The Question Remains: Who Controls the Coincidences?

Three protagonists existing in three time periods from three different countries are united when a tyrant unleashes a manufactured black hole designed to destroy all history.

Claudine pinches herself this evening, stooping mechanical amid the haze, the off-kilter chime of Veni Sancte Spiritus feathering the club’s decaying walls. Her every nerve dogs the thoughts of the elite congregation, stunned by her natural corset, surrendering bursts of exalted breath atop saturated neon shadows.

Amid the chemical madness, the jet black nubile angles a scripted tease, straddling a wingback chair with her voodoo thighs, an apathetic finger inserted where no Catholic dare tread.Skin Factory protocol dictates a modicum of disinterest from its performers, and zealots be damned who require a granule more.

A disinterested stripper is sexy.

Wild-eyed bureaucrats jerk and twitch to the pulse bubbling beneath the ascending soundtrack, spitting jaded taunts at the shallow stage. Squatting, fierce pupils sneering across the pack of rabid silhouettes, Claudine palms her pussy as if it’s a tombstone.

A sub-audible loop of drumhead vibration and geometric defiance rumbles beer-gut stomachs, fireflies of dull orange flickering a patterned anarchy to the druggy beat. 528Hz. An underlying chant exudes a metaphysical intangibility, and Claudine, letting out a longing sigh, shutters her grey eyes to a drivel.

Behemoth grey and borne within a churn of bitter wisdom, Claudine’s eyes offer a portal into her drab, undernourished soul. Both tease a hypothetical honesty, but in the scratch and sniff of strip-club air, the hoodwink is designed to stroke the ego. Her skin, complexed and rough from hard labour, vaulted modest years into a score of visual hag. Still, her nubile sway gives her away as a sexy deceit, good enough for any middle-class government worker.

Claudine cries for attention, “Help me!” No one bothers to take heed.

*due for release in 2025