Conflict:

If Frank was to stand next to Shigeru Ban, and both of them then beckoned to me to find out which was my rightful Friend, I would choose Frank. Also, this would happen on top of a skyscraper and a helicopter would take us away in Friendship.

Fussbett:

Frank is loyal, too, Conflict. If Frank had to confess his friendship to me and suffer 10 years in prison or instead become friends with the body of Albert W. Tucker for the reduced sentence of 1 year, I know what Frank would pick.

Conflict:

Fussbett, is that you? Hi! If you were imprisoned in Foucault's Panopticon, but Frank was the overseer, would it even feel like prison? Escaping from such a place would be like escaping from Friendship, and I'm pretty sure that's punishable by death.

Fussbett:

If you escaped from Frank's Panopticon, you wouldn't WANT to live. Where Frank is concerned, I never have to struggle with dilemmas of security versus freedom. There is no need to make a shiv nor a shank when you're protected by Frank's friendship. Do you think it would be depressing that we would not be able to see Frank from our cells? That's my one concern.

Zseni:

Fussbett! Conflict! How excellent to see you here. There is not much I can add to your dreams of Frank, worthy of
Sacher-Masoch, except to pull from the sensual to the abstract and recall that "Die Bedeutung eines Wortes ist sein Gebrauch in der Sprache," and so it is that one speaks of Frank and friendship together without pause, indeed without intending it, because the two entities are synonymous in our language. Frank. Friend. Frank. Friend. I find puzzling only that at the top corner of his profile page I see the statement "Frank is your Friend," which to me has no more graspable meaning than "Bog is your Swamp" or "Thief is your Bandit." Or perhaps it is like trying to explain to a fish that the water he swims in somehow belongs to him, when in fact I, like the fish, belong much more to the calm and infinitely regenerative ocean of Frank's frankship.

K. Thor:

I had a dream the other night that I was naked in high school again, and I was in that Advanced Placement algebra class that I crashed and burned out of with such speed and force that it charred my eyebrows. We were having a silent period of work out of the defaced textbooks, and I looked down at the sample equation, a mess of inexplicable numbers and lines, followed by "Solve for Frank." And then I woke up.