normal. I'm an antisocial. I'm an American psycho, born in Algiers, moved to New England, fell in-love with Galatea (my cyber-age warrior-woman) and then decided to go to Monaco where her art-sketch was being 'marketed' for Euro-currency 'examinations' for loose diamond-markets chess-tied to some sports-activity in anticipation and some post-event ventures for the Summer Games. It's a Selfie-commentary Earth of life/transit drawn superstitions for net-activities, right? It's drawn in many nerdists, and also it's drawn-in psychos (like me!).

TOM: You're most welcome here, genius.

MARGE: You want private-studio (post-hours) time in the Monaco-museum, friend?
ME ('Mr. Amlan Satan'): Surely; thanx for this yuppie-landing; post-midnight sketch.

TOM: The diamonds wed to the video-game warrior-lady avatar are co-owned.

ME: By you, Tom?

MARGE: By Tom, my darling...we're to wed...our parents are raving, Mr. Satan.

ME: Call me Amlan (thanx).

TOM: What's this diamond-pearl item pinned to your navy-jacket, Amlan?

ME: Well, it's a sign (for you?) that I'm dead-serious about treasures/art (ha).

Monaco had it all, but you see, it acquired the brain of me, a real American psycho, and I seduced Tom/Marge into thinking I was a 'normal' artist and made-way into their diamond-co. chess-tied Monaco museum (art) exhibition room to make my post-midnight replica-sketch. I was escorted by the lone-guardsman (Leo) who got drunk with my absinthe and passed-out, giving me time to make a 'fake' recording of narrated video-game avatar-woman praise and then turned the camera in-time enough to swap the original with the replica/fake in my briefcase (ha).

MARGE: I tell you truth, sir!
INSPECTOR: You suspect this 'talented Mr. Satan' had some tie with Tom's tragedy.

MARGE: And I insist it's an American tragedy...Tom's disappearance.

INSPECTOR: Do you know Tom's been rumored with underworld gem-activities?

MARGE: Maybe this 'talented Mr. Satan' found himself as some crusader/hero!

INSPECTOR: Maybe he just liked your video-game avatar-lady for replica-make.

MARGE: That drunken-fool guardsman (Leo?) let an American psycho get-away, sir.

INSPECTOR: I feel pity, sweet-Marge; we'll use your clues/cues to seek the truth.

MARGE: Forget it mostly, Inspector...Satan's dodecahedron (gone-man).

I left the Inspector on my case a special 'vintage' record-player, hoping he'd chess-tie me with some 'overground' yuppie-art circle and not tie me to the replica-swap which afforded me some extra cash I'd use for my Zurich venture pre-flight to Belgium (ha). This was a deed for the books, and all it took was some bloody-murder and dodecahedrons (Facebook-like!).

That's my story. I took a flight to Belgium and settled in and am retelling my entire 'psycho-ordeal' in this time-capsule write that I'm burying in my backyard which I hope some future-world archaeologist will make for a 'discovery' in the incomplete-distances language/bread of all that'd become Earthling holograms for surefire transit-superstitions for fortune's baskets, players, angels/demons, and social media and tourism dodecahedrons (ha).