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walfare recipients are a feature of a fauna-survival biological system

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    The philosophers' stone or stone of the philosophers (Latin: lapis philosophorum) is a legendary alchemical substance said to be capable of turning base metals (lead, for example) into gold (chrysopoeia) or silver. It was also sometimes believed to be an elixir of life, useful for rejuvenation and possibly for achieving immortality. For many centuries, it was the most sought-after goal in Western alchemy. The philosophers' stone was the central symbol of the mystical terminology of alchemy, symbolizing perfection at its finest, enlightenment, and heavenly bliss. Efforts to discover the philosophers' stone were known as the Magnum Opus (“Great Work”).[1] [Wikipedia site]

    Alas, legend and myth and imagination only. For there was never found the means
    to transmute the basic to precious, the basal to precocious, the temporal to immortal
    span. And thus THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE did not exist.

    Move our concern to the present.
    In the seething city cauldrons and retorts the “elements” are basest, beastialest.
    The chemistries of crime and carnage, the reactions and compoundings of
    constituents, are achieved by fists and bats and worse. Cities comparable to the
    labs of the alchemists but so much worse. Alchemists in their futile, but frenzied quest ¬¬-
    ’’’’’’(Magnum Opus) for . . . The Philosopher’s Stone, as in the past, the present of police.

    In one present realm of law enforcement there had been multiple murders, the
    earliest unsolved for going-on a decade, and others intermittently ever since. And now,
    the recent death of a young woman was obviously at the hands of the prior perpetrator
    of even unspeakable maceration as well as murder of the previous victims.

    And as before, again the whole precinct and others surrounding embarked on a vast ``````
    variety of investigative procedures. Detectives were dispatched here and there and
    elsewhere to surveille and to search and by constant contact to report to HQ. Cops were `````
    stationed at roadblocks and even intersections to interview both suspicious and other ``````
    people. Interchanging and interfacing all this “chatter” was as if a vastly complex chemical
    experiment of which the purpose was to suddenly produce a solution, transmute crime
    continuing -- into conviction complete.

    Despite all the activity of invasion and interview, stops and searches, travails and travels
    by squad cars and vans and tech units driving all over the place, it was obvious nothing had
    brought about any resolution to the case. “We’re getting’ nowhere,” was the consensus.
    “Gotta have lead up our ass to keep up this format, failed all those times before!” “We’re ``````
    running every combo and permu of possible procedure as if this time it’s going to work

    Sgt. Sean O’Reilly had a desk job. Went on no patrols. Rode In no cars. Made no stops or
    searches. Sat at his desk in the police station. Hardly moved at all. Very quiet guy. He’d
    rigged an answering machine tape with his voice so that he’d not only not have speak
    when a call first came in. He could make calls and the initial statements would play, (“This
    is Sgt. Sean O’Reilly of Precinct 9 . . . . .” before Sean would continue by actually speaking
    with the recipient of the call.

    While the rest of the force, rooky to Lt., were engaged in their hyperactive quests, Sgt
    Sean sat quietly at his desk. Hardly moving. Phone book in front of him. He’d started from
    Aaron Aabacci, the first name. One after the other he punched the buttons, and when the ``````
    call was answered, the recorded voice would inform whomever answered, “This is a Police ``````
    dept. official notification that you are known to be the serial killer and that you will be shot ``````
    if you attempt to leave your premises. If you agree to surrender, negotiations will ensue to ``````
    assure your safety in order to stand trial with all due process.”

    Sean O’Reilly, day after day, just sat. Hardly moving except to punch the phone numbers.
    Quiet, not speaking. The recording recited, call after call. Manuel Maprovit. Manal ‘’’’’’’ ``````
    Maprovitz, Marriel Masprova . . . . . and on and on. Day after day. Each call was logged
    by the computer system, along with the location of the called number. Any associated
    information such as criminal (and even voice-pattern-recognition matches) was part of
    the immediate display on the laptop screen that Sgt Sean O’Reilly scanned. Silently ’’’’’’’Motionless.

    Into the early S-es, the miraculous mutation of mayhem and muddle was achieved. The
    dross, gross, leaden ludicry of the law’s reiteration of repetition investigative procedures of ’’’’’’’
    all those crimes past had yielded no precious perspicacity, no gold.

    But though in the quest to transmute base metal the Philosopher’s Stone never existed. . .
    In the object that provided the solution of the case and led to the transport of the ‘’’’’’’
    surrendering serial killer without incident

    Somewhat of an inverted analog of the Philosopher’s Stone was the means

    . . . .
    For what actually worked magic was. . . . . . . . . . . . THE STILL OFFICER'S PHONE