Bush Peter - Exiled from Almost Everywhere

Just as he was leaving the wake for one of his acquaintances in the locality, the Italian barber on the corner (whose verbal diarrhea and constant recourse to clichs he preferred to dodge) smirked like a smart-ass and quipped: The afterlife must be really wild, dont you reckon? As far as I know, nobodys ever tried to get back to this dump!

The Forza Italia patriot got it totally wrong because, even when reduced to smithereens, he had decided he did want to return to the planet where a terrorist detonated the explosive device hidden in the lining of his gabardine, thus dispatching him and his book to the Hereafter. He suddenly found himself in a deserted cybercaf with thousands (millions) of computers and their respective workstations. A giant panel flashed on and off, tirelessly repeating the same message: VIRTUAL UNIVERSE. He didnt know what to do next or what was expected of him and roamed the void of infinite space until he flopped down exhausted in front of one of the keyboards only to see his own face on the screen, complete with hat and dark tinted glasses under the heading The Monster of Le Sentier.

What else could he do but explore every opportunity offered by the data and information from the electronic galaxy and its vast array of programs to suit all tastes and ages? His memory when alive had been replaced by a new one he now played with, despite being so inept and clumsy, as the e-mails kept flowing in. He started exchanging messages (his caustic ramblings and fantasies) with visible or anonymous computer geeks who simply had to type in sentiermonster@hotmail to establish contact, attracted maybe by the puerile extremism and suspect nature of writing that you, my long-suffering reader, can now judge for yourself.

The knowing reader will wonder how a clumsy cuss like him, unable to open an umbrella or wind up a watch, was able to navigate his computer and communicate with both the world from which hed been dispatched and the starry nebula of the Hereafter.

Death isnt what you think it is, dear friend: youll find out sooner or later. You can just as easily find yourself in a cybercaf the size of an Olympic stadium as floating in the weightlessness of space, or helplessly trapped in a traffic jam with an objectionable Madrid taxi driver for company (whose monologue on human rights youll get to hear later on in the book), or encapsulated in the meager gray matter of a scatterbrain who masquerades as a professor.

Fantasies Ive cooked up? Come break the flimsy membrane separating us, and your very own virtual eyes will see the scatterbrain, the ineffable next-door neighbor of the deceased Monster of Le Sentier. Listen to her, my skeptical friend, as the pearls of wisdom pour from her small, straight-lined beak, and she shakes her flabby body and many-colored plumage.

Id already told you so a thousand times! They get everywhere like microbes from a plague! They steal and deal drugs to finance their terrorist attacks. Ive just received an invitation to join a patriotic march and Id like you to come. If we dont drop nuclear bombs on the countries theyre from, all is lost: they will annihilate us!

Dont try to plug your ears, soul brother. You have none. The latest whispers reach your mind without passing through the senses. The ether encompasses everything, even that trivial conversation.

Whod give any credibility to the words of a dead man? The unlikely reader of these lines might like to see them off with a shrug of the shoulders and send them flying into the wastebin. But, believe me, it would be a mistake.

When we cross the fragile membrane separating us from the Hereafter, we are transformed, though we remain ourselves, as we gaze from afar at our tiny Earth and assess its puny worth. Seated in front of his computer, the Monster reviews messages and declarations from the place where time flew by that have mysteriously filtered through to his web page with its secret password:

Take a drive through the stinking masses in that limousine custom-made for you and the Chantilly Cream of the planet.

Contact the Wright-Patterson Air Force base in Dayton, Ohio. Youll love what they have to offer. An erogenous bomb custom-made for you!

As the list of suggestions is interminable, the deceased is moved in turn to write an e-mail to a correspondent he doesnt know, though he must be someone, he imagines, close to his own subversive ideas and unsettling sense of humor:

If love for the Holy Spirit can launder souls, why wouldnt the bank of that name launder money? If you are in agreement, contact us and send us your savings. The Paraclete guarantees a quick and handsome return.

Still fazed by the speed of cyberspace, to his surprise and astonishment, our mini-hero immediately receives a long epistle or, rather, a sermon. Unfortunately, the text is in Latin, and the only thing he can decipher is the e-mailers signature: an enigmatic Monsignor.

He inevitably went for a wander around his district. Nobody seemed to recognize him or stopped to say hello and chat about the weather. He tried to keep his distance from his old abode, wanting to avoid untimely encounters with his neighbors. He realized nonetheless that innumerable security cameras were filming him. Although his appearance didnt match the standard terrorist profile popularized by the media, his glasses and idiosyncratic gabardine, inappropriate for a sunny morning and the summer heat, might perhaps arouse the suspicions of the Intelligence Services. He sat down in a caf near the Ludovicus Magnus Arch and lit up a joint. Before even taking his order, the waiter pointed to the sign prohibiting smoking inside and he threw his butt on the ground, embarrassed and shamefaced. His proverbial clumsiness betrayed him. He went down the nearest metro entrance, bought a ticket at the counter, pretended to consult the map, then decided against repeating his usual itinerary around promiscuous, potentially perilous alleys, and went back up to the boulevards packed sidewalk. He was trying to shake putative stalkers off his trail and rehearsed the old route of the hero of Lducation Sentimentale , which had been transformed overnight into the general headquarters of the ultra-media-conscious President of the Republic. Given his marching orders by that mans muscular marshals, he turned heel and unexpectedly bumped into a May 68 philosopher, his wavy hair graying, topped by the halo of a court adviser.