The young man, the vanity bloated, insecure-would-be-conquerer of the known world seeks audience with the man who lives in a barrel, reeking of wine, stained by the purple sediments in the great jar of his housing.
Diogenese, in his drunken half remembered labors, gave the finger to Alexander. The sun blotted from the sky and Mr D rolled his eyes to the heavens, waving his hand to helio’s glory. The vain boy casts a shadow, and the philosipher is losing valuable tanning time.
Laika would come to understand another side, the dark side of the celestial realms, the flip side of the philosopher’s heaven. But thats getting ahead of ourselves.
But in this moment, the scales fell from the eyes of the callow stripling, Mssr A the Great, who sits aloft the great bellowing Bucephalus. “Now I understand!” Alexander exclaims, “It’s all about destroying the Temple. Leveling the world. Constructing giant repositories of knowledge, and building the vast playground on the backs of skin stripped slaves. This, in my three and thirty years, I can do. So now, to conquer the known world… And beyond.” The strapping youth, presaging the son of man by many score o’ years, proceeded to hack away at the world’s most profound mysteries, knots unfurling in flames, like tendrils around Persepolis and associated hanging gardens. To the terror of mathematical genius, screams of desert djinns and fearful lamb soaked smoke then filled the land(s).
But first, Alexander’s eye turned inward for further revelation. “How might I have not seen this before? I must rebuild the universe after mine own countenance.” Jesus never had it so good. And thus the feminine locations dotted the geography, all the way galloping towards the gymnosophists, humming the lilting melodies of Satie all the way.
You bet your sweet bottom, this is a legend born. Borne. Bjorn.
Mean while, back at ye old ranch, the bear, old Bear, dear cuddling great bear with a red sickle of despair, claimed the title of Alexander’s inheritor – and in more recent years, claimed the heavens.
Ach, the canine of dear Diogenes, sitting dapper in laced suits, waiting for oxygenated pods, fettered and locked while the terror of flashing stars and exploding rockets, dim doggie senses. Laika ah laika oh darling balalaika, sing a sleepy lullabye in the stars.