Once upon a time, there was a man without a name, or at least

it is assumed that he is a man. And this man would show up in times of strife when

Unrest surged against the bastions of peace like a tumultuous sea assaulting crumbling clay cliffs

Until it all

For better or worse

Came tumbling down.

This man without a name is

The face among the crowd that no-one sees

The man behind the gun who fires the first shot

He is the genie in the glass bottle of Molotov's Cocktail

The spirit of revolution

Revelations

Uprisings

Unrest

He was christened in blood at the barricades, though

When they fell away

So did Claquesous

And then he was

The Trapdoor Lover

Selling his soul for a song

And a song for a soul

Though with a crystalline crash

That too fell away

And he drifted away

Phantasmagoric

And perhaps he headed North

Where the cold winds blow across Siberia

And claimed to be a holy man

A hypnotist

Though it is said he ended

Full of holes so perhaps

That is not the truth

Or at least not the end

of the Mad Monk

For as power shifts and the Fates

Let rise or topple down

Empires

As though with puppet strings

He walks

down streets of chipped tarmac, littered with melted flyers and forgotten change. Around him, neon signs pulse weakly, the city's heart festering in squalor and decay. He places a hand upon gritty plaster, and watches the people around him. They have no hope, for it has all been consumed by rage, and loss. And in some, even this flame has flickered out. They lie huddled in blankets, sleeping bags, whatever they have. They will die soon, and no one will ever know. Except, of course, for Claquesous. He will reignite their torch of rage and carry it for them, hand it on and in this, they will be remembered. And now he looks up, and sees skyscrapers reaching up in babbling glory.

But who is he? Well, he is himself, but that is not the true question. Once more he is Claquesous, for history is cyclical. Not to say, he is ALL Claquesous. Memories of a song dance in his head, and a barbed noose of copper wiring hangs by his side. He occasionally coughs up icy water. Behind his blank façade (ah how much that mask has seen!) a thousand souls dance.

Who is he? His name is Nothing-At-All, and he will turn the world upside down.