Some weeks ago a young Irish friend of mine named Paul Wylie posted the following photo on Facebook. He didn't know then that figures quite like these, with less talent however, were at that very moment looming just on the periphery of his humdrum student life, threatening to move in and suffocate him in the rosy flower of youth.
For Paul Wylie had gotten involved in a plot to decode the several parts of the Internal Correspondence of the Priory of Sion that had so far been made public. It was his acquaintance with one Shonie Owens that brought him too close to the Priory to allow him ever to be completely free of it again. What started as a bit of historical sleuthing for one curious Irish university student was turning into something else entirely.
Yesterday evening I noticed Mr. Wylie clamoring for my attention in chat, as if I didn't have enough on my hands already with the recent leak of Priory documents:
Hey Eric, can I reproduce the coded Priory Correspondence in book format? For my private use only.
I'd appreciate it, very much!
I should add, both coded and decoded. Vols. I & II.
Certainly, Paul. We will not cause you any trouble. ;)
Thanks I knew you wouldn't object!
I felt as though I had to do the winky face back.
Y'know, because you did it.
But you did it in an ambiguous way. Some burly men aren't going to come and kidnap me are they? They won't have their way with a delicate soul like me? Will they? Although that could be fun.
On the outside we do not look burly. But don't misunderestimate us. We are deadly. In order to protect what we protect, which is the thing we hold under our protection, we will shrink from no deadpan intervention, no matter how unpleasant, that might prove necessary.
On the outside we look like Jean Cocteau, or even like Coco Chanel. But on the inside we are not what we seem. We are something else. From what we seem, that is. On the inside, that is. Because you shouldn't be fooled by the outside, which is a different side altogether. Still, the outside can be pretty snotty on its own if needs be. Say, for instance, the inside is busy contemplating Priory business, and the outside, looking like Jean Cocteau or Coco Chanel, feels a looming threat. It may simply, the outside I mean, NOT EVEN INFORM the inside of said threat, but decide to handle it on its own. And you don't want to see it. You think French waiters are snotty? Hah. Don't make me laugh. THAT is not snotty by Priory standards.
So it is not the burly fellows you need to worry about, Wylie. By publicizing internal Priory documents you are moving to an entirely different level of danger here. Never forget that the root word of "deadpan" is "dead". And "pan". Never forget that, Wylie.
You may share these words with Ms. Owens if you like. We know her role in the decoding. She has won a place in our hearts by naming a lamb after us. It is a deeply archetypal gesture. But we have our limits. We do have our limits, Wylie.
What if I name a dog after you?
This is an archetype that, I'm sure you are aware, could point different ways. If you were to name a Chihuahua after me, for instance, you would be putting yourself in serious danger. Imagine Jean Cocteau and Coco Chanel X 1000. So choose your dog wisely, Wylie.
A Scotch terrier mutt?
I'm going against my better judgment here, but will conclude by saying: Don't inform Ms. Owens of this brief chat. Tomorrow I will make a more public warning. I think others may benefit from this too. There are, after all, untold numbers of Chihuahuas out there, unnamed and threatening. So tomorrow you and Ms. Owens will be cited in a public manner. Until then, make no mention to her.
Earlier that day another Irish friend named Shonie Owens wrote as follows. I had only just recently learned of Shonie's role in decoding the Priory Correspondence:
Eric, I named one of our pedigree Texel lambs after you. Here we go, Eric the lamb!
Yes, it was a wonderful gesture on Ms. Owens' part. She had been made aware of all the people her rash revelations had put at risk, and was trying by this to apologize to me personally, the current Grand Master. I was appeased. The lamb is surpassing cute after all. And previously I'd never had anything named after me except a half a bee.
And so: For the time being, Paul and Shonie, I will think of the lamb when I think of this unfortunate leak of internal Priory documents. In other words, I will think of myself. For I am pedigree and warm of aspect, not snotty like my minions who, at this very moment, are waiting to pounce. They have heard word that the Priory has been compromised, and they await orders to act. They wait in chic cafes and hotel lobbies, waiting for my word, the word that will send them out with withering snottiness, a snottiness of such chic ferocity as to discomfit and ruin the lives of any they might glom onto. Yes, they are eager to train this deadpan snottiness on those who have compromised Priory secrets.
For now, however, I am thinking of the lamb, and so I will let it pass. They will sit in those cafes and hotel lobbies and run up big tabs with the sullen waiting, tabs that will be on us to cover, but I am thinking of the lamb, so I will cover their tabs.
Any others in fair Ireland or elsewhere who would divulge Priory secrets should think on Jean Cocteau and Coco Chanel instead--rather, they should imagine slightly smaller but snottier versions, whole troupes of Jeans and Cocos, swarming about you with dry remarks and cold gazes. And then you will have nowhere to hide. And then there will be no lamb cute enough to thwart my certain vengeance.