a call from a porn star

At work
one night

I answer the phone
from an unknown caller
“Hi” she says.
Yes?
“Do you know who this is?…” she asks.
No - do you know who this is?
She laughs.
“Kylee Carr (sic?) - porn-star, blond hair, blue eyes.”
O.K ….(then I maintain silence - I prefer the awkwardness)
“...eh - yeah - I think I have the wrong number.”  she hangs up.



I resume my business, and imagine
she is now in the process
of calling
the right number
I am certain
does not belong to her dad. 

another word for possession: property

 

...don’t you dare take your eyes of the youngons and the lame around the castle walls, particularly at night: the inbred genetically fucked pedophillic psychopaths have a penchant for snatching them and doing things unfit for print…  No sir – you trust a politician, wall st. banker and media-man about as far as you trust a drug-pusher: with a healthy skepticism and under the assumption that if your not looking they will seize your daughter and your wallet from you…hell, some of the more brazen ones might give it a shot right in front of you – and mumble they are helping you – an ol’ pal – out…indeed.   

     We are living in stupefying and maniacal times, daddy-o: when criminals don’t run wild in the streets – what’s the point?  They get involved in government.  They don’t rob banks, they own them.  Now that’s progress.  You don’t have to risk your hide and your manhood by piloting cessnas into back-ass war-zones and unload your firearms to a gang of motley desperados…Hell no: you can become the prez. or one of his right-hand cronies…  The president of these hallowed Vile States is the grand-duke of drug pushers, the mightiest of the gun-runners, the most formidable pimp, and the most untouchable racketeer on the planet – save perhaps some musty eurotrash royals stuffing laudanum in their brandies and painting their vile faces with lead-based poisons…why do they all look like reptiles?...Anyway – you name the crime, they’ve got the market cornered…

An Inaugural Speech

 

     “I am the front-man of this gawd-awful dump of a nation, the drones prove it is so.  Strike while the iron is scalding and the fuel is in the unmanned aerial missile.  Death from above!”  Raises both fists into the air. “I just thought of something - the prince of the power of the air, isn’t that fitting?... Anyway,  I told the pimply-faced ‘pilot’ (holds back a chuckle)  ‘Good job, squirt, you pulled that trigger like a man and now we will invite you to the White House kiddy orgy, sponsored by BBC and the Sandusky trust.  Trust me  - I am an old pro at this carnival-political- weird ritual stuff.  Kill a kid to save a kid, that’s what the vampire royals say…and you know I roll with that fast crowd’.”  Feedback from the PA that pipes in to every house, cell-phone, laptop, car, shopping mall, airport terminal, and office-building.  “Listen up, you slaves:  I am going to pry your shotguns from your cold dead hands – which is the way I prefer it, because quite frankly I am annoyed by your very existence.  But I promise to put them to good use, perhaps fork them over to those classy Mexican drug cartels that my Bank Handlers love working with so very much, or those lovable bad-news  al-Qae·da or Qai·da or Cia-duh or however it’s spelled rapscallions burning down the middle east and north Africa right now… Oh – how I love it – the blood, the carnage…”  (Later on, at a secret meeting on the outskirts of town: “My name is BS and I am a blood fiend (the circle chants “hello BS”)..  I rolled with the commies in the eighties…I am a closet Face Artist (nothing wrong with that, eh? Elevator eyes as the brows furrow up and down at a rapid pace)… I assassinate people around the world and get a Nobel peace prize – I am a regular James fuckin’ Bond!!! That’s what my coked-out yahoo Wall St. handlers like to call me.) Back to the speech:  “So – how should I cook this rotten maggot-filled carcass of a morbidly-obese country?  We can’t even dine on your flesh anymore because it’s all blubber, botox, chemicals of unknown composition, pharmaceuticals, dirt, plastic, cheap Wall-mart perfumes, deodorants, weird drugs, bath-salts, and shitload of genetically altered foods—we take a bite out of you creatures and we’re asking for immediate acute shingles and violent chronic diarrhea….”  The crowd roars.

to live in total darkness

The Bullshit Machine – called the Boobbing Costas 18000 – rattled on about various topics fed to it by the PropMasters.  “Enough of this!” blurted Ary, and commenced to driving a reinforced steel crowbar into the heart of his set.  No sparks flew like he imagined would, just the sound of plastic and metal grinding and writhing, along with the picture trying to continue the broadcast and the voice of the 18000 cutting in and out until alas, the machine was inert and silent.  Ary pumped his fist and gave the machine one more vengeful thrust – a “fuck you” gesture directed at this surrogate for the world at large.  Quiet. No more hypnotic glow and droning sound putting him into a hypnotic state: he was free.  He sat down on the couch and examined his work: a flatpanel tv with a crowbar sticking out from it.  He got up, went to the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers until he found it: a black sharpie.  He walked back to the tv room and uncapped the pen, signed his name in the bottom corner of the screen, and capped the pen.  He sat back on the couch to re-examine his work.  He nodded.  The sun went down.  Darkness.  Ary sat and smiled and stared and listened to something he hadn’t heard since–childhood, perhaps?—his own thoughts…. 

We the Unevolved

/
If "genetic mutation" through only an agency of "natural selection" ("selection" entailing an agent making a choice...but this semantical quandry is for another time)- then we are all predestined robots acting out an elaborate automatronic play of "evolution"...from space-dust to seemingly rational, conscious, "free-thinking" beings but with no real choice in the matter at all- only the verisimilitude of "choice".
Ironically, if thus be the case- "Religion" (all parts entailed within the broad genera) is part of the "code" written by the magical agency of this mystical force, or programmer called "natural selection"; hence to call adherants to religious theologies "unevolved" is like calling your unupdated software "unupdated"; if that is the case, we are not to blame no more for our naturally un-selected under-evolved minds any more than than the program that cannot update itself- it requires an agent to update it- and we of religious persuasions have simply been left out in the cosmic-cold, abandoned by the indifferent agency of universal evolution, though we are somehow still left here to view your more evolved scholarly theses of posting pictures of avowed notable atheists with clever captions about how smart they were... Thank you for attempting to enlighten us out of our irrational, unevolved archaic belief systems- we simply have not been endowed with "ears to hear."  We,  the "unevolved", are therefore the "unchosen" (natural selection has not picked us) and you have simply "won" the lottery, and not by anything you did, thought, or said.  You are simply lucky; you are of the "elect"; you are part of the exclusive club of the naturally selected, you "more evolved piece of cosmic dust".  

Congratulations.- carry on forth into a brilliant future with your kick-ass naturally selected OS. Now let the rest of us go through the motions of our underevoled lives; for none of us had no choice anyway.  Selah.

Post-script: position of more evolved: "Everything is sort of just like happening."

A Casual Query in the Titanic's E-deck Barbershop

The Titanic sinks yet the presstitutes, the crew and the "opinionated" passengers bicker about allowing gay people in the dining hall. Meanwhile, in the E-deck barber shop Mr. Beuchamp (a homosexual) turns to Mr. Faunthrope (a heterosexual) and asks: "Shall we put on our life vests and usher the women and children to the life-boats?" to which Mr. Faunthrope replies: "Indeed."

that’s my girl! (a short anecdote)

 

“I have a photographic memory.” Sgt. Aristotle gestured with his pistol and blinked toward the door of the barren motel room.

“I would have let you go, but the captain also has a photographic memory, and he would have known about this interaction.” Sgt. Aristotle stated, a liquid wave of telepathy bubbling into Lance Struck’s mind.  The sergeant holstered his weapon and glanced at the multiple surveilcams around the room. 

Lance got it: the facial-recognition applications couldn’t match his own face via computer algorithms because he had modified his features enough to have avoided detection these last four years while “hiding” in plain sight.  No – it was this chance run-in with his old school-chum and current sergeant of the Info Aware Unit whereupon his subterfuge was unveiled.  Aristotle’s own Captain was obviously someone Lance had also known from their shared past – and would have undoubtedly discerned the fact that the Sergeant had recognized him.  Then he would have studied the surveil footage of him personally, cross-referencing any other stored video of him.   Both Sgt. Aristotle and his Captain were at the very least Class 1B Citizens (genetically endowed with specialized attributes, such as telepathic savvy, photographic memory, telekinetic capability),  discerning the rest would have been child’s play for the good Captain – like a parent finding their kid hiding in the basement wearing a Halloween mask.  Lance Struck gave himself up.

            Sgt. Aristotle didn’t bind his old school-chum-turned-dissident/renegade, he didn’t call for back-up.  He knew Lance had officially ended any thought of flight.   Lance guessed his new Ident was already loading into the System, so even if he would have bolted, the vast serveilcam grid tied into facial-recog apps would have made escape from the city impossible.  They exited the flat.

The two men walked together like a couple of old pals through the jam-packed Bazaar District of Downtown.  Humans, androids and entities from various quarters of the galaxy jostled, hustled, elbowed and bargained; the frenzied cacophony bordered on jet-engine roar of white-noise.  The dust and the reek of a galaxy’s worth of diverse body-odors punched Aristotle’s nose with a vigor and fervor of a thousand tidal waves; his eyes watered up and he swallowed bile that had come up into his mouth.  He didn’t care much for Downtown and he remembered why.  They shouldered through and into the Central Station where it was still crowded but well ventilated and air-conditioned. Sergeant Aristotle breathed again.  

The  two men entered the maglev train car.

Time froze: 

            “Hello father”  Lance’s daughter  - now twelve years-old - telepathized.  He had last seen her four years ago, at their old place on the outskirts of the city.  They both had  sat together on the stairs outside the flat and he read her stories from the old time…  Tom Sawyer he recalled.  “I knew back then that you had to go.  You never thought you would see me again but I knew...  And I am here to help you.

            Sgt. Aristotle blinked as the car cleared out of everybody but he, Lance, the girl, and a few slug-like creatures that passively slumped about reading their news-tabs.  The door slammed shut. Her mind blocked from his scan, he couldn't discern her intent.  He knew one thing: she controlled access to her own mind, she could control others' minds (aside from the slugs) – for she had cleared out the car, and she could remotely control certain electrical equipment, for he noticed the serveilcams no longer in operation – their red lights blinking “out of service”.  She had shut them off with her mind.

Alas – her voice boomed throughout the car: “I am going to blow up this train.  I have a thermogenic grenade under my dress and the revolution will go hot.  Daddy – I can’t let them take you away – they’ll turn you into a vegetable then softly kill you…”

            Lance approached his little girl – now a very dangerous prepubescent.   “My little buttercup – this is not the way…  Don’t do it…please.” 

Joan of Arc at the Fortress of Tournelles

            Her stormy green eyes welled up.  The slugs read the news, paying no care to what was transpiring in the car.

             “I will not report you…  I will report this as a drill and say you were helping in the exercise.  I will suggest you be brought into the Academy as you will undoubtedly be tested as Class 1B++ and fast-tracked to high levels within the System.  The Restoration will be.”  Sgt. Aristotle balled his hand into a slight fist and gave a subtle nod, enough for the girl to comprehend. 

            She fumbled under her dress and procured the device and deactivated it. 

            “Where had she gotten such a powerful weapon?” Sgt. Aristotle wondered.

            “I made it.” She telepathized.

            This was a very dangerous girl indeed – light-years more so than her rogue father.