The Chevalier d'Eon sashayed along a busy street in London in the late Spring of 1775, in a pale green gown and her hair tucked into a white frilled bonnet, turned a corner and stopped dead—something was wrong, the very same disconcerting something which had happened several times in the past, a glimpse of a securiform flower silhouetted against a white wall and looking very like a headsman's axe sent a nervous shiver down her back-bone, people were dressed differently, she didn't know where or when she was, got cold feet at the prospect of once again being alone in a strange world, was bumped by a passer-by who hadn't realised that she was frozen to the spot and, when he apologised, she was uncharacteristically timorous and blushed, perhaps unexpectedly for a well-dressed, if old-fashioned, woman in her forties, the man lifted his hat and said, in a familiar English accent (at least she was probably still in the same city, she thought, that was a relief): "excuse me Ma'am, but are you lost?" she shook her head and laughed lightly: "just in my own thoughts, sir, but thank you for asking, it is a while since I have been in town, am I on the right way for Piccadilly?" her English fluent and confident, but there was still a trace of the French accent and the man raised his hat: "that is where I am going, would like me to accompany you, let me introduce myself, I am Major Godfrey Daniel, of Her Majesty's Foreign Office and my Club is in Piccadilly," and placing a hand lightly on his proffered fore-arm, she said: "and I am Mademoiselle Geneviève d'Eon, from Paris," to which the Major bowed his head and said: "at your service, Mademoiselle," and together they walked down a busy street in London, around 100 years later than she had, just five minutes before!
"Come on," said Oyzell, taking hold of Maude's wrist with a grip like a bulldog clip, quite at odds with her apparent frailty, "it feels like we're a couple of horse marines here, they don't need us and we can't do anything for them, but I think we should examine the bodies, they might have some kind of information on them, or phones or, I don't know, some clue as to how we can get back to 2020," and under the welkin of the Northern Equinox, Maude quickened her steps and, with barely a glance from the last of the boys entering the inn, they retraced their steps, up the rocky path towards the glade where the Black Friar had slain the three villains and saved The Lochlann's Battle Axe: "you know, Daphne and I came up here once, to Glen Glum," said Maude, "to a fleadh cheoil over St Paddy's weekend, with The Dubliners, and though we were given a tour of the battlefields, and even shown the rock into which that axe had been embedded, no-one could tell us what had happened to the axe—had someone pulled it out? maybe they had and someone else came along and stole it, and maybe history's just been changed today and we'll find out about it when we get back home," but they had reached to glade and Oyzell stopped and stared at the carnage; three bodies lay there, with three heads nearby, and Maude, less used to the sight of death, moved a few yards away and threw up, but Oyzell quickly patted them down and removed everything she found—wallets, mobile phones, keys, a couple of notebooks and an electronic pass-key for a room in Burt's Hotel in Melrose: "do you smoke?" she asked, and Maude, who had been giving up for fifty years without ever quite succeeding, accepted a cigarette, then realised that the pack had come from Elginbrod's pocket, "he won't be needing them anyway," said Oyzell, correctly reading Maude's mind and after the shock of the morning, they both began laughing until there was a puff of smoke from one body, then another, and the third, an in a matter of moments they all disappeared, heads as well, just leaving pools of blood and their imprints in the grass as the only evidence they had ever been there; Oyzell sat back on her heels: "Fick Mich!" she said, and Maude didn't need a translator to explain what she meant.
Just beyond a house-lew in the village of Glen Glum stands a small inn, from inside which the late arrivals could hear the raised voices of Blind Harry and Black Boab, lampooning the lardy-dardy accents of Pandemic MacFarlane and Martin Elginbrod: "but hoo, in the name o the Wee Man," said Harry, "div they noo stay deid? ye ken The Lochlann split MacFarlane wi his Battle Axe, jist a few feet awa, yet there the evil bastard wis, haudin thon self-same axe—which wee Padraig Macaroon o Minestrone pult fae the very rock it hud bin embedded in ever since The Lochlann clove MacFarlane in twa—when you drapt fae the skies, hoo's that?" and Maude whispered to Oyzell: "that's just what I was wondering, too," then came the voice of the Dominican Friar: "ye mind Michael Scot, the wizard?" and Harry's reply: "oh, aye, an a bonny fechter tae," at which Boab said: "mind he used tae bang on aboot the Direction o Watter?" and Harry: "oh aye, his auld H2O theory—ah think am beginnin tae see whaur ye'r gangin, Boabie, ye mean they kin oanlie be kilt aince, in a direct line o Time?" and Boab's: "ye've hit the nail oan the heid, Harry—but aince they've bin kilt like jist noo, the door that led thum here's closed, jist like they couldna get back tae when The Lochlann kilt thum, so they'll na cum here an noo agin, wee Kwasi's safe an soond!"
And he brandished it in the faces of—as he kept calling them—the interfering lardy-dardy busybodies, and said: "this is what I've been looking for for years, I knew it had to be here, all my research pointed to it," and Doubleday interjected: "but what are we going to do with these lot, Boss?" and Elginbrod suggested: "of course we could put them in carceral incommunicado in The Hole in Castle Glum, if you like, or. . . . ." and he gave MacFarlane a meaningful glance, full of evil meaning, which was when something rather unexpected happened: first, there was a terrifying tearing screech, like a steel blade scraping on hard, glacial rock, which echoed around the hills and mountains of Glen Glum; then, a ferocious-looking man, in black robes and carrying an awfy lang scythe, dropped from the trees—as it seemed—and landed in the middle of the glade, and swung his scythe in a great, wide arc, forming a complete circle and chopping off the heads of MacFarlane, Elginbrod and Doubleday, their lifeless bodies falling to the ground with blood still bubbling from their neck-stumps, causing some scrambling away of the boys and the ladies, and when he stopped spinning, the newcomer stood in the centre of the carnage and Blind Harry said: "weel, weel, if it's no Black Boab, or Brother Robert, o the Black Friars, ye ken, the Dominicans, come, come Mistress Maude an Madame Oyzell, meet ma dear freen, wha - ah hazard - wis only jist in time tae save aw oor lives, ye cut it rether fine Boab, did ye no?" and the monk sighed: "aye, ah wis delayed doon in Auchterlonie, feckin road wurx, wud ye b'leeve it? an then ah lost ane o the front wheels fae the wagon, hud tae abandon it near by Muckle Ben and mak the rest o the journey oan fit, these saunnels urny made fer Caledonian Moontains - so, ur we gaunin doon tae the Inn fer a swally?" and Harry clapped his hands: "cumon, ladies and loons, lets leave this charnel hoose and get oot o the reek o deeth, mind an bring yer Battle-Axe, Kwasi, lest ane doon in the pub's a sissy!" and apparently unhindered by his lack of sight, he was off, skipping down the hillside, like a young mountain goat, with the boys, monk and elderly ladies trying to catch up.
"And who are these fusty auld biddies?" he asked, "what are they doing here, all lardy-dardy, like they're going on a church outing or something," which prompted Maude to speak out: "actually," she said, sounding more confident than she felt, "we had just begun a Pilgrimage to Lindisfarne, in homage to St Aiden, if you must know!" and the lawyer laughed: "having teething-troubles with your Space/Time technique, are you? we'll have to give you lessons in uranography, then, won't we, just so you know where planets and stars are going to be when you go backwards or forwards, else you can land way out upon the Swannee River, when you meant somewhere on the banks of Huntly Burn," but MacFarlane had crossed the glade and seized the Battle-Axe young Padraig was still holding on to!
Now, as it happens, Maude recognised the voice as that of Sir Parlane MacFarlane, the very epitome of skulduggery and evil, accompanied, no doubt by his notorious sidekick, Dominic Doubleday, while Oyzell knew at once that it was Count Baldur von Machfleine, an SS Officer she had observed at Auschwitz, with his Aide, Unter-sturmfuhrer Dietrich Doopeltag, a pair of flimflam men if she had ever seen any, and each implicated in countless murders in addition to the Camp's deadly purpose, and Harry knew at once that it was Sir Pandemic MacFarlane, evil foe of The Lochlann, who had struck him down just yards away, cleaved by the very Battle-Axe wee Padraig Macaroon o Minestrone (or Kwasi, after his famous ancestor who had fought alongside The Lochlann that fateful day) and probably somewhere close by, Dreich Doubleday, ut the drawling voice went on: "your viridity was our good fortune, Blind Man – in one of the saddlebags a little stink-wort train-scent that our bloodhound could follow blindfold, I'm surprised you didn't notice it yourself, I thought youse anes were supposed tae heighten yer ither senses whene'er an hooever ye lost ane," he dropped into a more dialect form of speech, and then said: "hello there, Martin, come introduce yourself to our friends here," and as they looked up, Maude saw the Edinburgh lawyer, Martin Elginbrod, but he was wearing some kind of mediaeval costume, like the other two, in his case a red tabard, and with his Edinburgh accent, very cut-glass and refined, he said: "in days gone by I was well-known in sporting circles as The Red Etin, and who have we here?"
Which was when all Hell was let loose: there was a terrible racket, which the two ladies, and Blind Harry, recognised, but was alien to the boys, jarring as it did with the only Time they knew; a hail of bullets from some kind of semi-automatic weapons abbreviated the trees, sending shredded leaves and branches down on them, like woody snow; they had all thrown themselves flat on the turf – Oyzell, Maude and Harry instinctively and the boys simply following their example – quite timelily, because the second volley was lower down, about four feet above the ground; then there was a brief silence followed by a sneering voice: "well, well, and what are you two artsy-fartsy bitches doing here? time-surfing? well you seem to be unlucky in your choice of beach to get washed up on this time!"
And in Glen Glum, where the afternoon air was warm and heavy with the drone of bumble-bees, the briny scent of the nearby sea-loch mingling with the heather and the wild rose, and Madame Oyzell Zegan and Miss Maude Lyttleton were hobnobbing with Blind Harry MacNab and his gaggle o loons, it was the blind poet who suggested that the laddies should play a piece they had recently learnt, "fer the ladies, cumon buoys, tak up yer instruments and we'll gie thum a richt Heilan Waddin tune fer they're welcum tae the Heilans," and as he fiddled with his tinder-box, filling a clay pipe with black shag and checking the German-tinder was ready, Erchie Ecclefechan swung his clarsach around and held it steadyt, as did Alasdair MacCaroon his bodhran, Tam Sneddon his Shetland fiddle with the whalebone bow, Gibby Lonnegan and Boabie MacConkey raised their great conch shells to their pursed lips, Nicol Nicol o Nicol readied his crwth and Humphrey MacAugustine-MacAmpersand o The Muckle Flugga started puffing into the bag of his pipes, but wee Padraig Macaroon o Minestrone who should also have been blowing up his bag, said: "am awfy sorry, Harry, but ah left ma pipes doon in th'ither glade, wull ah fetch thum noo?" and set something down with a thump, which caused Harry to cry: "stoap therr this minit, Kwasi, whit did ye pit doon?" and the boy looked askance and shamefaced: "ma pipes, when ah wis takkin haud o the haunle o The Lochlann's battle-axe, ah hope the gress wisnae ower dewy, ye ken hoo a wet bag soons awfy gurgly," but Harry raised a hand to stop the boy from moving: "nah, nah, Kwasi, whit did ye jist pit doon the noo? at yer feet?" and the wee boy looked back and felt that the blind eyes of the balladeer could see into his very soul, and he stammered: "the Battle-Axe, Harry, it cam oot when ah pult it, jist as youse yins turnt an hurried ower here," and Harry clapped a hand to his chest, where he could feel his heart pounding away like a Lambeg Drum, fit tae burst!
"No," admitted Dada, feeling rather surprised, both at the confession by Hugo that he was, and the expectation on his friend's part that he, Dada, too, should be one: "no, I'm not," and the look he received in return was not so much scornful, as pitying: "not enough razzle-dazzle for you?" the poet growled, his voice seeming to palpate the painter's skin, raising a thousand goose-bumps, in a fantastic geometric progression, "not enough jazz?" then he clapped his hand on Dada's shoulder and gave his friend a shake: "come on, Dada, I'm only winding you up - although I can't understand your lack of interest, my father introduced me to the hobby when I was eleven, and I've seen almost every locomotive in Germany, Austria, Hungary, Poland, Bohemia. . . . .even Italy and France, I must show you my Books of Numbers," and the very words seemed to take on an almost mystical significance, having an equivalence to the Bible!
Dada Heidler – no slugabed, him – was working in the Gallery when Hugo Ball hurried in, glad to have escaped from the declamatory historicist and caught his breath: "narrow escape," he explained and, while the young painter brewed them some coffee, told him what had transpired: "we got 17 Francs and a handful of Rappen in the hat I passed round, they thought we were a double-act, you know, a street-gig, so I gave him the small change and did a runner," he glanced out of the door but there was no sign of any pursuit: "what are you going to call this place?" he asked, sipping from a tannin-stained mug: "no idea," admitted the younger man, "Art Gallery, I suppose," and Hugo laughed: "nothing like the obvious, eh?" and he sat back in the chair, looking around at the work being hung on the walls by a couple of helpers Heidler had cajoled into assisting him: "how about Shoes, or Turnips?" and got a funny look in return, "or Fart or Panjandrum or how aboot BOO!" and he saw perplexity in Heidler's serious face, and turned serious himself: "look," he said, "look at the paintings you have here, think about the work you do for the Cabaret, it's not ART as the bourgeois understand it, it's ANTI-ART – it's a slap in the face with a wet fish for those collectors who regard Art as an investment, who regard Art as a commodity, to be exchanged or a treasure to be hoarded, they like to think it will increase in value, sometimes in a bank vault, and when the creator, the painter or sculptor, dies, the price can triple or treble and the person who bought it for 100 Francs, or 500, or 1,000, can make a killing - pardon the pun, I'm not suggesting they'll kill you off for a profit, but in truth, that's always at the back of their minds, these parasites; you are young, you've got, what, forty years of work ahead of you? well, this is an opportunity for you to make a name for yourself, stake a claim for the future; you have an advantage over the rest of us, whose performances are as ephemeral as a sunny afternoon, we exist only in the memory of the audience and after they've dined and had a night's sleep, we are fragmented, tangled in their dreams or forgotten by the morning, but your work can live on for 100 years, more if you are popular and praised, this is your chance to stamp your name on it for posterity; it's up to you, Heidler, or Wolff, or whatever, I don't care who you are, it's what you do that I like, but if I were you, I'd put DADA in red and black across the windows - you've heard Tristan and the other Rumanians, at meetings, they nod their heads and keep saying 'Da, Da,' if they agree, and ever since Jakob first called you Dada, that's what everyone calls you, it's your name, your trademark, use it!"but the young man protested: "it's just a nickname, a pet name, short for Adolphus," and Hugo laughed: "which is a mouthful - no, stick with Dada, and I promise you, long after we, you and I, turn to dust, it will still be remembered - and in your case, venerated; actually, I've been thinking of publishing a Manifesto - well, really, you have to nowadays, the Anarchists and Communists and even the Christians are all at it, so why not us? and if you have no objections, I would like to call mine The Dada Manifesto - telling the world about our New Anti-Art Movement, a repudiation of Militarism and the Rush-to-War, a Dedication to Creativity, to Life, to Youth! to the minutia of The Absurd, all the mannerisms and niceties, we must dissect our daily lives, turn them inside out, hold them up to ridicule; and we can't let the Old sacrifice our Youth for their own Glory, their dreams of Kingdoms, Empires, no! someone has to say that there is more to Life than a Bloody Death on the Battlefield, let your name be our Watchword, do you agree?" and Dada could hardly demur, he was caught up in Hugo's pleniloquence and enthusiasm and he hated the thought of war and it's consequences for his generation, so of course he did, and Hugo dashed out and came back with a bottle of Cognac and they toasted the success of the as-yet-unwritten Dada Manifesto and then Heidler, or Wolff, set to, with brush and paint and soon Dada Revolutionary Gallery shouted out from all the windows, and the seemingly random display of paintings, tailors' dummies, household appliances and shoes - with some additional turnips - had passers-by scratching their heads and coming in to see what was going on in this strange place, and among them was Hugo, clutching a book and seizing Dada by the wrist: "come on, or we'll miss it! we've got to get to the railway bridge, hurry, it's urgent!" and asking one of his assistants to lock up at 6pm, and pulling on his coat, he hurried after Hugo, along streets he hadn't even had time to learn the names of, round corners, ducking through alleys and eventually coming to a footbridge over the railway line and, in the middle, Hugo stopped and pointed excitedly: "see!" and his friend said: "it's a train, yes?" and Hugo exclaimed: "it's an electric train!" so Dada asked, realisation dawning on him: "are you a trainspotter, Hugo?" to which the reply was: "of course, Dada, aren't you?"
But, if anyone other than Kermit Hackensack had the gift of the gab, sometimes referred to as pleniloquence, at others, verbal diarrhoea, it was the ambidextrous Hugo Ball – often mistaken at first encounter for a diffident, shy, modest, and essentially nice and Germanically polite, poet, publisher, juggler and front-end of a pantomime cow – who, whenever he felt that there was a lack of extant words sufficient to his purpose, simply coined more, and more, in the same way as an enthusiastic book-keeper might improve his own ledger with the addition of some extra 0s, whether Francs or Rappen, so Ball could introduce a dozen – or thirty – quite new, unique, linguistically sound and possessing all the attributes of a provenance, words and phrases at – quite literally – the drop of his hat; and now, on an unseasonably sunny Pi Day - the 14th of March - encountering a rather zealous historicist who was impassioned and compelled to teach his listener – any listener, but usually only one, for when he focussed on one person, most others in the vicinity tended to melt away like snow in sunshine – the fundamental truths of the Book of Revelation and particularly the many predictions which had already come to pass over the preceding millennia, he was a former metamathematician at Heidelberg University who had been dismissed because of his obsessions, and even hoised by his former students and left dangling and still declaiming, outside the Rector's window, until a janitor climbed up and cut him down, but Hugo listened hard, a look of rapt concentration on his face, his head bobbing up and down as he demonstrated his acceptance of the historical truths the holy man was relating to him, and then he uttered something, clearly an expression of acknowledgement and agreement, and this so cheered the teacher, that he himself repeated it back, although he obviously had no prior knowledge of the word, so Hugo said a few more, which probably sounded familiar, and the religieuse picked them up and ran with them, all of which gave their creator the opportunity to mint verbal and adjectival variants and the conversation flowed back and forth between them for ten minutes, twenty, thirty, sheer and utter nonsense, none of it having any meaning or linguistic function except to illustrate Ball's Thesis: the universal truth that Man is Absurd!
Within a couple of days, the flat-iron block was up and running: Dada Wolff was in charge of the Art Gallery, having long-since shaken off the impostor syndrome he exhibited when Jakob and Miriam first met him, he was now confident and knew that when complimented by his peers it was because he had done a good job and deserved their appreciation; Miriam and Tristan had organised the Bookstore and already two readings had taken place and Dr Freud was doing a book-signing that evening; Kermit Hackensack's Press Bureau was connected by telegraph with all the capitals of Europe and beyond and reams of copy were sent everywhere, often scooping even Reuters, thanks to Kermit's well-placed – and well-paid – informants in every police headquarters, government department and Royal Palace in every European country, but he especially liked it whenever he was referred to as 'the best news-hound in 37 Capitals, from Rome to Helsinki, Moscow to Paris, London to Peking' as the retronym, redolent of that dogged sniffing out of clues and information, brought back memories of his early days of ambulance-chasing, hanging around the back-doors of police stations, greasing the palms of hotel receptionists in Bucharest, Budapest and Constantinople, before the introduction of modern technology which brought it all flowing in to him, now sitting in his office in Zurich like a human geodynamo, generating his own magnetic force which drew in names, places, gossip, stories, scandals, crimes, secrets, political shenanigans, in every language and alphabet from which his output was forged – it was proof that if your gravitational pull was strong enough, the world did indeed beat a path to your door; but the best-known face on the street was that of Grigor, the Doorman, in his well-pressed Commissionaire's uniform, complete with gleaming belt-buckle, shiny buttons and highly-polished boot, he was the one to make the most urbane citizen shed a tear, or pretty girl's heart to skip a beat, for there never was such a lachrymogenic sight than the proudly decorated hero with his wooden stump and crutch, who lectured the local children on the barbarity of war, told them horrifying tales of limbs torn off, heads shattered and spewing out brains on their closest comrades, and how he had once carved his way through a wall of living flesh with only a pen-knife for self-defence and then praised Switzerland's neutrality, citing it's three languages as evidence of the country's pride of place, of how it's people, from three different heritages and cultures, could live together in peace and harmony – and whenever he got a break, it was a relief to unstrap his left leg and flex his knee and drink a glass of beer and thank any god who might be listening for giving him the good sense to avoid recruiting-sergeants and head the other way whenever volunteers were called for!
Now, say what you will about Hackensack – and be assured, whatever you do say will be merely repetitious, for everyone already had, and had expressed, a view and they came from all sides, that is all 360 degrees, of the political spectrum – no-one ever suggested that, with his success as a businessman, a writer on just about every subject anyone could possibly mention, a publisher and propagandist, and his personal wealth, he advocated a chrysocracy, which is to say, government dominated by, and for the benefit of, the rich, oh, no, no, no, no, no – his affairs may have been byzantine and as complicated as those of Parvus, with whom he was said to have been involved in several partnerships, but like Parvus, the pendulum always swung most definitely towards the Left - after all, it was only through the strength of character of Hackensack that the extremely booky and unsociable Socialist Vladimir Ilyich visited Cabaret Voltaire at all, the activities of frivolous avant garde poets and painters, singers and song-writers, actors and cultural anarchists being the kind that Lenin instinctively jibed at, even if his walk home from the City Library did take him past the very doors of that Bohemian soi-disant revolutionary crew; but it was Hackensack who drew him through those doors, entreating, cajoling, enticing, inviting, encouraging, promising and eventually finding the Russian a seat in the auditorium, putting a tankard of beer in his hand, and pointing out Tzara, still only 18 and already one of Voltaire's most prolific and political writers: "he's the one to put your money on," murmured Hackensack, and immediately berated himself at the careless slip, for Lenin was as ascetic and high-minded as John the Baptist, Tolstoy and Buddha, and the very last person in Zurich to gamble!
It was Kermit Hackensack who had found it, the perfect location, through a pin-headed property agent, a Magyar he had known for two decades, Micro Cephalic, who was also a patient of Dr Freud, being blessed as he was with the gift, or curse, depending on your point-of-view, of audiation and heard complete operas, full symphonies, as well as waltzes and mazurkas entirely within his head without the need of musicians in the room – a small block, containing a 250-seat theatre complete with rehearsal rooms and all the other facilities that Cabaret Voltaire needed; a print-shop at street level with two floors of offices above which would accommodate Hackensack's Syndicated News Agency with the added bonus of in-house production of it's own Newsletter, the one thing his Vienna operation had lacked; there was a unit with several large rooms, a former Ladies' Outfitters, which would make a good Art Gallery and Dealer and showcase the work of the growing number of artists working alongside Dada in the Cabaret; a bookshop – once it was cleared of the religious tracts, bibles and Lives of the Martyrs and Saints currently stocked – for Avant Garde poetry, politics and philosophy, the work of young Tristan Tzara and the other talents scribbling feverishly in the background churning out scripts and sketches, songs and ballads, one- two and three-act plays, musicals and comic operas – like Tzara's own Escapades of Monsieur Parapluie and Lionel Bart and Irving Berlin's Little Dorrit's White Christmas written on the train – the cornucopia of words which poured from the nibs of their forever dashing pens; and on the upper floors, above the work-spaces, dozens of rooms which could become home to those working in their co-operatives who didn't mind sleeping over the shop – with the bonus that they would be rent-free! - astroparticles, as photographer Man Ray christened them in his I am an Atomic Ray Particle which united science, performance poetry, the Philosophy of the Absurd with moving-pictures.
Which, my dear Jellinek, was the very moment when the Special Train arrived at the Terminus – thus proving conclusively the essentially delinquent quidditativeness of Space/Time and the Creator who devised it, both – and the passengers, large and small, native and foreign, poor and impoverished, genuine and imposters all, in a muddled Babel of tongues and states of dress and undress, tumbled onto Platform 3, and rushed through the concourse carrying and dragging, pushing and wheeling, some even riding upon, trolleys, bags, cases, trunks – well, especially the elephants – valises, kit-bags, make-up pouches hat-boxes and laundry-baskets, to the Grand Entrance, where porters plied their trade of waving down a cabriolet and for the price of a decent meal or indifferent coffee, tumbled and shoved and kicked and squeezed as many as possible inside, while the voice of the Great Informator Choristarum squealed out from trumpets strategically placed so that the lists of destinations, times, platform numbers and other important and essential information required by travellers was either completely inaudible, utterly distorted, or so blaringly loud that hands were involuntarily clamped over shell-likes to protect the delicate ear-drums from the piercing screech and whistle, and those overloaded vehicles shot out into the mid-morning traffic without the faintest idea of where in the city they were bound for and that, in a sentence, Jellinek, dear heart, defined the inevitable collision of Cabaret Voltaire and all it's hangers-on, steaming drunks, artistic temperaments, fuming tempers, replete with ideas, manifestos, social diseases, vim, vigour and vodka into the great and entirely unprepared City of Zurich!
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