Flash fiction cut up from @rickwayne's prompt:
Kenneth sighed. He missed his bungalow in Quebec. His terrible shrewdness meant no more than the Berber beneath his feet, if the broadcast could be trusted. Anxiety banding his chest like armor, he saw: The assignment at the embassy backfired.
They lengendarily and vociferously sang Administrator McCormack’s praises from Warsaw to Compton, but despite the mellifluousness of these epic devotions, Kenneth knew he was just another sexist guarder of the old order, suckling Orwellian dictatorialness like vapor from the air. He endorsed change when it suited him, reinduced previously unembraceable alternatives, and barred the worst sort of exclusionism. The Administrator nipped at his foes like a foxhound.
But nothing really changed, especially the melancholic bent of Kenneth’s nature.
He wondered then, how different he was from a courtier of old. Lacking only rouge and a fabulous ruffed collar, he was still a wobbly manikin looking to ingratiate himself to the enchanting, seraph-like bastions of power. Too studious to attend an inner-circle fete, he contented himself with association. It took seven years to disaffiliate himself from the more abased elements of his acquaintance, and to build up his reputation. Some would be forever unconvincible, would always question his revertibility, would never trust his strangely nonpromiscuous “crunchiness.” He could lionise the ithyphallic, perfect the tone of his resonation, but had Plainfield in his soul - he would never be coastal enough.
He would always be just an anisodactyl midwesterner, tripping popeyed before Helios, and all the sootier for his trouble.
Kenneth’s head ached. Something dallied in the back of his mind, just out of sight - a neurotropic kittle in his brain. He had a flashes of a half-forgotten conversation that took place in a gondola in Venice before traveling on to Florence, and then further, to the disaster in Siena.
The disaster in Siena - eureka! Unweened, black hideousness began to irrupt refulgent in his mind. No expostulation, no matter how excellently phrased, could turn him from his work. As though a ciseleur had engraved upon him his purpose anew or a micrographer etched tiny blasphemous letters on his soul, his infralapsarian conviction returned with a dark reforestation of his heart.
Kenneth was among the chosen, after all.
He carefully composed a coded message:
Anagrammatise fusobacterium rooter, mast analagous paraphrase cruciform nonreservable. Geometric rim doughnut revivification, outrigger repossessed. Preascertain nonwashable, undisqualifiable babbittry?
Though it truly amounted to only one word:
They would never applaud his work - hell, if anyone knew his true purpose, they probably would burn him in effigy. But expecting praise was never his cross to bear; Kenneth was unfungible in his own way. What began so long ago when he first understood his role - that day his legs gave way like Jello, and he sank down to rest on his butt on that hillside in Tobago - would soon be over.
Until then, he would continue on as a peripatetic phantasm, serving the Administrator.