The torn red stained curtain pulls to either side, like an inverted tear drop exposing something beyond the picture plain of the visual cortex. The inner sanctum, a circus ring imbedded in the psyche of all that must follow, searching for the most maligned malaise of the human heart…perpetual war.
The crowd surrounding the inner ring, dimmed by the shadows of the spotlight focused on the young girl crouching in the fetal position, exuding the rank smell of future profits: mackerel, cod, even a prized sea bass. Perfect specimens at a gathering not too far removed from the days of golf, barbeque, beef, ten gallon hats, and cut out Barbie bimbos. These fresh specimens from our depleted ecosystem, toxin free guaranteed...
Meanwhile, back among the cascading tumbleweeds scurrying across the desert Megan and Sandy admire the polished steel they carry. ”Give me the colt .45,” Megan spins the polished silver barrel of her pistol, admiring the smooth, subtle clicking sound of precision. Sandy beams intently, “You’re in love with that fucking gun, like its soft and warm. Does it pulsate with desire? Does it stare deeply into your eyes yearning for the blissful torment of the deepest, most impenetrable sin? Never yielding until you beg and claw for it…”
Sandy cocks her pistol, “Maybe.”…“Just give me the gun- you might shoot some one. We can’t have that can we?” Sandy hands it over; placing the balanced instrument of America’s last remaining industry in her lover’s hands, “lawyers, doctors, property owners, bankers, business assholes. They can afford it. They Flaunt it…peppering them with lead sounds like absolute rapture…one less profit driven madman. Save the world! But I won’t. I won’t!” Megan admires the brim of her derby resting gently above her brow, admiring her pristine reflection, “Yes. Yes. Yes. I’m the stable one is this affair.” Sandy reaches out with a gentle caress of Megan’s poised lips.
Privatize! Privatize! The widespread backlash to consumer protection gouged not only the health standards of this ‘exceptional’ nation, but poised the poor for a clear direction when rampant obesity became the cure…this bipolar schism of unhealth continued to put on weight for the majority of a population that became fully dependent on processed food; effectively diminishing toxins from the environment while creating an even vaster food chain that profited from rampant consumption. Looking at the current data before him, Dr. Bigglesworth noted that rampant weight gain also correlates, quite closely in fact, with an immense and rapid rise in profits. People will always eat by the pound full…the first law of obesity! The doctor pictured himself among the great scientists of the past, scientific law makers like Newton and Einstein. His stature could never be denied…
Somewhere deep in the bowels of frivolous oblivion the gloved technician reached into the tank for the young sea bass, no longer a pristine smooth specimen but scarred and disfigured with growths protruding from the inner gill linings, and along the diseased encrusted base of the fins. Still, the fish writhed, and gasped begging for life as it penetrated the surface world of oxygen, bound for certain death; suffocation, and vivisection at the hands of a surgeon recording the visual elements of the growths that protruded. The ability to identify such growths could enable fishermen to separate the catch into various groups, and then proceed with more rigorous testing. Of course the skipper could always pay for the ‘cleanest’ results, unless he was using a company man. The government men always took the bait, a fish hook in the cheek for the consumers of America.
The technician held the fish close to his sterile safety mask, if the sea bass could cough up diseased flem into the eye of it’s captor, it certainly would, instead it just writhed, desperate to escape the sadistic grip…and smiled, at least that’s what the technician thought. Certified technician Eichamn, for the Transglobal Company could always be counted on processing several specimens in a short and efficient time frame. In his head he was the master mind, the lever puller that controlled the switching of the tracks for the quickest routes to the operating table. Scalpel in hand, Eichman looked at each smiling specimen, and imagined that they simply welcomed death at the tail end of suffocation…
Silent death approached, the pinnacle of civilization, embodied in a high density plastic shell without a pilot approached the target. Months of intelligence gathering produced the end result, assassination, murder, death without ever looking into the eyes of the enemy. Dr. Bigglesworth- Former med corp. specialist, super patriot, war monger, and now top man for the administration expounded his policy speech to the general staff. “It is the proximity to death that collapses the psychological defenses of our beloved soldiers. This inner sanctum if you will becomes eroded, and inevitably collapses when penetrated by guns, bombs, and explosions, and the inevitable outpouring of bloody limbs. A civilian ripped apart in a cross fire is the icing on the cake, the final bloody valentine that transforms every good husband and father into a traumatized shell, gentlemen. The president knows it, and we need to do something about.”
Spending less money on care for the traumatized vet was always a winning an argument, as long as the soldiers that needed care received it. The key was in prevention, and mechanization was the solution. Pull the trigger from a bunker miles away underground and the human body that exploded was merely a blip on the battlefield.
Months later, sitting at the console Sandy recoils from the launch button, This is not what I ever hoped for, but no matter how much I perfected my aim, loading skills, and precision, my computer skills always prevented my option for combat. Now I sit here alone…in the dark…a traitor to the human race, a scum sucking rat that never sees who she kills. Before I believed I turned the enemy over to god, but now I’m not so sure. Is the intelligence sound? Yes, they assure me. What if I kill innocent civilians? In a terrorist state no one is innocent, even a child could detonate a bomb, fucking savages the generals always snorted. Sandy closed her eyes and pressed launch…the pain and the memories returned. How much longer can I do this?
Eichman scrutinized the yellow fin tuna roll between his chopsticks, his bulging eyes detected only perfection, and the minuscule, but powerful piece of reptilian matter at the core of his cerebrum throbbed with anticipation, a true carnivore! He gently placed the piece from the forty dollar roll in his mouth, savoring it looking to the sky above through the protective uv sun umbrella. The front page of the digital paper declared “March of the Mechanoids!” In the interactive slideshow beneath Dr. Bigglesworth surrounded by all his high tech scalpels, crawling, flying, and Mobile devices that ripped apart flesh with devastating payloads, followed by the articles…”Downsized Soldiers!”, “Stay at Home Dads Pass the Baby Bottle While Continuing to Fight”, “The Presidents new war policy saves marriage!”.
Eichman swallowed the tender morsel, closed his eyes to a silent wave of drones buzzing overhead, a mechanical tapestry that reconfigured into a sweeping pattern of swastikas, transforming into waves of crucifix’ draped by Jesus Christ. The sun shower burst and Eichman felt the warm bloody droplets cleanse, purging his skin. Deep in the recesses of Eichman’s frivolous mind Dave the mackerel, from an earlier dissection, swam slowly toward his mesmerized stare. It was fine he thought, his protective face gear will protect him, but when Dave spat, pausing with a sinister smile, the toxic spittle began to eat though the protective glasses. Eichman shrieked, but Jesus was there to protect him extending a hand dripping in blood, pulling him toward the heavens leaving the dissolving goggles behind, but Dave pursued relentlessly until Eichman shrieked, again.
The currents of wind and sand, like ripples in time engulfed the taxi cab for a brief, infinitesimal moment before swirling into oblivion, once again without a purpose. It became difficult to ascertain where one boundary began, and another demarked ancient terrain. The driver swerved suddenly, asleep momentarily, but without anything to impact the synthetic rubber wheels still managed to crush a lizard. Even a seemingly innocent incursion by man always manages to obliterate, destroy, or kill something in its path Sandy thought, “asshole, nothing living as far as the eye can seen and you plow right over that lizard, probably a mother of seventeen.” The driver bellowed with laughter…”You know nothing about reptiles, they don’t fucking care lady.” Megan cracked the window, “The ultimate rational coming from the ultimate asshole. Spewing forth the inferiority of nature, as something easily dispelled, or in this case crushed to smithereens. Stop the car.”
The red and white tent undulated from the sun, sand, and wind as powerful forces ripped through the canvas. Sandy and Megan exited the yellow capsule, winding past the row of luxury vehicles without a trace of sand or dust clinging to polished silver and black surfaces. Sandy pondered for a moment, how can that be?
Under the big top the piercing beam from the descending Christ, glistening with red and white specks of luminous silver like a Christmas tapestry leading up to the gates of heaven paves the way for a particular delirium. The beam narrows while the red and green reflections cascade the light back at the enamored gathering of generals, ceos, investors, lawyers, Dr. Biggleworth, Eichman, and sacred members of the FDA wearing black ski masks, unidentified, unrecognized, but with the power possessed by a holy tribunal of inquisitors.
The sacred beam from the hand of Jesus touches the scalp of the prone girl, sprinkled with the red and green ticker tape, the touch of light appears gently, unobtrusive, and somehow remotely sacred, until it begins to sear the flesh. Penetrating the skull the beam sears its way into the cerebral cortex searching for its prize with the steady hand of divinity, until it strikes the small mass of reptilian jelly lingering at the core. The beam eradicates the decay until only the smooth ripples of the cerebrum remain…
The girl’s eyes open wide, raptured by the holy purging from the hand of Christ that eradicates all fear. A rapture of glistening bliss, bathed in red and white ticker tape that brings searing tears to her eyes. The speechless automatons place their right hand to their breast, ready to speak the insufferable words, once more born again with the renewed vigor of a lost soul, now found ready to sing to the heavens with bombastic notions of conventionality.
Jesus Christ lowers on the barbed wire swing, beyond the rim of blinding light. The energetic youth joyful beyond words, and now entirely resolute…this figment of someone’s imagination, a construct within a construct and nothing more, but fragments of reality that justify our deepest deliriums…
“I pledge allegiance to the flag…”
The girl bathed in shimmering light sparkles like an iconic heavenly body, twirling the baton faster and faster until she launches it directly at the pristine, polished, porcelain feet of Christ dangling from his barbed wire throne. Spinning faster and faster, tears of adulation streaming from the girls eyes as she prepares to pluck the baton at the precise moment with her delicate fingertips, glorious! Christ smiles with the warm compassionate glow of so many paintings from a fantastic, wholly imagined reality.
Tears begin to stream down Eichman’s face as he extends the black sea bass high above his head, succulent protein that only the wealthy can now afford, finding the specimens remains even more difficult…now it became the law of supply and demand and scarcity, factored into the mix like a credit rating. Like always it was the reams of automatic flesh standing in line that became the real statistic.
Sandy and Megan approach the big top, weary from the heat, and Sandy ready to scatter so many brains into the wind like delicate petals of flesh, “We just want the girl. That’s why were here.” Sandy grimaced, cocking the colt .45, “One little hair on her head, one little violation, and the deals over. I come out blasting baby.”
The tarp covering the entrance snaps open, Megan dives to a prone position ready to fire with two pistols, while Sandy crouches on one knee, rapidly firing her pistol into the air…click ”Hold it!” Nothing, no generals, no masked FDA, no Eichamn, no Dr. Bigglesworth, just the wind and dust billowing through the vacuous space with a charred crater located in the center, at the base of the main support beam.
Two thick black cables extend from the crater. “Something still burns.” Sandy moves past Megan’s prone position toward the crater, gently peering over the edge. Nothing remains except a small piece of colorful, intricate cloth that blows upward and gently tumbles into Sandy’s unsuspecting hands. She slowly turns to acknowledge Megan only to discover emptiness. Hesitating for a moment, Sandy proceeds forward, following the two heavy cables until the trail ends with a desk, and the flashing screen of a dilapidated computer console.
On the screen the image triggers a response- SB117 armed, ready for deployment. Sandy clutches the swatch of cloth, holding it tightly to her breast. The surging tears begin to purge. She rapidly retreats back toward the entrance, dropping her gun; she bursts through the entrance, tears streaming, “No!” Pop! Pop! Pop! The masked FDA men throw Megan’s body into the vehicle…
Sandy opens her eyes to a digital display of exploding fireworks. American flags cascade across the console screen in dull segments of digital repetition. Target neutralized flashes over and over while the chorus repeats in all its bombastic glory,”the bombs bursting in air…” Yet in her hand the colorful scrap of cloth remains. I destroyed the enemy target…If it were otherwise they would tell me.
Seemingly Martin Dervish escaped his captors, but it wasn’t because of the threat of impending danger, or any of the things his mind
tended to gravitate toward; images that bombarded his psyche throughout youth
always resurfaced, snapshots that left a residue, an indelible and often
sentimentalized imprint. Typical, he thought, the soft optimistic glow of
youth, at that time as well as now never fades. There really is no escaping
it…at least not in the way he desired; witnessing a pulled gun, hammer clicking
open, or the retractable blade of a stiletto snapping back and forth in rapid
succession.
Watching the threat of deadly intent as it
unfolded in public. This is what Martin always wanted to see. But eventually
these impulses became symbolic of the unyielding desire for total resistance to
the impending weight of what everyone yearns for today, perfection. “P-e-r-f-e-c-t-i-o-n.”
Martin sounded it out between jolts of impenetrable laughter.
In his mind the cool metal hammer clicked
rapidly. The stiletto snapped repeatedly. These images seemed to become even
more alluring at every passing moment, as the smell of the air began to change,
becoming less chemical but more foul…
Martin’s mind continued to contradict the
reality of events that dominated the social fabric. When did social etiquette become social
tyranny? Martin pondered, as the city began to lose its dominant outline across
the smooth contour of his windshield. The surrounding landscape emerged, still
a hybrid of mass construction, but somehow softer to the desperate gaze of
Martin’s determined look.
In 2013 the cornerstone of a new agenda
bottled up the fear and discarded it once and for all. President elect Godfrey
Michael Goodson always quoted the proper authorities, “…Einstein knew energy always
becomes conserved, even when a cataclysmic change takes
place. My fellow citizens, what Einstein
proclaimed simply represents the eternal beginning, the tip of the scale, the
measure of all greatness. Psychic
energy, the indomitable power of our spirit can become completely transformed.
Lost? Never! Forever changed to serve the greater good of American prosperity!” (Thunderous applause)
“It’s always for the greater good, my friends.
We must conform. We must grow. We must set the example for our fellow spirits
on the brink of eternal despair!”
“This change begins with the unrelenting quest
for spiritual purity; the purging of our sins through a sacred vessel that
dwarfs distance and place…that transcends the remote vastness of time and space
itself. Our eternal souls drifting through the heavens, leaving the indelible
mark of greatness on every world we touch…” In 2013 Martin thought this sounded
reasonable, a bit far fetched, and what did President Goodson mean by vessel?
The chariot of the gods?
Today, Martin imagined a waxen figure, pale
white with glistening deep blue marble eyes, and the inevitable puncture wounds
sealed over with hardened red wax residue. Martin yanked the crucifix from his
rearview mirror, and sacrificed it to the night, forever…
He remembered the source of his resistance,
when in 2013 the spiritual clinics began to open, one by one replacing public
health services in favor of something far more desirable; the eternal promise
of complete spiritual fulfillment.
No one could resist the short amount of time
now made available to effectively purify the soul: at lunch, after work, or
during the earliest hours of waking daylight. The clinics never closed to the
needs of the spiritually ravenous, and they always lined up for a few minutes
to reap eternal rewards. Brilliant!
The impending social weight of the clinics
began to permeate hostile attitudes with a relentless sense of self righteousness,
as if anyone could cast out evil, just like Jesus Christ himself.
And that’s just what they did, bankers,
doctors, and lawyers at never ending streams of exuberant self elations, at
cocktail parties where they touched each other on the forehead, and
smiled. “You will be filled with the
truth of holy certainty.” “Divine goodness prevails!”…”the power to transform
resides in you.” And Martin’s personal favorite, “Never forget the mission.” Such thoughts always seemed to go hand in hand
with twelve year old single malt scotch, served neat.
At work it was a bit different, slightly more
hostile, “They’re fucking savages Martin. We must save them from themselves;
after all it’s our collective divine right to do so.”
“Says who?” Martin banged on the machine, his
veggie dog on organic whole wheat wedged in the spiral wheel dangled at the
edge…“They kill their own people in order to retain power indefinitely, rather
than spreading the word…that’s my point, denial. It’s denial that enables the
onset of social tyranny. Democracy only emerges from the purified, purged, and
perfected.”
Martin punched the machine in response, and
the alarm blurted out suddenly without warning, ”Wanton Destruction of company property will result in termination…wanton
destruction of company property will result in termination.” As Martin pondered
the thought of building the perfect nation, and more specifically from his
bowels, he changed Harold’s last word to putrefy…and smiled.
The brilliance of the stars streaked by
Martin’s near silent vehicle. Social degradation
or social engineering, he thought. After his discussion with Harold, Martin
chose not to care any longer, at least not in the way he was supposed to; to
believe like everyone else with single minded intent, to go to the same functions,
or believe, or bathe in the milk of human kindness…not unless it was good
scotch, and even that began to wane eventually.
Deep inside Martin knew that somewhere else the
milk of human goodness was streaked with the blood of human misery. “But not
for us! We are the epicenter of all that is good, sacred, and just!” His
laughter became almost unbearable, until he peered into the rear view mirror, still
able to spot trailing cars and yet so desperate to escape.
Martin’s imagination meandered to the sight of
his grandfather smiling in the back seat, beaming at the horizon, pondering the
end result of so much human activity.
Fifteen, and a bit shaken at the wheel, but
determined he glanced back over his shoulder, “you all right grandpa?” “Yes,
Marty. Marty stop, stop!” The capsule screeched to a halt, narrowly missing the
deer, but not fast enough for Marty to miss sight of the glistening residue
along the haunches of the beast. “The end result of human depravity, a sickness
that affects everything.” Marty studied his shaking hands, intently. “What
Grandpa?”
Together they often watched the global
decimation of various groups and individuals at the hands of brutal authorities.
Episode after episode served as a vivid reminder why the American system worked,
whereas all the others seemed doomed to failure.
Ghastly atrocities committed abroad, and
seemingly exploited for our viewing pleasure. ”Because it’s our duty,
Marty! Sometimes America just needs to
beat it out of you, kid.” Despite the deep impenetrable sadness Martin never understood at the time, his
grandfather still managed to howl in laughter at the sheer desperation of
humanity.
He loved to remind Marty when it all began,
pointing, clapping, and condemning the effectiveness of authoritarian
propaganda; handheld pursuits depicting ravaged citizens fleeing before a
threatening baton, sometimes shooting back in defiance, chased down, beaten,
and brutalized.
As the light from the city began to dissipate
the stars above became more vibrant, clear and bright after 120 miles of
relentless driving. The air was different, and the hum of Martin’s electric
coupe produced virtually no noise, but it was the noise of the city he was so
desperate to leave behind.
Traveling down the nearest artery he managed
to escape the steady flow of traffic from the thoroughfare. Now if he could
only find a spot to sit and stare at the inevitability of the stars, hoping
that the shiny path of progress never tarnished the glistening white that punctured
the surface of the heavens.
Martin searched in vain, “Radio!”…Scientists have in fact claimed that because
of renewed human intervention and the aggressive reclaiming of the environment,
the possibility of human survival has increased significantly. (Thunderous
applause)
“Radio off!” But the news flash resonated in
his mind over and over, a digital loop stuck on repetitive torment. He leaned
over and cupped his head but the relentless images of growth and prosperity continued to
bombard his psyche.
Yet they were real experiences, or so he thought, or could he no longer
tell the difference? It was the real experiences that only the savagery of nature
could ignite, but as he stepped from the vehicle and gently latched the door, Martin yearned for what he could not find. He
carefully scanned the horizon, trying to find a place in the sky, a hole if you
will, where the only thing that penetrated was shimmering blue moonlight. Instead, he found the maniacal laughter of his grandfather emanating from the
moon, a gentle warm face that retracted with
a smile, and vanished.
Neuroparalysis by Pete Milosovich, (c) 2011
The city...liquid in the minds of so many, quelled by the adverse digital tendrils that penetrated, distorted, and confused the ability to separate the real from the unreal.
This terrible malaise was not the result of what so many suspected for so long, nor was it so terrible after all. The initial stages of the disease began with desperate acts of violence directed at life, work, and religion; communicated through modular electronic devices: the boss reverberating, the quintessential Jesus sparkling in the heavens on a 100G device, or a declaration of love spoken through a minuscule electronic portal.
Detachment bore the responsibility of emotional pain experienced by so many, and without the slightest unflinching response they smashed cell phones, crushed multi-gigawatt devices, and destroyed digital bearers of information overload.
And just for a brief moment their minds were liberated, until the weight of guilt and grief, socialized through a radar blip seized their old psychological dependency with renewed vigor. And they new, yes they knew, that their precious electronic devices would have to be replaced...but at what cost? They seldom asked...
1.
The slender steel spire: with its balconies, sliding doors, and windows; several stories that repeated over and over occupied one small quadrent of a block in the center of bustling activity.
The impact of the city extended far beyond the street; cluttered airways above peppered the sky, and the unseen web of communication networks touched everything, this unseen mutlilayered web propelled instantaneous traffic. At any a given time a menagerie of communication choked and cluttered the data streams, slowed and accelerated. Minute layers that communicated everything, often from a discreet origin, unless the data was exposed or penetrated.
Devin Sullivan's home could be defined with a place name, a particular address, what floor he lived on, if he adhorned his balcony with flowers? But like so many other dwellings in the center of the glass and steel towers that pierced the horizon Devin's place in it represented a puzzle piece within the mesh of human existence. Devin stood inside, motionless, looking at the frost residue that wasn't supposed to be there, along the metallic window sill.
The digital brochure insisted that Maxwell Tower, where Devin lived, maintained the deepest commitment to the preservation of interior as well as exterior cleanliness. The specks of soot clung to the accumulation of frost. Penetrated by a virus, Devin thought, but out of sheer boredom he welcomed the possible intrusion.
The interface image on the tabletop, static for the moment, waited for new instructions from any master along the vast global network. The digital butler Miles continued to remind Devin that it was waiting, "Welcome to Transglobal, the world's source for energy innovation. Our new father of the future leading us to greener paths of new found energy freedom..."
Devin scratched frost shavings from the base of the sill, "I'm not entirely sure if that was the wisest course of action, Miles." The Twenty first century digital bobble head responded, "Welcome to Transglobal, the worlds source for energy innovation. Our new father of the future leading us to greener paths of new found energy freedom."
But for Devin, the corporate butler was far more significant in the scheme of his present delirium. For the moment Miles became capable of so much more, "Not to worry. I'll handle the inquiry and the transaction you assigned to me, Devin. Think of me as the little monkey that covers your exposed little corporate ass" Devin pondered how every negotiation within the structure represented a measure to maintain power on one hand, and a reasonable amount of autonomy on the other, but he knew that 'autonomy' was simply an illusion. Flickering through his mind, Miles continued, "but the threat of a hostile aquisition is not exactly on your mind at this point, Why did Monika leave, Devin?"
Devin closed his weary eyes, weary from thinking about the deal, the furture of his employment at Transglobal, the hollow vague empty feeling he could not articulate, and finally his last conversation with Monika, as it flickered through the synapses in his mind, a deep sense of loss that eradicated all other thoughts at the present moment.
Placing his arms around Monika just days before, the warm embrace began to materialize. Devin often had premonitions concerning future business, but the behavior of women always eluded him, somehow. Yet despite this genetic flaw, something the corporation ignored, he always turned a significant profit in the end. He didn't care as long as Transglobal prospered, and his bank accounts were filled.
Starring down through the haze from his balcony, Devin spied the the human insects converging and scattering through a dense layer of soot. He smiled at the secret of his success, premonitions that manifested, that actually came true were a clear indication of his genetic superiority, like the dominant energy multinational, Transglobal. You either had the psychic gift, or you never will...
He closed his eyes again, concentrating on Monika's smooth waistline, particularly where his arms rested on her hips, and then suddenly the image shattered from the automated response of the real world, a world drowning in repetition and boredom, "Welcome to Transglobal, the worlds source for energy innovation. Our new father of the future leading us to greener paths of new found energy freedom." Devin took a deep breath, feeling the subtle cool air penetrate his lungs, followed by the invisible soot of potentially cancer causing agents. Devin closed his eyes, once again pulling the memory from the deep abyss of his subconscious...
"What do you see?" But Monika new the answer, even before Devin asked the question. Together they stood at the alter of their most recent acquisition, the mass produced digital sculpture, "Pleasure Dome." Bathed in a menagerie of light, shifting geometric patterns emerged briefly, paused for a split second, and Monika responded warmly, "You know what I see, powerful, redemptive, and all forgiving. Despite this elaborate display, our redeemer always shows us the way...but not for you, never you. Why do you resist, so?"
Devin dropped his arms, "I have to see it, feel it, you know experience whatever becomes a belief is not something simply imagined. At any given second, of any given day creation and destruction occur throughout the universe. How can anyone find a pattern in any of this?" As she gently cupped his face, "Time, past, present and future, it makes no difference."
The shifting colors, now geodesic paused again, but only for a split second. Mile's soothing voice echoed from the corporate server, "Administration welcome screen. Corporate officers...welcome to Transglobal. Select the starting point of your tour. Devin emerged from his memory, and feelings of despair, "Fuck off Miles." But in his mind the delirum he experienced dug in with sharper hooks, as the image of Miles systematically reorganized pixel by pixel until it emerged as Monika in a chic blue business suit.
He felt the touch of her digital fingertips as she pulled her hand from his chin, "Fuck does not become you, dear. Is that what you see in the mural, neon shapes that display a shiny, blistering digital fuck?"
"No, I see geometric patterns, the same patterns you and I saw the day we purchased this meaningless monstrosity from the company catalog. Sadly, you never see the artist's signature anymore, only corporate logos." Beneath the name "Pleasure Dome", it read ArtPixel 2015, a subsidiary of Transglobal. Monica smiled, "Nothing can prevent the hand of god, except your apathetic denial...goodbye, Devin."
Reality sharpened its teeth, "Welcome to Transglobal, the world's source for energy innovation. Our new father of the future leading us to greener paths of new found energy freedom..." Devin continued starring at the human insects, so many stories below, content to remain superior and alone...
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