Unsingular Beginnings a Copy(w)riter’s Preface

Three bodies were discovered in the cafe that night. LYING face down amidst the fragments. One was the body of a man. The other two were women. According to available police reports they were some sort of stupidly queer, maybe even perverse, political activists. Their own disclaimers had been more modest. At various times they had referred to themselves as artists, teachers, performers or even copy(w)riters. They were often unemployed. At least the women. Some considered them to be construction workers. Others thought of them as storytellers. Locally they had acquired a reputation as unauthorized agents of social-psychoanalysis. Tricksters to say the least; all were believed to be sociological orphans. Rumors of secret (w)rites had been circulating; and there was considerable confusion as to whether those killed were social scientists or some ill fated characters fallen from the pages a baroquely tragic drama. “Whoever I am,” stated one of the dead women only hours before blasts of steel silenced her lips forever, “I am not an intellectual, properly speaking!”