The transparent man was alone, transparently, sort of, in the middle of the transparent street lined with transparent protesters holding aloft transparent banners, transparent posters pasted onto transparent walls, transparent flyers floating transparently on a transparent breeze.
He was an artist, a transparent artist. He painted transparent paintings on transparent canvases, took and worked on transparent photographs in transparent computers, and wrote transparent stories on reams of transparent papers containing, evidently, transparent philosophy. He was transparent. He was a transparent husband and, transparently so, a devoted father.
He wore a transparent trilby style hat on his transparently balding head and his thoughts were transparent, and from his transparent ears and from his transparent nose grew transparent hairs he had to regularly trim as befits the transparently middle aged, and perched on his transparent nose, a pair of transparent glasses helped his transparent eyes to see. On his transparent shoulders hung a long transparent coat, almost down to the transparent street. Under this transparent coat he wore a transparent three buttoned jacket over a transparent shirt and a transparent vest (over a transparent paunch) tucked tightly into his transparent trousers which were buckled up with a transparent belt, his transparent fly zipped carefully up. A transparent tie pinched his transparent collar to his transparent throat and his words, had there been any to speak of, would have been transparent too. His transparent cuffs were fastened with transparent cufflinks which would have read, had, clearly, they not been totally transparent, “GUILTY” one, the other, “NOT GUILTY”. Through his transparent underpants you could see his transparent testicles nestling in transparent pubic hair, and his transparent penis too, transparently leaking a little, slightly silly, and pathetic and not at all threatening or different looking, just like all the others tucked away into their very own transparent underwear. Under his transparent armpits, through transparent hair, he transpired a little, transparently, as you have probably quite rightly guessed, but he smelt sweet because he had used his transparent roll-on deodorant that very morning. And his transparent feet were warm inside his transparent socks, clad as they were in transparent leather soled shoes. His transparent feet and his transparent legs carried him in slow motion towards The Transparent Parliament. On his transparent finger a transparent wedding ring. In his transparent hands a very tall transparent flagstaff atop of which fluttered a huge, a magnificent transparent flag with its corresponding transparent cords and transparent tassels. He was escorted in his transparent protest by twenty or thirty transparent policemen and women, preceded by three transparent police cars, dressed, these agents of The Transparent Order, they were, in their transparent helmets and transparent uniforms, carrying transparent Mace and transparent truncheons and transparent shields with transparent letters that would have spelt out “POLICE” had they not been totally transparent. And they shouldered transparent guns and slung transparent pouches of transparent rubber bullets, transparent real ones too, and, in their transparent underpants, their transparent genitals were no more or less pathetic, no more or less threatening looking, no more or less leaking, no more silly looking than were his. Under their transparent fireproof knickers the transparent policewomen’s vaginas, their triangles of transparent pubic hair, seemed little different from, well, from his transparent wife’s and his transparent daughter’s. Behind him three enormous armoured police vans, each of them totally transparent of course, closed the transparent procession, everything transparently in order and The Transparent Authorities would never have even dreamt of putting any of their transparent firepower to use for, transparently, it would have been of no use.
In front of The Transparent Parliament, adorned with innumerable magnificent transparent flags, he stepped up beside his transparent wife; saw her transparent breasts transparently small and still transparently fine-looking. Inside his transparent underpants shriveled his transparent penis, at the same level as his wife’s transparent genitals, inside her transparent knickers. They had once introduced the two to each other, not only to make transparent love, to make transparent orgasms but also to make their transparent daughter who now lay deep in peace, immaculate, deep in transparent velvet in a transparent coffin on transparent trestles, her transparent lower body draped in yet another magnificent transparent flag, a transparent coffin, her body, open to The Transparent Universe.
Gorgeous was she as part of The Transparent Universe. The early autumn sun shone through the three of them, shone through them all, shone through it all and lit the cool damp green grass under their transparent feet. The early autumn sun glinted fiercely in the purple ripples of universes floating in myriad pools and puddles and in fine blue sky reflected in undulating mirrors of streams. The early autumn sun shone, turned the fallen and falling, fluttering leaves into every shade of orange red and gold imaginable, and illuminated the butterflies in the forest, beams of light through the trees, the bees, the birds, darting here and there, the red squirrels so trusting and not a single solitary footstep ever to be seen on the sumptuous carpet of the forest floor. The butterflies shone so elegant, the dragonflies glowed metallic, awaiting.
The Transparent Dignitary strolled forward from the transparent ranks of The Transparent Politicians and stood before the three of them. A transparent man in a transparent uniform handed him yet another transparent flag, neatly folded into a manageable square, and on this transparent flag was resting a transparent ribbon curled around The Transparent Medal. And The Dignitary had a transparent speech to be made but, as the situation was so transparent, transparent words were unnecessary and transparent speeches of transparent sorrow and transparent regret and transparent thanks and transparent anticipations for the future were forgotten, left in The Transparent Parliament, left in all the transparent drawers of transparent offices, in transparent desks in transparent buildings on thousands upon thousands of transparent streets.
The transparent mother cries transparent tears that trickle from her transparent eyes. Her transparent husband strokes her comfortingly across her transparent shoulders, which shudder transparently. She glances up a little then extends a transparent finger to the lip of the transparent coffin, brushing gently its transparent, open lid. Her tears are no longer clear. Nothing is clear any longer. Her supposed daughter is burnt, has a tortured look on her face, black and blue. She is glued to the black velvet in her own congealed blood and putrefaction, her wounds festering, but alive. Alive, every orifice seething with maggots, metallic bluebottle flies buzz here, and there. Varnished wood grain coffin, peeling varnish, cold tarnished brass handles drip gritty raindrops, drip, drip, drip, and the damp flag clutched to her supposed mother’s breast suddenly has a nation to go with it, and each and every soaking flag has colours to go with it, and a state, and a supposed cause of course, it is only common sense and each and every sodden banner too suddenly has its supposed demands against this collective against that, and everyone is cheerfully, earnestly part of it and everyone is dressed in drab shades and tones of washed out grey and the dirty grey rain falls, kicks up the dust, the grey ash in the littered street and thousands of feet churn it all into mud and the noise of the protest is deafening, chants, shouts, megaphones feedback, the beating of shields that clearly read “POLICE”, and the police play their part and the public theirs, the game, dodge the water cannon, there has to be a threat round every corner, in every darkened doorway, it is common sense, breaking glass, bricks and flaming bottles fly, red paint too, and the smell of the protest is choking, teargas, everything, sweat, shit, everyone smells slightly rotten, gagging, of sewers, spilt blood, corruption, death, decay, burning rubber and petrol, and someone’s daughter, supposedly, gets trampled underfoot, supposedly. A bluebottle scurries across her cheek and the last of the hoary old hippy dreams of those days of yore, of being one with the universe, is shot to bloody shreds as every hoary utopia is shot to bloody shreds and so, one way or another, everybody is cheerfully, earnestly playing a bit part in the game, extras. Extras, everybody works for The Bank.
“Why, mummy, why?”
“Why what, darling?”
“Why does everybody work for the bank?”
“Oh, ooh! To buy the boys a tank.”
