SCENE THIRTEEN (XIII)
Pronunciation: spusTYA rukaVAH
Meaning: (to do a task) carelessly, negligently
“WITH SLEEVES PULLED DOWN”
In Midtown Isle of Mann, Sebastian waits for the omnibus. Sometimes you have to take a step back from the big picture and make sure your troubled friends stay out of trouble. As usual, Michkai Dbrisk was doing the best he could in a poor overall situation for doing business. He was for whatever logistically foolish reason rushing to meet Kawa Zivistan and catch a jitney to Strong Island. Which was last minute and outlandish, but something was clearly going wrong with the long game.
The Z.O.B. underground was composed of several pre-existent overlapping formations. One had been led by Sebastian Adonaev and Trikhovitch; called the Banshee Group. One led by Mara Fitzduff and a defrocked Fenian Priest named O’Sullivan called the Fenian Brotherhood. And a third faction led by Michkai Dbrisk of Crown Heights called Uhuru. Later re-branded several times and merged with other factions and entities into the durably Democratic Confederalist guerrilla force it was on the eve of a bloody revolution in North America.
“I know that man so well I could wear his skin, and you’d be convinced I was he, I know his very heart, I know his small talk and his long game and that crazy fucking Ivory is one of my very best men. The first among equals at our table. He paid dues for a long time, oh he still pays dues, but I trust my children with that man,” says Michkai Dbrisk, the tall, dreaded physician assistant by training, rogue paramedic, a bad man. A real Jamaican.
“Kawa Zivistan is of course really named Sebastian Adonaev on his birth paperwork. Everyone who knows him mostly as ‘Kawa’ doesn’t know him at all. He really is only ‘Russian’ by perhaps insertion and appreciation. He speaks less Russian than is appropriate for having a decade of from Russia with love, he’s tried to learn. There were lots of well-meaning flashcards. I mean people have always taken him very seriously. At this point he probably speaks more Russian than old Ivory, which is the useless language of his tribe. He is without a doubt, an Illubadori dual citizen. His father is definitively Ivory, his mother a convert to reform Ivory type thinking. Well, maybe there are some doubts about all that. He suffers from the bipolar condition, prevalent in Ashkenazi Ivory.
Yelizaveta Aleksandrovna, his last serious partner and love interest tried the very best to control the bipolar, but of course one cannot. Why he has this obsession with Russian women is anyone’s guess. Deconstructing it is silly as we love what we love. Yelizaveta was good at many things, though hated by all of Kawa’s closest circle besides Dbrisk. There are so many details Dbrisk knows his man cannot come close to remember. Because his ‘soul’ is partially reloaded each time. The evil science behind the process is confusing to Dbrisk and everyone else aware of it. Kawa however, can die and die and die. But he can be easily reloaded into new bodies someone keeps making for him. Just like the oligarchy does.
Now, you must think Kawa Zivistan is a philanderer and a manipulator and really only in love with himself, hidden behind a revolutionary belief system. So said Yelizaveta Aleksandrovna on so many occasions during the years of the original clandestine training operations in Ayiti. All these Russian women, he must be rich, some thought. Well that was no one’s business, but he dressed in other people’s used clothes, and always kept a very modest one-bedroom apartment in the Midwood district. He was generous with his couch when people were in trouble he always came up with cash. He drove a real basic automobile, the Honda Civic 2009. He upgraded at some point to a Guyanese modified Charger with bulletproof tinted glass. Nothing fancy either except the Guyanese had gotten under the hood. Love, yes love he believed in it. He may have never led a very large Otriad, only ten to twenty, but he did have a following when healthy. They took him many times and tortured him many times and he wasn’t the same man all the time. His memory of his own hardships never seemed to reload with the bodies. He could die, and emerge a month or too later as a new Kawa, but fundamentally the same Kawa, the rebel.
What’s a little torture and possible death when you have all these hot Russian girlfriends? These were very serious trysts some of them. Despite the suspicions of the Department of Security in the Homeland, none not one of these lovers were actually F.S.B. agents. None were manipulating the ‘strange abilities’ of Kawa Zivistan. Most of them, truly looking into their hearts, suspected the family estate would be left to anyone other than his blonde brother Benny Zivistan, the respectable Spanish businessman. So the love, when it was love, well it was pure shit each time. Masha-Maria, Yelizaveta Kay, Adelina, Alina, Alina, and Polina ‘the Red Fox’ were mostly free-spirited artists, in love with Kawa’s very old soul perhaps.
They actually loved this Ivory for him, for his strange bearing. His unique vision and also terrible ways.
‘Why are Chornay always so fucking late to every single g-d damn thing?’ He waits on 40th Street and Lexington Avenue amid the towers of midtown for the Hampton Jitney, the express bus out to the Hamptons located on the far eastern end of Strong Island. What’s so terrible about sometimes being early? But they had been slaves, maybe still are mostly slaves and thus were excused somewhat from just about anything in his mind thereafter. Only a racist Blan oppressor makes you work for free for five hundred years, reduces you to raped and broken human cattle, and then complains when you’re late, but they were about to miss the bus. But this was no way to regard one’s stalwart ; ‘Chief of Operations’, the Jamaican gangster and medicine man Mickhi Dbrisk. Even if that was a kind of racism to itself. Which clearly it often was. It is impossible to exercise one’s inner racism, you can try so hard and the whiteness still returns. The curse that comes with the skin privilege.
After Daria replied by mobile phone she wasn’t leaving Breuklyn, the night before Labor Day Kawa Zivistan had called his bad man partner in crime Mickhi Dbrisk To escape the city briefly to the country to a place called Montalk for a midnight journey. A day trip, the night before Labor Day proper which locked down Breuklyn with 2.6 million masqueraders and full mobilization of the NYPD amongst other agencies. Each year they flipped a coin over Hamptons v. Jouvert and it was “heads for Hamptons’ ‘ this year. But really only because Dasha was occupied, Mickhi never actually ever wanted to go out during the sometimes gunplay active Juveaurt nor was he ever particularly interested in trips to the Ivory elite Hamlet called ‘the Hamptons’ where the Zivistan family had their dacha. Kawa clearly hadn’t woken up completely. Mickhi was supposed to be on the front lines of the rising tomorrow. It was as if Kawa Zivistan could not even remember the revolution he had helped in no small part to inspire and plan for over a decade.
Surely, they needed to make a long palaver.
Mickhi Dbrisk and Kawa Zivistan had met in the LaGuardia Community College seven years prior in the EMT program. They helped found the Banshee Association together and later the nucleus of the Newyorkgrad command of the Z.O.B. underground. In the seven years that they had known each other Dbrisk had seen his friend through many ups and downs, many treacherous jobs, and many lives saved and thankfully none taken. He had seen just what Zivistan was capable of when he took his little salt pills and worked under the right woman. Dbrisk also had seen his partner fall down real bloody, horror show hard. He’s been to a few of the funerals.
“It feels as though I have awoken again from a no good, terrible, very, very bad dream,” Kawa tells Dbrisk in old Ivory talk. A talk he’s talked about before.
“I heard you say that once just after you came back from the earthquake atrocities in Port-Au-Prince. The next thing I remember is you with a sharp bear knife heading down to settle a score in District Garrison Beach over that attack on the Q train. Then came another arrest, your escape from Lenox Hill hospital and the beginning of the end for your municipal employee status. So forgive me if I worry every single time I hear that again. Last time I checked actually, just two weeks ago Kawa Zivistan, the underground man was quite dead.”
“I’d like permission to completely step out of the chain of command to handle a situation I’m in.”
“Of course you don’t ever need my permission to do something you’ve already done.”
“The full assault on the financial district will commence in seventeen days? The Brooklyn elements will rise tomorrow at noon?”
“So it seems,” mutters Dbrisk, wondering if the Kawa who is also Sebastian truly came back fully this time.
“We have committed all of our best volunteers to serve in the medical detachment. It will raise eyebrows if you are not there,” Kawa explains as if Dbrisk isn’t aware.
“I plan to be there at the uprising of course. I just need to handle something first. Something time-sensitive.”
“Well I plan not to be there tomorrow when shit goes down for real, but you do whatever you want to do. Be wherever you gotta be.”
Mickhi Dbrisk is a six-foot tall, smooth Jamaican paramedic. He quietly leads one of the mightiest guerrilla squadrons of paramedics and EMTs history has ever known with its many bases in Brooklyn, in the highest peaks of Jamaica and also of course in Haiti. The little park occupied in the Financial District’s northern frontier was such a small side show. The public-private park called Zuccotti which a year ago was taken over by students and radicals and has since become the epicenter of a national rising now most regimented and entrenched against the national elites, has always been dis-interesting to the Noire factions.
Dbrisk leads quietly because he is a true gangster. That is how a true gangster leads. He had been held in prison for over a year where he marinated his gangster by refusing to name names of co-conspirators. He now raises three children. Sebastian as Kawa has helped save human lives on three continents as a paramedic adventurer. Dbrisk has faithfully built a resistance movement largely not leaving the borough in which he was born. In the diffuse and decentralized chain of command of the militant human rights movement Dbrisk holds the position of ‘Captain’, also ‘Chief Operations Officer’ of the Z.O.B. Otriad and underground. The name of the faction he leads alongside Zivistan and few others is also known as the ‘Banshee’ ‘ or as the ‘Breukelen Bath and Rifle Club’ or the ‘Banshee Association of Newyorkgrad’.
Kawa has been a founding leader and a true knock around guy. Michkai Dbrisk though is a bad mother fucker but subtle, keeping the home front organized. Managing the awkward alliance inside the Z.O.B. of Jamaican and Haitian gangs, Ivory radicals, Zionists, Garveyites and Fenian terrorists. A real Shatah, leading from a position of both love and fear .
Dbrisk leads the ‘Special Operations Section’ of Z.O.B., concerned largely with the training bases in the West Indies, the command and control of urban partisans, periodic bombing missions and strikes against rival groups, criminal elements in zones of control and the real enemy; the Oligarchy. Kawa Zivistan, for many years, had been leading the Planning Section. Concerned with the strategy of the clandestine movement. Scott Boltzmann Sevastra led the ‘Communications Section’ specifically the Fire Switch pirate radio station, Banshee newspaper and the affiliation with People’s Television group. Mara Fitzduff co-chairs Communications Section and is the most active deputy concerned with Newspaper distribution which largely solidifies and facilitates the movement’s vast support in F.D.N.Y. fire suppression, N.Y.P.D. uniformed peace officers, Sanitation and EMS in general. Nikolai Trickovitch leads Logistics. Mostly arms acquisition, vehicles and safe houses as well as the underground railroad logistics set up from the ‘grad to the West Indies. Michael Goldbar Allamby is the Chief Financial Officer raising money via control of trucking routes, racketeering, extortion, bootlegging, wine smuggling and other mechanisms. Anya Drovtich leads the Information & Intelligence Section, also dubbed ‘Committee for Public Safety’ with the highly sly Shqiptarëti beauty Erza Pula, the chief legal counselor. It’s the movement’s intelligence body and also the internal affairs secret police.
A very, very big operation in motion. Its moving parts happening as Kawa and Dbrisk speak at that Midtown bus stop, involving short wave transmitters, an electronic magnetic pulse bomb and the full mobilization of thousands of armed partisans.
The core philosophic pillars of the guerrilla movement are inspired by long imprisoned Kurdish leader Abdullah Ocalan are rooted in patience, humility, wrath on enemies of the people and gratitude for heroes and martyrs of the struggle. On that note, Dbrisk would of course like to avoid a bus ride to Strong Island, but being patient is his forte. If Kawa is not well, something is wrong with the plan. More importantly Sebastian was his main droog. You look out for your ‘troubled friends’ even on the eve of history.
It is now the fourth whole day of Kawa not sleeping. He was not actually using this new vessel for sleep, during the Bohemian festival he just drunkenly closed his eyes. Dbrisk doesn’t want to go to the Hamptons, but he needs to see what condition Kawa’s condition is in. Something is amiss.
They board a nearly empty 10pm bus and make small talk in a private cabin at the rear of the jitney. They are informed by an attendant it will be a two and half hour ride express to Montalk, the easternmost village in Strong Island. They lock the back cabin door. They take out the batteries of their phones.
“Every time you die, you come back only part way. It makes everyone nervous. Like we’re in a conspiracy with a man who isn’t risking what everyone else is. As far as I know, when I die, I die,” says Dbrisk who takes out a pistol and places it on the table between them. A ghost gun made in America.
“I’m not sure what you’re saying man,” replies Kawa Zivistan.
“I fear that this thing will again destroy you,” says Michkai Dbrisk, “I’ve been at your funeral two weeks ago. You were supposed to die and get reborn somewhere peaceful, take a rest. You’ve been getting fucked up and tortured hard last few years. Emma wanted you to rest. But, not even two weeks go by and you pop up on the radar at some encampment in a park. You call me on an unsecured line and say let’s take a day trip to the Hamptons. The very night everything is about to pop the hell off. Makes me think the secret police know what’s about to happen, them or something worse like the damn meddling Russians.”
“I doubt it will be a clean shot,” Kawa says of the rising.
“Listen droog, I’m on this bus because you are my friend, and I’m worried about you. But, I will have to get off this bus in Brooklyn, before the expressway. As things need my attention now.”
“They say I’m very hard to kill,” Kawa replies.
“There are many fates far worse than death, sadly we both know that.”
“The Rabbis say there are no secrets between brothers. So therefore I know the truth. You suffer from ‘cotard’s syndrome’. You believe you are dead and this is your afterlife, a fucking endless nightmare of plots and struggle,” says Dbrisk using a memorized code statement.
“The rabbis say all kinds of meaningless things,” Kawa replies in Old Ivory, “That’s why most of the Ivory were put to death. Sounds like the words of someone who wants to know a secret, within a secret. The coded word, the symbolic meaning, the seven out of seven translations of the word of the name?”
“I know, I knew, I understood and also over-stand, that you die and then come back. This has gone on for a very, very long time. Who makes you your bodies or uploads your soul, well only HaShem and the devil know all that. I know that you and I have been around since the very beginning, even before the Mede Confederation and the First Great Revolt, we are very very old friends. Regular humans live 36 to 89 year lives. Every time you watch them die, you feel responsible I think. Though you are not a god, you are a very old man being uploaded into a freshly grown flesh robot over and over for war. When they smile, you smile along, but you don’t feel human happiness anymore I think. Only zealot hate, pure and utter revolutionary revenge. When you are crying, you are imitating a grief that you explicitly do not know how to feel. But, do you ever cry for yourself I have to wonder? Have you become something more like the enemy than like a living dying man. Whether or not you are even actually dead or alive is subject of debate. Are you really Sebastian my friend of over 5,000 years or just an Illubadori golem, a murderous agitation propagandist striking out at those that live at mountain tops and highest towers over lost loves and dead friends, that are mostly murdered over the years because they came to love you.”
Kawa says, “When no one is looking at me except the one who I so totally loved in a real human way, then I am alive for a short period. As for total recall of all my memories. It might scare you to know I remember very, very little before falling off that roof.”
Dbrisk glances at the gun on the table. “If you actually love her so much why don’t you just stop fighting, eh? Like she sometimes pauses to ask you, right. You’ve done so much already and here we are having the same conversation we five thousand years ago, allegedly. Four hundred years ago too. That we will be having again and again it seems. We wage this war epoch to epoch, husk to husk! The trouble with your model is that they upload your soul on part way, and frequently with memories that are not objectively real. Whereas my model is grown on the tree of life. When I come back, I come back whole.”
“If you doubt for one second I’m the man you knew. If you think I’m some hunter-killer upload. You should shoot me in the head,” Kawa says.
“Do you remember the very first job we ever did together in Babylon? The first job we didn’t do right really,” Dbrisk replies, “since the Mede Confederation fell apart completely.”
“You always remember your first job they say,” says Kawa, but clearly he can’t.
“When you leave your body, where do you go?” asks Michkai Dbrisk.
“I go back to Zion.“
“And what are you doing when you get there?”
“I’m walking around on a very long boardwalk. I’m running into many old friends. I’m with my true love and wife and my family.”
“How many times do you remember dying?”
Kawa Zivistan looks up into the eyes of Michkai Dbrisk. They are gray, not the brown-greenHaShem of the eyes he was born with.
“The body is a vessel for the soul. The flesh is a vehicle by which the soul carries out the work of HaShem in the world of man.”
“Don’t recite the New Social Gospel to me, my old friend. Don’t put on your mask when you speak to your brother.”
“Sometimes I look at my face in the mirror. I don’t even recognize myself. I cannot always be clear about what I did in this life or the last that cut me so deeply or burned me so asunder. I have memories that I cannot say match records of objective reality. I would not recognize haShem from the devil except by the conduct of the vessels they occupy. Tell me brother, when you leave your body where do you go?”
“I go back to Jamaica. I don’t die nearly as often as you friend. I’m on the boardwalk. Running into old friends. On my way home to see my wife and my family.”
“What is going to happen at the Millennium Theater?”
Kawa Zivistan, Dbrisk notes, is now talking about the future.
“Well according to the New Social Gospel. You, Ms. Emma and several hundred fighters will go in and for three days hold the elites of the world hostage. They will then pump in a gas. And absolutely everybody will be killed in the fire fight that then follows.”
“I don’t remember anything about it.”
“It hasn’t happened yet. You’re moving way outside of the fourth dimensional plane. I have to follow your own protocol on this matter Sebastian. I might have to take you down again, if you’ve been taken over by the enemy. Tell me the real name of your wife and the town in Illubabor you were born in.”
“So maybe you’re not really you,” Kawa replies in old Ivory. Neither touch the shooter on the table or look at it again.
“What’s your other name then Sebastian. The one you were born with in Illubabor?”
“Zekh’ariah. Hashem remembers you.”
“And your town?”
“What was it called then?”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Your wife’s name!”
“No. Man, no! That was definitely not her name at all. That’s a Ruus name. You were not married to a Ruus woman. That is a brand new name someone etched awkwardly onto your book of life! Brother, they are manipulating you.”
“How many times have you been to my funeral Dbrisk?”
“Irrelevant data right now. I’ve never heard that name until right now and I have known you for over 5,000 human years.”
“How many times according to the New Social Gospel?”
“Three times. At least three. Once, when you, Emma and I died in Jerusalem around 2,000 years ago fighting Rome. Two weeks ago, suspiciously right before this new revolt against the Oligarchy when you and this Daria mysteriously fell off the fucking roof. Then had staged deaths organized immediately after, absolutely sloppy Mossad work. And your third funeral is coming. It’s coming in three more years, right before the revolt ends in our total victory! When you and Emma Solomon lead the raid on the Millennium Theater which triggers the world to come.”
“I also know that I died on the night of the Great Blizzard. I died in Ayiti during the revolution of 1791 also right after the 2010 earthquake atrocity. I died on the Q train as the bandits raped my poor Maria. And, many other times. I’m not a hunter killer. I’m not a ghost shirt. I’m just getting this body back online.”
“The other times I cannot speak to. You were taken to the hospital camps numerous times. I have no idea how many. But, I saw your corpse two weeks ago without its head and knew some real fuckery was on. I saw your cold dead grinning mangled body with two alleged shots in it when we buried you in the Bronx. I have read your corpse will be desecrated on national television three years from when the department of homeland security announces all of the terrorists at the millennium are dead. I do not have blind obedient faith, but I believe the very specific prophecies revealed to Maya Sorieya Emma Solomon the long awaited Meshiakh, speak of the man grown on a tree and the man in the gray mask, but they get real damn specific with dates, times and places.”
“Well here I am. How now, can you trust that Kawa is Kawa your droog, your Heval, your brother, your Akhi, or do we have to stay up all night and fact check back all the way to the very beginning of imaginary time?”
“Tell me what’s happened to you, okay. No poetry or metaphor. Tell me about how long until you come back with all your memories intact. How quickly. I know it’s all disinformation about the cloning programs and the neural uploading and the parapsychology program. I know that neither we nor the Illubadoris have the science exactly and we will never have the science to save a man’s soul to some code and transfer his energy with all its memory in the span of a human lifetime.”
“Do you know me Michkai Dbrisk?”
“I know you very well, Akhi.”
“What’s your earliest memory of me then?”
“In the Neolithic Age. You were Zaka. A Levantine farmer. I was Davo. I was an African medicine man and then later a slave in the Babylonian city of Ur. They took our wives to be concubines to the sons of oligarchs. They took our sons and killed them before us for sport. It was a daily ritual publicly killing the sons of the proles. We took the nom de guerre Kawa and Andok and we helped organize the Confederation of the Medes. The very first major uprising against the Ziggurat system. That was perhaps 10,000 measured years ago. Later, many lives and battles in between you were the baddest thief and I was a medicine man. They framed up a thief and they nailed our bodies to the tree of life alongside the promised messiah. Her name was unpronounceable by men, so we called her Emma Rose Maya Sorieya. The mother of the changes. The ever returning hope. The flickering flame. I remember before my body died I looked out on Jerusalem and I saw forty thousand of our people hanging from the very trees. Then I woke up in Africa one hundred years later and the real killing began. I have known you since the days of Ur.”
“And when the body dies the energy of the soul is reborn in another living vessel. Old souls find each other so it seems.”
“Have you no understanding of what it might be like to be like normal men?! I know I do. I know that I enjoy the caress of a woman more than a haShem I have never seen. I know what it’s like to see myself in my offspring and want for them to grow into proud and free beings. I don’t live in the past, Kawa. I live for right now. In several lives I found you and I aided you each time. We have always fought side by side as equals. We fought wars and launched bloody revolutions. We have drafted various documents articulating freedom under god knows how many names. We have protected the very bloodline of the chosen ones faithfully for the past 12,000 years! You tell me brother why you and I can’t just stop. And walk away.”
Kawa Zivistan says nothing.
“Every human is loved by HaShem, by Jah! That love is exhibited in the compassion and solidarity extended by the righteous to the suffering masses trampled on by these cruel devils.”
“I know what that NSG book says. I helped write it didn’t I Don’t quote a prophecy to me. If you please.”
“What are we doing next then?” asks Michkai Dbrisk.
“We’re sticking to the haShemdamn plan.”
“Your plan or HaShem’s plan?! Emma’s plan or Avinadav’s version? The Cuban plan? The Blue Lodge? The Grey Cult? What about the damn Scientologists? The Satmar Hasidim? The Baha’i vision? The Shi’a Muslims or the Tibetan Buddhists’? The Marxists? Who’s plan man? You are my oldest friend. You my brother by blood and by deed, but let me tell you one thing before we set the sky on fire yet again. I’ve seen you die over and over. I’ve seen you get tortured hard body. I’ve seen the oligarchs lay waste to the very best laid plans. Over and over and over and over. I’ve seen them burn our people and our prophets each time we rise. Right now, we are precariously holding two canton districts on a war torn micro republic in North Syria. We hold Cuba and some small parts of the island of Hispaniola. Every single organized government on earth is fixing to break out backs. I need to look you in the eyes, and ask you. How are we going to win this time?”
“I don’t yet know.”
Dbrisk pulls off his tam and lets his thick lion locks drop out. He shakes them more a shudder than any kind of battle roar, and then he says, “Well that’s very discomforting. To say the very least.”
“HaHalom Sheli Likhiot Hofshee,” Zivistan says, “My Dream is to be Free. But it feels like very hollow rhetoric right now, “I need a fast bike with no built in GPS,” notes Kawa as he passes back the loaded weapon. Pushing it finally across the table. A soulful pause.
“I’ll get you a real fast bike. Guyanese. Ramped.” Then a soulful pause.
“I need a sholem with a silencer and the serial numbers filed off.”
“Brother. I will get you a very good piece.”
“You are a dear and trusted comrade brother Mickhi Dbrisk,” states Kawa. Mickhi doesn’t even have to nod.
“I’ve found my long dead wife. Restored in her latest form. It’s gonna be a real mess to get her out of Brooklyn.”
“Kawa. Sebastian. This Miss Daria, at least as you have encountered her this time, is not actually your lost wife. That might resemble her essence. Mimic her body, might mimic her moves. But, it is not her really at all. Just a body all drawn up to entrap you. The first shots of the uprising are really just eight hours away. Don’t get captured up now by ghouls and ghosts. Deceptions and distractions, as well as carnal fuckery.”
“The uprising!” Kawa mutters and he sees a forty mile high view of the city erupting in violence.
Mickhi can sometimes actually hear Kawa think.
“She bit into me,” says Zivistan and shows Dbrisk the bite marks on his right index finger.
“Well that ain’t no good my man.”
“No good at all.” DBrisk looks at his wrist watch.
There’s gonna be a real messy street melee to write home about in history popping and erupting like an avalanche of rage and burning, all day long. Kop Tete, boulay maisons! Cut heads, burn houses.
“So you just need a weapon and a fast ride?” is all Dbrisk asks.
“And probably also a prayer.”
“Well brother we can work with all that.”
The bus stops and somewhere on the very Eastern edge of Queens and Strong Island they both hop off the bus and walk in completely different directions.