The General

Several thousand miles away and weeks earlier, sinking deeply in his office chair, General Arthur Sillivin sat dabbling in the flurry of paperwork that lay on his desk. It was not actually the paperwork that was of interest to him, that was procured by the officers below him and meant practically nothing in this situation. The endless stacks of articles and documents proved as measly evidence for the case at hand in comparison to the little book in The General's hands. He was not relaxed and was managing a definite hatred of his current posture, but was held there by something. He wrote relatively calmly in the book, bound with rusty streamers laced through a thick binding, with a ball-point pen. His hand flew over the page effortlessly, reacting to the pen as if it were not there, making a strict comparison to his face which was relentless with frustration and annoyance. He made elaborate gestures now, as his thoughts became more abundant and intense. Neuronic passage ways opening up and enabling his brain to saturate itself with information. Valuable information worthy of being physically rellayed.
The writing on the page was that of a skilled calligrapher, an enchanting manuscript of artistic reference. The pages before it flowed with the same beautiful delivery. Each letter appearing identical to itself in the different contexts in which it was used but remaining skillfully entangled in the letters preceding it and following it. Skillful at the level of excellence while maintaining the human impurity that makes it beautiful. This manuscript was but the notebook of Dweezle McCoy and it was this artifact that occupied the general's mind and had been for the last six days. Eating away at him with confusion and a severe sense of being lost. After he took his hand away from the page, (or should I say that the hand sort of took itself away from the page) he shook his head furiously along with his pulsating appendage. he felt as though he was thrust abruptly out of a dream . The pain cursed through him and it was mostly an personal elaboration due to the fact that he had felt nothing for a good six minutes, starting after about two minutes into the task. This was one of the things that proved so frustrating to The General. The time lapse as well. He came out of the whole ordeal with a vague and fragmented conception of his surroundings and a hard to grasp memory of what had just happened. He had done this four times before and he remembered the writing via the muscle spasm, burning physical pain, and the intangible frustration of being stuck, with no solution - something that The General was predisposed to identifying and fearing due to his military training and innate problem solving tactics. These effects bothered him and his analytical mind was only able to categorize and inductively infer the concept of The Artifact because that was his mission. Perhaps a mind without the control and efficient functioning statistics that The General was in possession of would simple disregard the whole ordeal, if one was put through the 'ringer' so to speak. But The General was able to pick up on the hyptnotic effects and they presented themselves to him as a vague misunderstanding instead of a planted memory. As if something was sure not the fuck right. But we are way to far ahead of ourselves, all we are interested in is what The General is agonizing over, what is making him furious. Not even the bizarre mental state that he found himself in after picking up the notebook and writing in it compared to the one thing that The General felt like pressing the Armageddon button over. The text that came out of his hand, leaving him with no cognitive connection that it was indeed he who wrote it. This mysterious text was in LATIN. As you can see this upset The General considerably and put him in a bit of an edgy mood.