I shipwrecked castaway Dax, having once entrembling gathered the few recovered fractured shards, whence today only its verdigris trench art lichens, while forever her celestial aether breathes.

Over a decade now on this distant isle of my own ply-ed layerings, of a breaking surf on its palm sweeps of sun hammered beaches as regular as its seasons: the constant roiling of truth into lies onto onomatopoeiac kinetic forgings, the active representation to and fro while uniqe its living uvo persistent through atomic enfoldments, tireless over and over again, where her affixed quick ever keeps as fetching and mysterious as the timeless voluptuated torso of the great and good mathematics.

Immune to those distant landed successuful liers, as only lying are so, these blue ocean distances secures my solitary wealth and afforded perennial Friday of these over-boiled pressure cooked mathematics, RAID 9 flanked and buffered among 24/7 daemoniac beowulfed linux boxen ever stooped, while heavy lifting.

We witness these successfully compiled runs of happily dancing pure mathematics processes processing constants constant, of their necessarily well-intended consequences, and so wondrous instantiated, feasting on her "sorrisi al dente", Xeres' oliva-aura's umbric shining.

Ye come, gaze yonder beyond the sunrising's horizon: the olive-tint smile teasings in the doubly climbing consecutive prime integers trellising sunward onto pi-blossoms, aggressive and painful thorns, and vining iterated ln's and tentriled expon leafings.

Innumerate regardless, you marvel and favor her joyful balance, common denominator everywhere, her booted girare dance-steps, in that acrylic `94 ex situ young lady's squinty-eyed portrait and toothsome smile. Equating the basso cirrus reverberations of her voice's signature not onto those canonical orthotroped mathematics, nay better best! the Constant Processes enmuscling forever pumping the fountain of all unbounded and glorious natural bounties, O.N.e. Xeres florigilum incarnatess!

High noon under a happy photo-voltaic low latitude solar corridor, doubly knotty tan-bark shoulder reefing more and more into the screw-top blinding bright stainless biohazard cylinder, PV equals exp(nRT)-ing this over-steeped highly-toxic tritiae gruel from this wrecked bilge-keel sailboat, screw the lid on, shake vigorously, jet the odious gas, pour into emacs lisp, format into boxing $TeX$, toward light speed facile and long-precisioned in Ranxerox pari, and the linux returns gcc's fprintf()'s:

Sure is,
Engenerator of primes
and zeta of z's,
One's womanunculous
entrilised tease.

Sailing southward, escaping O'landa's aspault rage,
I Cap`t'n deliver this Ensourceres Book,
of encoded truth on every page.
Tiller at hand, his PP angel laughing above,
pi is fickle, and so is the love.

Lore be mute seer's nib,
A pen arose time's pearl,
you loved her once and love her still,
Make pi known, and now the olio oliva girl."

"So by May 1993, I was convinced that I had the whole of Fermat's Last Theorem in my hands.";

-Andrew Wiles, after seven years of isolation, PROOF of Wile's Corallary. S Singh's Fermat's Enigma, 1996, p244

Then Complicated - my own free reign corso became immediately curvicular-ed by that upstart and classic most-lethal of streamlined missles, Dirac-impact megalopolis-leveling, when she first came through the Diner entrance, that fountain Spring glory, May in Seattle's Primavera of `93.

And such as is the change, inside she let close the swinging glass door, in came forth this olive young woman, her face now free of Lower Queen Anne's asphault roar and din, unladened, such taken was my eyes to the uninhibited grin of this exhaling Deruda urn. Either by graceful movement or minimalist gesture signed, so transparent I beheld her brown eyes, so full of pleasure, that her radiance eclipsed all before or since, save one.

And as by a greater abluting hygiene, in doing good from day to day, a man becomes aware his virtue is increasing, so I became aware that my trajectory with heaven together had increased its arc, this miracle so adorned.

Beyond this sorrisi's toothy smile did I discover the sparkling of the love which was therein instantly disolving all cognitive natural language to mine eyes.

I opined inquiry to this nuova nova-ess calleth herself. Her voice spoke: as in congratulation o`er their sun, flighty swallows make flock squadrons of themselves, now round, now long, so from oft her tongue these little creatures sang flying to and fro, cerebrating scripting figures made of themselves now

Integrally intrinsic, singing they to their own music moved; scripting became of these characters spaked, in clarion cirrus strato voce mercurial alloyed with delicious malleable gold, the Diner's walls and windows evaporating, a heart pulse instant renaissance firenzi frozened, all noise and motion silenced, stopped - an era moment's surcease, I guilloche-intaglio engraved my soul when she said:

Thirty one point four centuries since Poseidon saw the Argo's encrusted keel, having yet to move all civilization to an arrived society, of such equal gapped displacement and chasmed-want I equally felt in that instant Xeres first spake.

The old florentine 13th century pronunciation, with a contemporary american hard chine finial. Mind its complicated New World siftings, to wit- that curious etymological antipode, a once mighty sea power who today hates -as she spoke of the mathematics-the sea as greatest natural threat. How too we're piqued with "The Haque", or "Haarlem", the lesser Hoevenveen, Hellevuetsluis, Hardenberg, Huegelo, and O`landa's Harderwijnk, while in entirety: the papel states, Dante's entire language, and the Neopolitan, always mute at the beginning of their words, so excising the same alphabet's 8-th letter, yet here to dare speak while ignorant of her hybrid pedigree, to omit the letter "H", one would not know the meandering Arno's soundings, of this fair maiden's name.

By the fact this natural language exists, and as a concentrated mathematician does mathematics, a myopic coder does codings, an open source emacs lisper's lips lisps lisp, and a processing constant processor processes constants constantly, I do so willingly cast their lauded integrity to hell and gone five-fold over and five times fifty, to so def' rather penna origrafica scratch, Xeres' constant cerium-cobalt blastings!

Wyatt smiled. "You're a supremely gifted young man Cassidy. A goddamn Scheherazade. And I think we should have a talk."

"SO Dax, another thing, you go on how Xeres is smart, hates math, you, special kind-sorta, so what's up with that? Guieseppe asked.

Here's a coupla-three. Once passing in front of the Diner jukebox, out of the blue she piped up:

she'd admonish like a mommy, I heard it first asking me about herself getting a tattoo.

Xeres: "I want a tattoo...a Led Zepplin sign or something, do you have any other suggestions?

So, what is this tattoo thing anyway? Dax inquired. "The wonder and beauty of a woman's body is way beyond our ken, infinitely greater than our knuckle dragging ability to sense. That is what is particulary disturbing and profane witnessing a beautiful young woman with a tattoo. Today I'm going with: "the wonder and beauty of a woman's body" is way too much even for them, like they can't handle it- all this whacked attention, so they disfigure themselves up, make themselves dumb-ed down, grunge-ed, lamed accesible. And no, I don't know if she ever did. I certainly hope not."

"The hand had been fixed, painlessly but slowly. The thin scars, the single russian letter which stands for

the first leter of Spion, had been removed, and as Bond thought of the woman with the stiletto who cut them he clenched his hands on the wheel."

"So yes Guis, her tattoo perving is a def crowbar-through-the-head, but that sing-song poured mercury "Child child child ..." worked. Understand I was then half again her age, can you glimpse her facile self-confidence addressing me as an infantile and making me know it?

I asked Xeres one time what she would study once she grows up and goes to college.

"In consequence her vision, which perforce must be some ray of that intelligence with which all things are replete, cannot in his own nature be so potent, that it shall not its origin discern far beyond Dax which apparent it.

The power of vision that his world receives, as our captain's eye into this nord`o`vest verde-azzuri sea, penetrates; which, though it see the bottom weedlings and crab near the shore, upon the deep perceives it not, and yet `tis there, but it is hidden by layering depth.

There is no light but comes from Xeres, that never is o`ercast or damp, nay, it is the un sol brillante herself!"

"...Amply to thee is opened now Erastosthanes Cave, which concealed from thee the living truth of which their shadows mad`st frequent questioning. For saidst thou: born a mariner on the shore of Ignorance, and is none who there can arithmetic, the plancalkul, modular exponentiate, nor who indirect reference codings; and all his inclinations and his actions be well-intended yet so equally marked quizzically fogged, his daily good acknowledged so far as genteel human reason sees, without an error in life or in discourse: he dieth innumerate and without faith; what has he common with all sentient animals terrene? It is this blindness while otherwise accessible opportunity, though be it knowing mere glimpsed inklings but not the fierce motive irresolutely beholdened. Now who art thou, with coffee and pipe in hand, would angst calculate, in judgement at 1.65 trillion parsecs, while furtively, nay -forever- waiting alone, at that Diner's chrome counter?"

Characteristic of these lone wrangling tyros is an alien concentration lasting throughout the entire duration of their heart's beating. Mind you, without the affairs of popular expected day-to-day: the urban, the traffic, the suburban family, domestic distractions and the decades of worklife to sustain them, this kind -Dax's kind- never stop.

These concentrated mathematics experiment and explorations without the baggage of material interruptions, those lone freely constantly correcting guided vectors are soon lost to the furthest unimaginable reaches of linux levered pure mathematics' unbridled reign. What Dax sees -could be wrong- but honest to God thinks is there, her alto-cirrus-strato waviclie voice and laugh spriting above his sun-blasted archived constant process entries numbering into the tens of thousands. Witness the "good mathematics" -as her trace- more durable and greater shine than the glorious faceted emerald sieved from gross dross. Services a better gazing silva plana than Dorian's, if after three aspirin, you're still bold enough to dare. "I foul it - I cannot but it can -take it -this abuse, earnest I try, I can't add or subract, or forge her perfection better or worse - only dash thyself!" Dax cried.

Take your healthy young bronzo summer august shirtless house roofer who six-pack abs belly-laughs well and at the right time, looks forward afterwards for a coupla-three cold ones at Two Bells, makes enough to hold it all together, some clubbin' clubs and parties, later in the year fanatically hits Snowqualamie slopes snowboarding, drives a dented beater Toyota off-orange dented pick-up, well -he's got the easier comfortably slack key, way easier with these sorrises, while Dax knows this sorriso's pineal vibro-string in her youth-taut prime, sounded the kraaken's deeper depth, to empyrean's outermost event horizon flares.

The Queen of Mathematics, The Theory of Numbers -the bouncing rythmn in the `lecro-box(Bellevue High School's C89FM.com's "White Room",and ...and that just hanging white open door, 1st Ave Mercer Way Vintage V building empty apt 206 - with only a, ...an unplugged blue lava lamp?! -Dax cried) dance- of those integers divisible only by themselves and unity, are of another order altogether: autocatalysting herself and at the same time produced from her proper principles, filling herself with life, incorporeally and without abatement. When therefore she produces her latent principles, she unfolds into LIGHT all mathematics and sciences. ~Thomas Taylor, 1756

Laughter's judder jello-ie judderings both implicating and explicating happily simultaneous, enplops to the O.N.e Onomatopoeiac Environment, not only is cosmo-phenomologically there, but involviates e-niquely so!" -cried Dax

A laughing young woman is SO SATISFIED her shoulder's shake, her whole body moves. Doesn't want anything. It's all good, an a'morpheus hot-tub non-differentiation. Got the pi and got the e's, knows it all, likes -self, likes -limbics, likes both the innie and the outie - the glass so full it constantly spills over.

On his way walking to the Diner from the U District in a mid-August early morning fog, crossing that street on first past that strange corner-ed vintage apartment building where she lived, second floor apt 206, outside below the entrance's front steps with her black and white cat in her arm, whom for she "bought bowls of tomato soup at Minnie's", in those blue denim coveralls, bright white long-sleeves, Docs, after a month of no speak-easy speaking, Dax said, "Look Alive", she lifted her loose hand's finger's and teeth-smiled. Dax continued on.

Pi's archive vault's smiling portal only opens to a sufficient shadow threshold pass key combination and a contented generated query sequence of a satisfied cat's idle purring. Access if no duress, worked.

This intrinsic intimate person enplops their laughing shoulders to move, their arms move, - Dax was to taken by that bronzo tint grin with all those big white teeth to have noticed, but there had to have been something going on with those alarming italo-americano hybrid hips, knees, all the way down to her green Doc Marten's toes. The constant processes have the exact same eign-signature: tightly-tummied pi's tinabulating every frequency, down to its toes. You can see it, feel `em down there, vibrating like that. It feels right. The CP's telescoping infinite series, products, mounted onto a swedish fiddle could saw through the hardest wood with an amused hum, and their continued fractions con-jumble both the series and products together folding verb and noun edges together, just for fun, apparently.

Not a surface integral, not a contour integral, nor a multiplle, tensor, or somekind of extended gobbly-gooked, but somekind of total Sistine chapel God finger self-instantiating internally trans-boiled, outward exploding "un sole brillare" integral.

"Appearance, wait for me a little, let me know what you are, and what you repesent." -epi.cit.us

"Let me anticipate your next question Sepp, roll up the sleeves and grab that bull by the horns, OK? Your

Ever since she first came, everyone- all the males, all the guys who worked and hanged there, had this "loaded moment", this hushed "gravitas pause" whenever making reference about her, no matter how banal.

A black-leather biker who came in off and on, a handy-man, carpenter by trade, a James Caan chronic attitude type - "Gary?" -was that it? Anyways, he parked his bike out front so he could sit at the counter and watch it, smoking and drinking coffee. So I once overheard him say to other morning coffee semi-youth and B-52's:

Then there was this weird Stephen King like- like Scatman Scruthers entering midway thru the that creepy snowed-in mountain Hotel's kitchen , turns his head slo-mo to the little "REDRUM" boy on the trike, and says "Yo got da Shining":

Sitting at the counter stool second over from the kitchen's swinging door, I noticed coming up the isle out of the "Star Bar" this white-haired oldster lady being aided by a coupla-three others, started making that right-hand turn around the corner with Xeres walking by with one of those rounded glass flaggons of coffee doing refills, and up by her, this grandma stops, slowly turns her face/eyeballs to Xeres, and says in a high ol'lady granny voice, slo-mo head high-freq tremens left and right, Mr Scatman like:

It happaned man I was there. Can you imagine that? Terrifying, when it's not only you smittened. What is it like to go through day after day with this shit, for these outlier-kind of girls? Is it some kind of guilt burden they carry? Suppose they like eventually just resign themselves, furrow their brows, and silently mouth a well-seasoned self-effacing "Thank you". I figure they learn to roll with these punches as it exhausts `em. You know, not being able to help it, neurotically assaulting complete strangers by the guilty act of merely existing, day in and day out.

... in the crowded $6.00 cover juke-joint lounge, dining patrons, otherwise loud and insensitive, all abruptly stopped to listen to the young shabby Outer Hebrides tweed sport jacketed tube-amped acoustic street guitarist rifting his discovered explorations out of echoic stairwells in abandoned south Seattle's Georgetown heavy industrial graffitied ruins. Layering the mighty Zeppelin's Jimmy Page edged sideways with his own haunting grunged-arrived Abenez' "Luende".

Sure enough - there it was again - a sudden abrupt silence, a sharp truncation fell before the otherwise compressed noisy evening throng, somekind of unbeknownst collective decision to stop and listen to the aural-analog trans-mix flamenco tube-amp's non-aliasing warm caress, not a murmuring distraction, not a voice, not a fork clank interrupt, while occasioned the escaping gasp, punctuated teary-eyed heavy breathing, and the muted involuntary "My God's", responding to the artist's amped slack bass vicereal growlings onto well-tempered street cruel flaggilating spermizooned arpeggios.

Years before, Dax first met Rick in the old Last Exit on Brooklyn coffeehouse, seeing him busking along the U District Ave, in that same rain-washed biege-yellowie tweed jacket with the natty threads bare in the right elbow. The jacket became a smoke-grunge icon, wide squares blocked out by thin green and Tuscan red pinstripes.

Rick's first set finished, over the returned raucous din, at a break sitting on a bar stool over absinthe`d de-balled Pernod, his sweat dew face slowly lighting a cigarette, the quiet, intense loose long blonde haired artiste leaned over and whispered:

"I don't understand it. It's like this now every night, whenever I play here, ..."

...inhaling, silently studying through the smoke's wafting azure pall, the twinkly constellations in the Star Bar's ceiling, pausing at the spectrally rotating Messier galaxy nos. 31 over table 11, taking his own all the good time in the world about it, exhaling - absently discarding a match to the shiny black and rainbow tiled floor, returning to his enclouded greenish shot glass, wafting it under his nose, continued with dilated irises radially spalled:

-Rick Sabo, opening for the Mercoledi Poetry Slam, d'Zmeraldo Diner, Lower Queen Anne, Seattle, WA. `93

Guis interrupts with, "OK, she's a vivacious "hottie" chick, with something beyond low brain-stem basic-instinct `ttractor cargo. So that's it then, you honestly expect us to believe- you've collected all this mathematics, computer shit, you've spent alot of time writing all this down, just so you can paint some young-girl-woman's picture, you met, for just a -you say- "femto-sec" over a decade ago?!

Dax was smittened, Xeres out there somewhere unknown, married, brood, who cares, the paint must flow so in strident short-ordered desperation Dax decided to write a book. The book is expected to become a success, abundant wealth without the cognito interrupt, without the autographs, without Oprah's new diet endorsement, and all the other moist beaks' $39.95 glossy hardcover NYT Bestseller List. The film gets made, then Xeres would accomplish what the strate Lungoaliers failed to do, find him because she would read the book or see the Academy Award winning film(Best Actress), the Cauchy Integral Formula's invisible angel's hand would guide Xeres' shoulder to do the right thing by arcane urban interstitial graffiti, Yoyodyne Museum billboards, prime time big pharma unquent advertising, kid's colored sidewalk art, her best friend's Dad being the commodore of an Eastside yacht club, would put a flotilla together, weekend in Eagle Harbor, and Xeres would do the right, the sublime thing, sittings for acryllic 3/4 portraiture in an old pair of stone-washed blue denim coveralls.

"Acrylic painting, sure, I just love it, Dax said. "Only in a good hot sun bath, and when its safe."

Basso fecundo flirting-squinty-wink world zipper, what makes you laugh, -how-how -- your shoulders shake like that?!
Common Denominator of multinomial central limit theorem, distribution of prime integers, cd of Cauchy-Martinelli integral theorem, extrema in Hilbert inequalities, cd of harmonic analysis, all else --where not?!-- and her transcendental qualities know more than you, and she knows more than you faster and faster all the time! If pi resonates with all frequencies, is she the root of all coincidence? Picard's theorem offers: a "nice" holomorphic process evaluates infinitely often on a value in an epsilon neighborhood of an essential singularity. Becoming anything? Try miracles? At every moment?! Buzzing percolator accelerates every moment from its other's, boldly enter the $..infty$ agitator and allow sinewy super-iterating exponentiation of a real variable and imagined to dirac jaunt your desires with the rocker ensourceress supreme!

It could be ten years after and yet refreshes once an hour
when every moment upstarts its other
You discover your best effort, and you discover it's inadequate
that essential singularity that makes every moment an eternity and every moment an in your face miracle
you want it
and all else is asphault and grey.

"Considerations so abstract, it would of course be ridiculous to fling among the floodtide of worldly appetite, But they are not perhaps out of place when we remount to the

of motive where every course of action must be originated."-Edgeworth, F Ysidro; Mathematical Psychics, 1881. See Ysidro's: "Happiness By the Calculus of Variations", onto:

So peer review accepted Dax's proof Xeres is isomorphic to the Constant Processes. Both enjoying universal acclaim being a Cascades waterfall of deafening loudness and you get the rainbow. You don't add to, or exaggerate with -these Newfoundland doughboys holding their free arm to cover their eyes like the snow blizzards at home, advancing out of the trench, against a Sch'n'auser heavy machine-gun's enfilidating awful and over-heated perfection.

This isn't a contest. It's not big Fatley Mike's fucking fish story. It happened like I said- God bomb huge, and, ...

Said she once? - she hated Dax, yet Xeres kept showing up, out in his playground, haunts, nether byways. What she did, how she did it -around Seattle, and when it happened, wiggie-clownie math symbols sometimes appeared in the surfacings, as well as other quizzical glyphs. An Ave Rat carrying an orange helium balloon outside the second Last Exit up around 52nd and the Ave in the U District, with a crudely hand wrought big`ol' phatty

-in black Sharpi(tm) marker.An external wrapper for individual Wriggley's gum on a Ballard Denney's sidewalk, scuff-shoe contortioned into a flattened red rose with two perfect and naturally opposed green petals - as she drove away, disappearing at that intersection on Market and 15th.

Uh oh, there she is. Xeres is at the Sea-First ATM on the Ave, "wha- the hell she doing up here..?!", Dax wondered, diagonally across- of course- discovered a coupla-three days later a rain-washed -been there for weeks, months- well-seasoned wrinkle heavily reinforced with bookbinders' 2" clear tape- a red on faded yellowie poster showing those gallant Mount Sarabachi marines struggling hoisting a flagpole -no flag but- an honest to God, on top, our babyface fat font lowercase "e", captioned:

Within a coupla-three months of those e-marines returning from the Diner at night on the south end of Lake Union on Eastlake -"hello"- Dax discovers a telephone pole's crudely black white mimeographed poster announcing yet another beneath the radar invisible grunge band:

CELEBRATE-WINTER-SOLSTICE

DECEMBER-21st

with-THE-STIFFIES-and-CODSWALLOP

it. Within a week, there she goes, out on the Eastlake walk commute, her silver-gray "KZY-MOM" Ford Escort's red taillights we see disappearing up past Cuchina! Cuchina!

Ahead north, in those beguilingly accessible blue stone-washed coveralls, she's heading my way south, turning left into now long gone Tower Records with that woven sack on her shoulder, and then some days later, a contiguous small piece of driftwood - "wha's it doing here?!" spied beneath the concentric brim of the Center's Intemann Theater's Fountain of the Northwest, where once during a hot day in July, a fashionable lady encountered a solitary shirtless Dax painting amongst the Fountain's famous flower beds, asked:

Looking up, slowly removing his clenched pipe and SILENCIA hearing protectors, Dax replied: "Yes I am", curtly smiled, and returned with rivited focus that of which only decades of constant processing could entrain with an intense marked brow, to his wash.

...Yes, this is a powerful and dangerous area. Some of you already know my own catastrophe fooling around with it. If you're ignorant and reckless like I was, you are going to get seriously eff-ed. Take it as some of your SCI-FI fantasy tittilation:

-"the transporter" pushing everything through, every moment, constantly, but the concurrent machine's jewelled arbors are so finely oiled its all abiding and calm -no noise, vibration- like transparent, clear sky day to day, see? Fast- analog matrix routines are arraying all the eigenvalues, making these sprite's common memory addresses hash out by the common denominator of a Dirichlet series of Euler's zeta prime product, working as a synchronized parallel clock-cycle sieve, filtering them through into coordinated resonances, popping out this miraculous synchronicity resultant."

that kind of drivel- 'cept this time, coming forth out of a popular university textbook, with all the full-throttle lucid deconstructive proof you could ever ask for. Agent Smith felt safe thinking you wouldn't even bother to look.

Think of me as a child eyed budding amateur botanist from nauturalist's earliest Springtime. I first collected these flowers of mathematics because they were pretty. To know, appreciate, and love them more so, I noticed their patterns and so organized them into their taxonomy, while holding and gazing dearly into their singing bouquets.

Of these arranged flowers there were a few foremost superlative beautiful and mysterious patterns across all of them. The "Constant Processes" or "CP", I did dutifully lable and file them.

Those flowers, these mathematics so affixed with the CP label, are special. One of their common characteristics is not understanding them as readily as other mathematics, many isolated facts were filed, but no one knows why so few atoms in these patterns should occur, as they do, so diversely and comprehensively.

Do not underestimate the gluey persistant inertia of systemic stupidity: tradition, accepted knowledge, and authority. Read today's yahoo headlines of the consequences of the world's canonical religion's stupidity and hypocricy - just have a little look see if you don't already know, life's too short for the ugly. Look at those thousands of chinese and japanese characters. The early Sumerian civilization gave us a semi-perfect phoneme alphabet developed over 5000 years ago, and it took them a thousands years to evolve it.

For a thousand years now, archaeologists were amazed to discover the north african desert nomadic bedouins were using a superior calculator counting their camels, goats, and sheep. It was a wooden board of arrayed holes that provides the maximum range of consecutive integers with the minimum weight of pepples used as markers. This calculator is an isomorph of the minimum nos of brass weights used on a gold scale that has more than one solution if you let the representation get dynamic, sort of gerunding the noun into active verb.

All of us westernized schooled arithmetizers are far to hard-wired, it'll take a seventeen year-old Lobachevsky, Agnesi nudenik witch, a Galois with body guards andstill enough effervescence to upstart our blindly entrained integer apple cart tyrannt.

That's it- Dax continued, expose our gleeful youngsters to these common denominators, skill sets to code them, agressively and proactively guard them with compound-levered prejudice from Bellevue Borgs, the Chamber of Commerce, stridently loud and desperate authority, intractably stupid with reptilian greed.

"Of course your right Dax", Arnt agreed, "Let's call a board meeting and put this thing together and kick some ass." And oh, when would we see a return on our investment?

"That's hard to even begin to guesstimate, but given the frequency of surfacing these Gauss, Euler, Abel, Ramanujan lightbulb youth, say what, a fifty to a hundred years?
"That's way the eff to long." Arndt offered.

"Well that's right Arnie, your short-ordered gratification is terminal pal. Don't quit your day job, you reptilian wart on civilization's ass."

Nine yo nomadic kurdish romani yiddish waundering Bedo bright little girl -somewhat olivy- Avrul, playing around with their cedar board and smooth pepples -comes up with something. She squeals and evolves it to where it gets noticed by wind sun and sand wrinkled crusty tribal elders. They do the hubble-bubble Ali Baba meeting thing in the big tent and decide to put all of next quarter's disposable income toward one of these hundred dollar opensource crank operated neon kiddie-colored laptops, for this young bambina genius.

Being youthfully bouyant she learns enough perl and gcc to code where the dynamically referencing shiny pepples become the nos of comparisons being evaluated into the new arithmetic resultant itself, she goes on to apply the consequences of this to all you might expect -and then some- of a vintage four-banger calculator. The entire tribe breaks camp, gather the livestock, packs the pachyderms, and begin the slow trek across the dunes to Tehran. A coupla-three black enveloped croans take the little wunderkind by the hand and her green neon toy box in the other, to see the Tehran University chair of the mathematics department. His intitial offensive arrogance get's blown away when he realizes what Avrul just demonstated. Dubai gold denars dazzle in his eyes and he calls an emergency think-fest with a coupla-three of his department pals, some other network connections in electrical engineering and comp-sci. They too are flabbergasted. Dismiss the little girl, her green toy and chaperones, explaining its interesting, old in the literature, nothing new, and here, have a cookie, and thank you for coming.

Nuclear flanked and buffered Tehran's ex-STASI secret police head, consfiscated the little girl's green toy, had it's discovery hard-encrypted by an intractable self-seeding One Time Pad, did their own beneath-the-radar Manhatten Project - only quiescent suspected by a quick sudden flurry of NSA glass-vampire intercepted intel traffic volume then only a feigning crypto trickle. Eventually NEW PERSIA engineers succefully SPICE 7 designed arraying a lattice of trellised iterated ceriun-arsenic gallium-carbon substrate op-amp organics. Tehren masked and burn their first mass production runs within six months leveling both INTeL and AMD into bankruptcy.
This new sputnik panic gave the States, Europa, Nippon and China an apoplectic fit facing after many attepts at deconstruction failed to discern the inner watchwork of the necessary crypto-encoding how the effing gawddamn thing worked.
Never suspecting of course, that Bactrian camel transport is fundamentally superior to the internal combustion engine.

Through the blue fog of stink-smoke, involuntarily right jowl twitching and spasmodically masticating his soppy tortured cigar, the crisis group head starts in with a:

"We've failed. Front and center people, bend over and grab your ankles, the mongols are hording again, we're exposed butt naked, we've crash programmed a quick and dirty tactical response, and frankly, our best people have tried everything and are dearth out of options.
Summarily, we'red decisively and royally Effed."

The Ensourceres Supreme