"More's the pity," muttered the pamphlet seller.
It would indeed extricate him from his present pickle, were the capital's most entrepreneurial merchant of weapons of massive instruction to avail himself of the moment via the agent of his sister's poorly afflicted progeny.
Lorvec recalled, with distaste, the self-composed creed of the nihilistic bomb-throwing medical man; the perverse Hippocratic oath that The Doctor had Maria, a mariner from Minsk, ink on his forearm in intricate cursive hand:
"Love of anarchy springs eternal from despair of chaos that elites unleash in the name of order under laws of rent that legitimate theft from the many held in bondage by the few. Nothing short of destruction of all rulers will do!"
In the grim, austerity-stricken twilight of empire, the reek of crisp modernist prose pervaded; its sardonic, adjectivally-ridden undertow a naturalist breeding ground for reactionary opinion, construed as considered indignation by those whose self-righteous condemnation of the patently misguided idealism of the fool and the anarchist is taken to be the only pragmatic response to the politics of power and the machinations of the criminal state, rogue or otherwise, if one is eager not to surrender to common inhumanity in the neo-liberal defence of wholesale slaughter of innocents and keen to retain lucrative column inches in the divided nation's revered broadsheets of mythmaking and illusion.
"Now you see it. Now you don't," mused Lorvec, automaton-like.
Barely eight sentences in, and the secretive pamphleteer and agent of doom, having already discounted such qualms as so much red trouser-wearing tosh, sought refreshment in a pot of jasmine-scented tea gifted him by an erstwhile client and comrade from the Manchurian revolutionary diaspora, who had broken with convention and abandoned his party of 5,327 co-workers on forced collective vacation at the reputed expense of a charmed psychopath that headed up Marxist-Leninism's most prolifically successful pyramid scheme since Chiang Kai-Shek was ejaculated from the Shanghai branch of Avon Cosmetics Incorporated and compelled to eke out a co-existence scrapping faecal matter from out of the anal cavities of the wayward sons of the syphilitic chiefs of staff of the former KMT, who, much in Lorvec's manner, had claimed asylum from the slimy milieu of turn-of-the-millennium post-modernism in favour of the concrete certitudes of the polyglot bourgeois moralist who abhorred the seedy cabal of scum-sucking deviant pig-sodomisers on an island off the south east coast of the Independent People's Republic of Kent, many leagues from the Gulf of Tonkin.
The weight. Of the lengthy sentences. Pressed against his chest. Lorvec took. Short breaths. And an unexpected but welcome paragraph break.
Seated in the dilapidated chaise longue in the half-penumbra of the back-shop, he sipped on an oriental infusion concocted from a blend of vibrantly red teas, and became dimly conscious of dull thuds that accompanied a familiar rumpus in the room above his head: an indicator of his sister's struggle to temper her charge's intermittent explosive disorder whereby any perceived sleight, however trivial, provoked in the young unfortunate chap an outburst of intemperate tantrum so indiscriminate in its target and so immense in its disproportionality that one might reasonably compare it to the extreme violence of the logic-chopping of the thoroughly indoctrinated sycophants of the Fourth Estate, an occupation where honour and soul is routinely eschewed in favour of expediency, as yet another risibly absurd case is made in assured support of extortionately-priced asymmetric atomic weaponry whose detonation must be publicly contemplated yet never actualised, if it is to be effective as a deterrent against the strangely foreign rage of the religiously intolerant zealots who left to their own improvised explosive devices might succeed in blowing themselves to kingdom come.
Lorvec had the physiognomy of a man with a great many ponderables on his noggin. His chubby squat fingers sweated around the china mug cupped in his hands. He clasped it to his breast, rested it against his cleavage and respired melodramatically. It was decided. Lorvec, on some pretext or other, would coax the boy to effect the deed. That much was certain. As for the requisite combustible chemistry, he would enlist the lethal services of his associate, The Doctor, who was to visit the back-parlour this self-same evening along with several other revolutionary caricatures, thus reducing the requirement for any further plot exposition in return for peace of mind and a resumption of a mid-life filled with sneering contempt at the shortcomings of his fellow worker, whose lack of aspiration concerning all things progressive, though redolent of his own failings, incensed him so thoroughly that he slumped back in his chaise longue - an act of indolence that sign-posted a refusal to contemplate the wider structural and political realities of 1880's London, pre-Brexit, which the Man from the Imperial Ministry had driven home to the secretive Lorvec that very morning.
Notwithstanding his customary ill humour, the web of conceit was almost spun. The Doctor's dyed-in-the-wool fanaticism and unsurpassed expertise in the destructive potentialities of fertiliser would undoubtedly assist Lorvec in the commission of the atrocious act of barbarism that would strike at the very heart of darkness itself: Notting Hill.
"It would do you well to recall, Lorvec," said the Man from the Imperial Ministry, as the secretive pamphleteer shifted from one foot to the other in the antechamber of his Excellency's stately room.
"It would do you well to recall, Lorvec, that a single act of vengeance can resonate through the annals of the historical record like a Zokor mole rat gnawing away at the underground fibre-optic cables of the London offices of the Reuters press agency on a quiet news day in August."
The tortuous analogy reminded Lorvec that this was far from the chocolate-box drama of the class that his sister, Wendy, devoured on slow shop days, which in actuality was fairly most of them. It further prompted Lorvec to emit a self-congratulatory Aha!, perhaps with less force than Archimedes, a man of principle who most certainly let rip with legendary gusto as the water rose in his bathing tub, yet with sufficient strength to rouse Lorvec from his chaise longue and notify the other occupants of the flat that their disturbances should be curbed on account of the return of the man of the household. Thus, by a curious concatenation of associations, Lorvec had ventured not only upon the doughty Doctor's explosive knowledge, and of course his nephew's intermittent incendiary temperament matched with a malleable docility that was fit for purpose, but moreover upon the precise nature of the receptacle in which the lethal agent of terror, commandeered at the behest of secret state intervention, was to be conveyed to a particular Notting Hill address: namely, a box of premium quality confection of the sort that no self-respecting gentleman would deny access to, if delivered in the apposite manner. His nephew, Davey, would need livery.
The general synopsis having been established, and a sense of locale specified, there only remained its fictive exposition. Additionally, as is the way of matters modernist, publications demand a modicum of interactive dialogue, if only to relieve the tedium, ironically, of the thoroughly impenetrable textuality. However, Lorvec despised small talk and conversation with his sister and the boy were completely out of his frame of reference.