On the moon.

Mod1. Damn it, why did you bring Claude Monet here?
Mod2. Yes, so what?
Mod3. I don’t get you. Damn it, he’s not one of us.
Mod4. He’s a satanist.
Mod2. Not too fast. Now, when paschendale is gone, he’s my favorite…
Mod4. Favorite?
Mod2. Yes, I sensed a sympathy for him from the start, now he too is starting to forget his rebellious period and, I hope, he will become a decent user, like us.
Mod4. I don’t believe him, I don’t want him touching me with his toes.
Mod5. I agree with Mod2 and think that everyone could revert to true religion, and we must give that lost soul a chance. I’ve got nothing against him touching me.
Mod1. But I’m already touching you and I won’t have anyone else touching you, got it?
Mod5. Yes, I just wanted to help.
Mod3. What do you say, Claude?
Claude. Howdy.
Mod3. That’s all?
Mod2. Give him time to adjust, he still hasn’t recovered from the loss, still hasn’t discovered his true ego. But he’s on the right track and that reflects in his creativity, which is becoming reasonable and not so full of furry as per earlier.
Mod5. I noticed that too.
Mod4. I still don’t trust him, he acted so disrespectful towards our Admin, and now suddenly, you think, he redeemed himself? No way in hell.
Mod1. Stop bad-mouthing, Priestess, you finished your work, so loosen up your flaming. We’ll see how to deal with this.
Mod3. So I would like to review our situation when our main enemy is gone. Who’s to start?
Mod5. Can I? Already almost half a year has passed since the lynching of paschendale and I can see through my navigation system that the netizens of Empire have stopped their jerking about and quenched their passion by typing on the keyboard or drinking vodka, and that is already more useful for us all: drunk users are easier to manipulate and fool. Of course, sometimes once in a while we can notice someone putting his hand by the zipper of his pants, but suddenly like his arm was burned he falls down to his knees in front of the Admin’s picture. Even the fiercest paschendale’s defender, Mr. _F_, isn’t climbing on the roof and doing so doesn’t enrage the 13th Zone community, but expresses his passion in painting.
Mod1. And what does he draw, a phallus?
Mod5. Not really, but partially that too.
Mod4. How so?
Mod5. He is painting a naked man, I think, he is trying to make a memorial for paschendale, but so far he is failing, he still doesn’t catch something and with rage tears the canvas, then gets drunk and paints again. He doesn’t write anything, so it’s hard to say something about his thoughts.
Mod1. What exactly he doesn’t catch? It’s so easy: a phallus and two eggs.
Mod2. He doesn’t catch the spirit of rebellion, the essence of paschendale, like with Da Vinchi’s “Gioconda”, we see her mysterious smile, but we don’t understand, what the hell is she laughing at or what for, from me or from that one, who is standing in front of her. I always look around like a silly girl; the Italian succeeded in coding his thought and _F_ is dreaming of doing the same.
Mod3. Well, the thing that _F_ paints and drinks is a good thing, it would be worse, if he would start spriting again.
Mod4. God forbid.
Mod3. Any other remarks?
Mod1. I, for one, notice very good fluctuations between users and admins in their relationships – the long lost respect is back and submission from former rebels’ side, even Claude’s example illustrates this. Isn’t that right, Claude?
Claude. I… (gets silent for a long time)
Mod1. What’s up with him?
Mod2. I said it already, he needs to adjust. Give him time.
Mod3. Okay, I pronounce a ten minutes relaxation recess.
Mod2. Come to me, Claudette. (embraces Claude, he cries on his chest.)

Mod4 is praying, others – excluding Claude and Mod2– are chilling.

After ten minutes.

Mod3. Let’s continue. Who will speak?
Mod4. Of course, you can say that I had lynched paschendale…
Mod1. Well, well, well, don’t be so rude…
Mod4. In a sense, that I suggested it.
Mod3. You’re not alone who thought like that, you just pronounced it first.
Mod1. Right, right, Priestess, don’t take all the glory, there won’t be any medals.
Mod4. I don’t need any, God sees all – he will deliver justice unto the unjust.
Mod1. Okay, don’t sicken us with your God fellow, say what you wanted.
Mod4. Like I predicted, paschendale hasn’t resurrected, it means that he was a simple mortal.
Mod2. Yes, so what.
Claude. (silently) He wasn’t simple.
Mod1. What, riot in the ship? Do you want, Stinky, that we would nail you to the cross too?
Claude. I’m just saying that he wasn’t simple. Nothing else.
Mod2. He made a mistake. Silence, Claude, take my breast, aaa, sleep, baby. He will be good. He made a mistake.
Mod4. So, we dealt with paschendale, but the calmness didn’t return to our homes. We still look back, still fear something, get scared from every suspicious sound and cross oneself.
Mod1. I don’t cross.
Mod4. And you are wrong by not doing so, you don’t differ much from paschendale.
Mod5. What do you suggest?
Mod1. Just don’t say that we have to create a new website.
Mod4. No, but we must dim the legend of paschendale, erase him from everybody’s memory, and for that we must raise a new personality, who at the same time would be one of us and controlled by us.
Mod5. And who is that personality?
Mod4. (nods his head towards Claude) I think that Mod2 has him already in his hands.
Mod1. More like in his chest.
Mod3. Mod1...
Mod1. Don’t mind me.
Mod2. We don’t.
Mod3. But you just said that you don’t trust him.
Mod4. After seeing his tears, I slightly changed my opinion, besides, it would be his chance to redeem his guilt against the Admin and our community.
Mod5. You think that Claude will dim paschendale?
Mod3. It will be hard, but if we help him, i.e. sometimes scold him, sometimes raise him to the skies and all the while keep him in the center orbit of attention, then everybody else with interest will observe his evolution and gradually forget that bastard, and we will drive Claude from stormy waters to a calm creek and never release him from there. Others will come there by following him, the gate’s will close shut and everyone will drift without tension and unnecessary escapades. Life will be great again.
Mod1. You narrated it impressively, but will everything go as planned, it’s not certain. I think that we will have to squish not one or two worms yet.
Mod2. Well, you can definitely take care of that.

The engine roars and everybody sees that the aggregate, which flew them to the moon, mischievously flips its wings at them and heads back to Earth.

Mod2. Who was that?
Mod1. I don’t get the punchline.
Mod4. Who is piloting it?
Mod5. Let me see. (Powers on his navigational system.) Load, damn you.

Mod3 runs to the place, where just seconds ago stood their flying machine. An easel stands there with a covered painting. Everybody follows Mod3. Mod4 takes the cloth off and frightened drops to his knees and constantly keeps crossing himself. Everyone else gasps, but cannot withdraw their eyes from the portrait.

Mod2. It’s pachendale.
Claude. Like Michelangelo’s David, only more beautiful.
Mod1. The foul beast.
Mod2. His eyes, it seems, are laughing at us. He did it, it means he's a good painter, that _F_.
Mod3. There’s also a note.
Mod2. What’s in it.
Mod3. “I’ll be back in fifty years, don’t weep. Signed: …”
Mod5. Oh, God, I can see him, it’s _F_.
Mod3. “... _F_“. He got into our machine and flew with us, and we didn’t even notice.
Mod1. But how do we?
Mod4. I won’t bear it.
Mod1. We’re stuck here for all eternity.
Mod2. And how about our website?