Read Online Runaway Nun (Misbegotten) by Caesar Voghan - Free Book Online
Authors: Caesar Voghan
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coiling back into Sir Gottfrey’s hollow body through hook-ups rigged into his
vest like the life-support valves on an astronaut’s spacesuit.
To kill time, he was fumbling with
the edges of his blood-red bowtie, trying to tighten its hold around his
scrawny neck. His closed eyelids quivered now and then, but he endured the
celestial body’s radiant touch stoically, determined to let the sun do its
rejuvenating work. The man knew that his bet with eternity depended on his
partnership with the light the heavenly bodies emanated, the gentle ropes of
their gravity, the unerring rhythm of day and night, the sublime harmony of the
opposites—the Yin and the bloody Yang. The Taoists had it right: you’re
either in sync or out of sync; you either swim against the current, or flow
down the stream. Hence, never, under any circumstances, piss against the bloody
wind!
That was the extent of Sir
Gottfrey’s consent to perennial religious verities. But then again, he’d never
thought of Taoism as a religion. He viewed it more like a natural philosophy
steeped in myths populated by fire-spitting dragons, chopstick-wielding sages,
and bowls dripping with maggoty noodles, and maybe a Kung Fu champ kicking and
screaming, and breaking bloody boards with his skull bone.
Lovely…
The man always started the day
with a prelude to his longevity regimen—he called it “Vitamin D at
Daybreak,” and loved the alliteration. The rejuvenation of his facial membrane
was something he still preferred doing the old-fashioned way, a leftover from a
previous era. He wouldn’t have gone so far as to slap slices of cucumber on his
face, but he had grown infatuated with algae-based facial cream Yoshiro and his
lads had developed it from scratch—it sped up the bloodstream absorption
of the solar gift, while eliminating 99.7 percent of the side effects of harmful
radiation.
He let the breeze wash over the
pores of his well-moisturized derma for a few more seconds, then inhaled deeply
and opened his eyes. Blinking rapidly, he turned his sterile irises away from
the sun. He picked up a pair of round eyeglasses from his lap and set them on
the bridge of his nose—they were vintage spectacles that belonged to no
one but John Lennon himself.
The man had paid a fortune for
them at the end of a long auction night at Sotheby’s. It had happened the same
November day Oxford University had named him head of their most-trumpeted
Bioengineering Advanced Research Initiative, and he felt quite entitled to blow
through a little over a million pounds on a well-deserved gift to himself. He
was also drunk out of his mind, and hence ten times more prone to make a
statement concerning the lack of intrinsic value of the English currency as
opposed to the inherent worth of prehistoric Rock ‘n’ Roll memorabilia. I mean,
bloody hell, the Egyptians had wrapped all their kings and queens in rolls of gauze
for thousands of years and stored them inside man-built caverns—at the
very least, someone should collect Beatles paraphernalia in our age! Yes, here
comes the sun, little darling; it’s been a long cold lonely winter, little
darling. Here comes the bloody sun.
Humming, Sir Gottfrey fiddled with
the small knob at the end of one of the armrests, and the nongrav armchair spun
in place. Hovering three feet above ground, he glided the armchair across the
terrace and back inside the building through the sliding doors that parted with
a hiss as he approached them.
Towing behind their
once-upon-a-time host organism, his organs bounced happily at the end of their
hoses, like the deformed tentacles of an octopus.
Half
museum and half antique shop, Sir Gottfrey’s executive suite was littered with
the statuettes of the past’s famous and infamous, all washed in the morning sun
that poured freely through the glass wall facing the ocean. The other walls
were covered in posters and paintings depicting iconic figures of
long-forgotten centuries—military
coiling back into Sir Gottfrey’s hollow body through hook-ups rigged into his
vest like the life-support valves on an astronaut’s spacesuit.
To kill time, he was fumbling with
the edges of his blood-red bowtie, trying to tighten its hold around his
scrawny neck. His closed eyelids quivered now and then, but he endured the
celestial body’s radiant touch stoically, determined to let the sun do its
rejuvenating work. The man knew that his bet with eternity depended on his
partnership with the light the heavenly bodies emanated, the gentle ropes of
their gravity, the unerring rhythm of day and night, the sublime harmony of the
opposites—the Yin and the bloody Yang. The Taoists had it right: you’re
either in sync or out of sync; you either swim against the current, or flow
down the stream. Hence, never, under any circumstances, piss against the bloody
wind!
That was the extent of Sir
Gottfrey’s consent to perennial religious verities. But then again, he’d never
thought of Taoism as a religion. He viewed it more like a natural philosophy
steeped in myths populated by fire-spitting dragons, chopstick-wielding sages,
and bowls dripping with maggoty noodles, and maybe a Kung Fu champ kicking and
screaming, and breaking bloody boards with his skull bone.
Lovely…
The man always started the day
with a prelude to his longevity regimen—he called it “Vitamin D at
Daybreak,” and loved the alliteration. The rejuvenation of his facial membrane
was something he still preferred doing the old-fashioned way, a leftover from a
previous era. He wouldn’t have gone so far as to slap slices of cucumber on his
face, but he had grown infatuated with algae-based facial cream Yoshiro and his
lads had developed it from scratch—it sped up the bloodstream absorption
of the solar gift, while eliminating 99.7 percent of the side effects of harmful
radiation.
He let the breeze wash over the
pores of his well-moisturized derma for a few more seconds, then inhaled deeply
and opened his eyes. Blinking rapidly, he turned his sterile irises away from
the sun. He picked up a pair of round eyeglasses from his lap and set them on
the bridge of his nose—they were vintage spectacles that belonged to no
one but John Lennon himself.
The man had paid a fortune for
them at the end of a long auction night at Sotheby’s. It had happened the same
November day Oxford University had named him head of their most-trumpeted
Bioengineering Advanced Research Initiative, and he felt quite entitled to blow
through a little over a million pounds on a well-deserved gift to himself. He
was also drunk out of his mind, and hence ten times more prone to make a
statement concerning the lack of intrinsic value of the English currency as
opposed to the inherent worth of prehistoric Rock ‘n’ Roll memorabilia. I mean,
bloody hell, the Egyptians had wrapped all their kings and queens in rolls of gauze
for thousands of years and stored them inside man-built caverns—at the
very least, someone should collect Beatles paraphernalia in our age! Yes, here
comes the sun, little darling; it’s been a long cold lonely winter, little
darling. Here comes the bloody sun.
Humming, Sir Gottfrey fiddled with
the small knob at the end of one of the armrests, and the nongrav armchair spun
in place. Hovering three feet above ground, he glided the armchair across the
terrace and back inside the building through the sliding doors that parted with
a hiss as he approached them.
Towing behind their
once-upon-a-time host organism, his organs bounced happily at the end of their
hoses, like the deformed tentacles of an octopus.
Half
museum and half antique shop, Sir Gottfrey’s executive suite was littered with
the statuettes of the past’s famous and infamous, all washed in the morning sun
that poured freely through the glass wall facing the ocean. The other walls
were covered in posters and paintings depicting iconic figures of
long-forgotten centuries—military
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