Il Cantante in Maschera, vol. HOOKIN FIR THE MOB

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Naturally, when I relayed word from the Fool, Leslie was none too pleased with the prospect: "It was one thing to distance the studio from a drug-addled turtle in the mind of a naive and judgmental public with a one-off hit piece while trying to curry favour with straight-laced guardian angel investors - that never paid off anyways, and the turtle and the studio seemed to have come to common ground apropos of where everyone stands so long as we keep broadcasting the odd thing he sends our way from wherever he happens to be -, but to smear the innocent and unsuspecting family of a flea-bitten young kangaroo any more than their respective mothers' slimy pouch already did once upon a time, and under false pretenses at that, seems gratuitous and mean-spirited beyond what my gizzard will tolerate, not to mention in flagrant contradiction of the studio's mandate to produce naught but content which is 'embedded into the truth of the moment of its creation and transmission'."

I had to admit she had a point; surely the oracular censors would never approve of airing anything produced in the spirit suggested by the stranger in Moscow, we reasoned. Nonetheless, before parting the Fool was persuaded to meet with a pair of Z's contacts at a restaurant in the suburbs of Paris called Café La Pêche, who he was told would provide the studio with a small package containing doctored photos and financial records which we were to use in putting together the broadcasts. Both adorned in luxurious white fur coats, they called themselves Judi B and Jason D, and quoted from an old copy of the Book of Deuteronomy liberally, sometimes in song…

It soon became clear, however, by the hushed staccato tones in which they occasionally addressed a sketchy looking ostrich sporting an ill-fitting bright yellow tuxedo at the next table over in what seemed to be Romani, that some sort of criminal organization might be implicated in the scheme as well. Hearing what he thought sounded like "hornet" mentioned numerous times during these interjections, the Fool shuddered to conjecture upon the means by which this organization made its profits and the cast of buzzy goons it employed in doing so and chose rather to let his mind drift upon what their motive might be in spreading this damaging falsehood.

Perhaps the bird had personal reasons to bear a grudge against one or another member of the family from some past slight, imagined or not; London and Paris weren't so far away from one another, really, so that one might be tempted to leave it at that and move on. But then it seemed plausible too that the Parisians were lower on the food chain, simply implicated in the production, or then again merely the delivery, of whatever material we were to employ on our end of the charade. They might only be in the pay of whoever was really exerting influence behind the scene; a cat must have his tuna one way or another, n'est-pas?

At any rate, by the end of the conversation, the tangled web of possible collusions and motives forming in the Fool's travel-addled mind had densified into a veritable tapestry of cretinous deeds that would make Arachne herself blush, and, finding his wit failing in conversation by consequence, his efforts at subtle interrogation over the course of the meal afforded no glimpse into the heart of the matter upon which he mused. Still, he reckoned, whatever the contents of the package were, they just might shed further light on the mystery he pondered, and he was happy to be heading home at last with relatively little further obligations.

Until, upon his taking to his feet, the pair produced from under the table a large duffel bag filled to bursting with assorted off-cuts of wool felt, some already shorn into worm-width strips of two or three feet in length, every colour of the rainbow more or less represented, and told him there was more for the studio. Producing a small leather folio from a side pocket of the bag, they opened it upon the table to reveal a USB drive disguised as a box of Smarties along with a pair of shears and an unfamiliar oblong tool which looked to possess a tiny metal hook they called a "fat shank cocobolo". Instructing the Fool on its use, he was told to hit up a brocante before leaving town and fetch a piece of burlap on the cheap so he could take advantage of the long hop home to hook a rug bearing the semblance of a familiar kangaroo in a compromising embrace with a tiger upon it. The USB drive apparently contained footage doctored using AI-driven deepfake software, some of which we were to composite into our segments and some of which could be broadcast as is. The rug was also to be used in the production of content, and to his look of frank disbelief, the Fool was assured directorial notes for the necessary segments were included in the package and ushered on his way.

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