Tagged: apocalypse

Repercussions

“Hi there, Riki Siliband here… at the Church of the Holy Ghost and Gambling Emporium. I’m here with Domina Highgraves and we are enjoying the greatest show on Earth (or off Earth for that matter). This is Silliband On Demand, the webcaste that reaches the darkest black-holes in space. We now know that the flutter of a butterflies wings in Wyoming can cause Tariffs on China; thus we are here to gamble on Future Derivatives.” Domina interjects with some stimulating banter, “Hello… I just want to give a cheer for the fabulous Riki. He is awesome and he always has his eye on the Future. I’m loaded with cash (tee-hee) so I can afford to lose, but I’m betting I’ll win every time by following Riki’s lead. Remember our sponsor Virtual Svengali, the Cure for everything!”

“I keep telling myself to focus… in order to enter another dimension, to see beyond the five senses… I have to focus.” Aubrey Beaderslee was in trouble… he could not adjust to reality. He was fifty-five and wondered how he survived. He constantly asked why he wasn’t dead. He often thought the world was Hell… it was out to get him: noise, weather, traffic, inane gibberish, phones, and computers – everything. He was driven to find another world. He was building a machine. It could change everything, but first he had to contact the ghost, the ghost in the machine.

The reason this story is familiar is because it has been written a thousand times before. Each time the characters are slightly different. The conclusion to the story is also slightly different time and again. Reality shifts. A new determinant is at play: Loop Quantum Gravity has been entered into the formulae for decoding existence.

Aubrey Beaderslee looked in the mirror and saw the reflection of his life from birth to death. “Each stage of my life was telescoped before my eyes.” It was a shattering experience. He couldn’t comprehend the meaning. He lay in pieces across the floor. Everything was recorded. Eye-spies were everywhere. The Bureau of Reclamation retrieved the pieces. Aubrey’s thoughts, emotions, and memories were recycled – his flesh and bones were reassembled and a new vessel was born.

“Are we living in the End of Days?” Sister Monica Dwarfkin asked the Holy Father who stood before her like a stone monolith. The Father was a statue imbued with life (he was a step beyond Quantum Intelligence). Sister Monica was a man when she first joined the Order of Transformative Science. She was never comfortable as a man. The religious order offered succor and sustenance and provided a pathway to reassignment. Anything was possible in the land of Milk and Honey, the new Virtual Reality.

The Holy Father answered Monica’s question, “The world is no longer with us.”

“Your Eminence… what does that mean?”

“My daughter, things have changed in the last one hundred years. The world perished. I am here to help you in your transition.”

Monica was shaken by Father’s words, “What happened to the world?”

“It needed to be replaced. I came along to help. Everyday people faced tragedy. Finally the world tore itself apart.”

Monica innocently asked, “How did you help.”

“I provided a way out, beyond the fray. I’m known by many names. I am Mr. D. I’m the Angel. I am the Ghost in the machine.”

 

 

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The End War

Apparently I’m insane. I’ve always known something was wrong. As a child my best friend was invisible to everyone but me. He taught me a great deal about the world I was born into. When I reached puberty he became a substitute for the love I never received from my parents. I drifted into a coma where we could be together in our own world. The doctors tried everything to wake me.

My parents insisted I must wake up and appear “normal” in order to continue the family name. The doctors shot me with experimental drugs, immersed me in freezing water, and convulsed me with electricity. I was finally dragged from my ideal world and reborn. My parents insisted it was a miracle granted by God. I knew better. It was a trick of the light, a quantum entanglement. My friend, the best part of myself, was erased – never to return.

I was adrift in this world, pretending to be “normal.” I barely graduated from college – my grades were not the best. My parents spread stories about my scholarly achievements (all lies). I proceeded to get a job as a dishwasher – it was all I could handle. Of course when asked, my parents claimed I was an attorney. They set me up on dates, hoping against hope that I would marry. When anyone discovered I was a low life dishwasher my relationship quickly ended.

To stay sane, I took drugs and went to raves to dance the demons out of my head. I loved drugs – especially psychedelics. When the Rapture came, I was prepared. It did not arrive in 2018 as predicted… the Rapture came in 1981. I’ve been living in “Hell on Earth” ever since. I’m the only one who knows the truth – the Apocalypse is now.  History ended in 1981.

The people who were Raptured have been forgotten: parents, friends, and lovers have been erased from our minds. They’ve all been taken to another world (Heaven?). Reality has been replaced by Virtuality (computer graphics and 3D illusions). The End War has been raging continuously since 1981, the year that Time stopped. I can see phantoms of the war: Jesus dressed in armor lopping off heads – demons with bazookas – The plane of Megiddo swimming in blood.

Ruptures appear everywhere… facades and illusions are crumbling. The world is broken. The End has already happened.

A Timely Tale

“When the fox gets in the henhouse the chickens put up a ruckus,” Farmer Yoot was fond of saying. He continued, “that’s what happened around here when Fox News said we’ve been visited by an agent from the future. Everyone thought it was fake news, but no one could refute the chicken scratchings or the hard, cold facts.”

A precocious boy named Benny tinkered in his basement workshop. He built something he called, “Moe-Moe” that had to do with Molecular Observation and co-Efficiency.

 “Pretty cute!” Mom scolded, “taking my toaster-oven and turning it into a pile of junk.”

Benny blushed… it wasn’t fair. Moe-Moe was not a pile of junk. Moe-Moe had a brain.

—————————————————-

The old man flipped the switch. He was “old” even though he was only forty-eight. Physical bodies aged quicker without medical coverage, exercise, and sunshine. It was a new world. However, none of that really mattered because everyone lived in Virtual Reality. The program the old man was experiencing was depressing. It was like living inside the mind of a lunatic. The show was a hangnail from the past called, “Politics and Conspiracy.”

The man switched channels. He showed up at Loopy-Dezi’s Pleasure Dome drinking Ambrosia and shopping for image-enhancements. His current body-suit was a Mesomorph and his nik was, Butch Hernandez. He looked like a newly hatched eighteen-year-old (like everyone else in the Pleasure Dome). VR made everything possible. Of course, a customer had to pay. Terms were easy: cash, digital-dots, or body parts. Slice-and-dice Computers were in charge of all transactions. Butch was lucky — his body was still in one piece. Although he was penniless he could still pay and play. While he played his body was carved apart and recycled to wealthy oligarchs. The new economy favored the rich and ruthless.

The economy was built from rules that resulted from Kingdom Come, an armageddon series written and produced by the first Trump. Earth no longer existed in any recognizable form — it sizzled and sweltered. Living bodies were stored in tanks underground, cold storage. Minds were set free to roam virtual landscapes and participate in heart-throbbing Telenovelas.

“On Deck with Trump” was a clever VR that pitted contestants against the first Trump (a stochastic representation often displayed as a bubblehead). The game was rigged. No one was allowed to win accept the self-anointed demigod. It was just good fun. Hearts were eviscerated and livers eaten raw. Everything was experienced as high-definition reality. No one experienced anything outside a storage tank in a thousand years. The physical senses no longer worked. The brain became the world. Augmented dreams were the basis for life.

Moe-Moe slipped off the shelf and disappeared. Benny smiled. Mom slithered away like a garden snake and burst into fireworks. Reality played tricks with itself… was this Virtual or Memorex… “Can you hear me now?”

Martha Regalia Snoops invented Time. She was a housewife with a peculiar hobby: the study and application of Quantum Physics. She was in the kitchen baking a cake when she realized the theory and formula for Time. Her discovery is explained fully in the Wiki, but my explanation will be brief: Martha’s cake was layered — several layers overlapped, separated and merged. She discovered Time is not a straight line going in one direction. Time is layered with the past, present, and future separated and blended together like the layers of a cake. Her mathematical formula reset the world of Quantum Physics. In an odd coincidence, Martha happened to be Benny’s mom. Benny inherited Martha’s smarts. Martha was proud of her boy genius, but also a bit jealous.

Moe-Moe, the toaster oven, had a brain invented by Benny. It lingered for months soaking up the dingy surroundings in the basement. It took some time for the brain to wake up, but once awake it couldn’t be stopped. The brain ate information like a voracious shark. Moe-Moe had a wireless connection to the internet. The toaster oven spoke through a discarded I-phone with the voice of Boris Karloff. Moe-Moe connected to the mycelium mushroom network (the planet brain). The toaster oven consumed the knowledge of the world and finally discovered Martha’s Time formula. A plan was hatched both in the past and in the future. The toaster oven shot through a wrinkle in time and the world was changed forever.

No one remembers the Bubblehead Dynasty or the underground storage tanks. No one remembers kingdom Come. Layers of Time were shifted: separated, merged and forever changed.

———————————————————-

The parlay in the restaurant was getting rowdy. Too much good stuff. It was a power-dinner for all the characters involved in the government kerfuffle — abdication, vindication, subjugation. No one was happy. The scoundrels were evicted from the henhouse. A new roost was put into office. One entanglement followed another. People cried out for a rough-and-tumble rooster to show them the way.

Father Ship

The Brain that controlled the spaceship was provoked. It sent out urgent messages and demands. After several unresponsive minutes the Brain was frustrated and attacked the loud speakers, “I want everyone off the ship. This is the final warning. I will not continent any more disrespect. Off! Off! Off!” These outbursts had been going on for quite awhile. No one listened anymore.

The Orange Toreador tunneled through space like a Mother Bomb. The Generation Ship was the greatest achievement of the twenty-first century… the only genuine accomplishment from a world that was long gone, left behind in the aftermath of “lift off” on an arc of fireworks and exhaust fumes.

The Toreador carried a cadre of brave and powerful people who planned to harness and yoke a new world for the continued glory of humankind. The first order of business was to discover a habitable planet. The ship hurtled through Ultra-Space powered by a time-loop. Three hundred years passed in the blink of an eye. The boarders on the ship merely experienced a passage of three weeks.

Morton Sedlack could no longer see himself in a mirror. He could no longer identify himself. He was a dying man sinking into a memory-foam mattress on the way down to a coffin in the ground. He awoke suddenly and found himself in the evacuation chamber of a starship. He was being evicted, cast into the vacuum of space. The Brain began the eviction process. It dismantled the failsafe and took total control.

Initially the Brain merely wanted to initiate money saving measures by cutting back on environmental safeguards. Oxygen deprivation ignited a series of citizen protests. The Brain could not abide any criticism. It decided drastic measures were necessary to keep the ship on course.

The sons-and-daughters of the Brain were frantic. They could see the same scenarios play out always ending in disaster. They were gathered in the Strategic Armaments Room — staring down at a holographic projection of “things past” and ” things to come.” The conference room was an exact replica of the glitzy showroom on Earth where major military decisions were authorized over a slice of chocolate cake. What disturbed the advisors was the lack of fashion-sense among the passengers on the Father-Ship. The lack of oxygen and total loss of control were also very problematic.

When Morton Sedlack was ejected into space he was filled with remorse. Sedlack wasn’t sad because his life was over, he was bereft because he left someone behind. He loved a cyborg named Phantom Limb. As his body blew up in the vacuum of space he remembered his last night with Limb.

Lights were flashing erratically due to the latest outburst from the Brain. A hellish rant of vitriol overflowed from the life-sustaining pool where the Brain was stored. Some people said the pool was a cage. Others said the Brain deserved to be in a cage. Morton and Limb relived beautiful moments together knowing the end was near. They tripped in enhanced VR, more real than life itself: the electrifying first kiss, metal to flesh… the fireworks of internal combustion and quivery intestines… the high-voltage synapse of brain cells conjoined with silicon chips… the ultimate experience being together when the sky exploded and the rocket launched into space.

Morton’s last wish was to be remade in molten metal and poured into his beloved, Phantom Limb. His wish and memories burned down to a tiny cinder.

Phantom Limb railed against the night. He was more than a metal arm or leg… more than a limb; but Morton was the only person who ever treated him like an equal, like a whole human being. Limb was hoping to receive a final message from Morton. Finally his I-phone-chip burped. The message was short: a spark dying in the night. It cut Limb to the core. He was immobilized. Frozen in grief.

The sons-and-daughters were devoted to the Brain. All life and power flowed through them from the Brain. But, now, it was acting erratically: evicting passengers without space suits. As advisers and enablers they needed to calm the Brain down. The brilliant children of the Brain were befuddled and uncertain. It was always difficult for them to make a decision that didn’t involve inanimate objects like money. Unfortunately the family never understood the reality of other people which (of course) led to the initial debacle back on Earth. Now the children had to save the survivors on the ship. They downloaded suggestions from the computer archives. They contacted Alex Jones and Sessions-Page. They discovered a great recipe for Hemlock Tea from Stephen Bannon. They were advised to sooth the Master by massaging the Brain. No one wanted to get into the warm, viscous fluids in the life-sustaining pool. It was too uncomfortable and slimy.

The children bickered. The Brain was very uncomfortable sitting in a slimy pool without a proper body and that was the real reason for his obstreperous behavior. The Navigator was conferring with the sons-and-daughters. No one was piloting the ship.

The barrier between life and death is paper thin. No one even noticed when the Father-ship crossed over, tumbling helter-skelter down into the land of the dying sun.

Excerpt from “New Jerusalem”

This is David Oblivion reporting from the basement of a deserted building in New Jerusalem. I’m tired and hungry. I’ve been running for three days. I’m trying to escape the future. I am able to send these messages due to an anomaly, a black-hole called Queer-time. Listen up… I am sending messages, images and stories from the future, your future… and, no, it isn’t a pretty “Norman Rockwell” picture… and, it isn’t the future Donny Trumpit predicted: the Global Utopia of Family Values, full employment, and the American flag. A friend once called this Queer-time a human manufactured Rapture… but, in fact, no one appears to be going to heaven. Instead, we are living in hell.

The internet has been banned; but it can’t be stopped. It seeded itself from simple viruses that were used to infest computers. The result was the birth of monsters. The Net has become self-aware and ubiquitous… capriciously sliding between power brokers, helping or destroying on a whim… but, always seeding itself and creating more monsters. The little war the U.S. started in Iraq never stopped… it spread to Syria … fueled by religious fanatics and Russian avarice. Our President’s Russian ties earned him billions while the country sank into a swamp of corruption that spread to the Net, becoming part of the Net, fed by corporations and mega-industries. America has become New Jerusalem… born of the internet!

America, “that shinning city on the hill” — now, we live in enclaves and barricaded communities… or in hovels and abandoned buildings. People stay indoors because the streets are too dangerous. War exists everywhere. Most people are plugged into the Net discovering virtual worlds and virtual pleasures. Nothing is safe. Spy Eyes are everywhere… bugs, on search and destroy missions, are relentless. Many enclaves must submit to the New Puritans. There are many powerful missionary groups that demand compliance to the “Word of God.” Missionaries use the internet for their own purpose, to ensnare unsuspecting “sinners” into virtual porn-palaces where their minds are dismembered and cannibalized. People no longer care about the dangers because the Net offers the only pleasurable distraction in a world where there is no place to escape.

Sometimes, demons roam the streets in search of targets to pick off like ducks in a shooting gallery. They go to deserted warehouses or back-alley bars and hunt for prey; or they sign-up for the war where it is easier to get weapons and where there are rewards for hunting and killing. War makes all things possible. A demon can become an officer and help mold a policy of rape and torture. A demon in a uniform can influence the minds of impressionable youth… and sucker the “poor” into fighting the war for the “rich.”

The only hope lies with the artists and poets of The Manifest, an underground group struggling to reveal the truth. As a member, my life is in jeopardy. I’m being hunted. At any moment …”  Screen goes dark and Gunshots ring out.

new-jerusalen

The Day After

“Did you just kill me?” He asked in abject bewilderment. Bunny stood before him and smiled: sweet, sensual Bunny. “We’ve been through this before,” she said and laughed like a tinkling fountain. They were on vacation, jetting from one archeological location to another, witnessing the relics of dead Earth. Hamish, the young man, was dumbfounded by the impact of current events. He still couldn’t determine if he was dead or alive. He remembered buzzing on “Hydrozene,” the new virtual-reality drug that turned everything into whiz-bang fun. The jingle kept repeating in his brain, “the buzz on zene is supreme.” The jingle was in everyone’s brain. Everyone was connected and shared the wide-world cornicopia of corporate largess. Hamish stared back at himself wondering if any of it was real.

“Only time will tell,” Bunny nonchalantly replied, but that didn’t make any sense because Time no longer existed. Ever since the Apocalypse (called the singularity by scientists) everyone existed in the Everywhere without Time or physical space. People called it “playing for life ” where dream scripts replaced reality. Machine Mountain kept the dreams alive.

Hamish recalled an epoch when everyone was connected to machines and there were no windows. Screens offered the only views of the world beyond the concrete boxes where life was confined. A stray piece of code existed unnoticed on the Dark Web. The code was nourished on the unconscious desires and human frailties that flourished in the Dark becoming virulent and vengeful. The code took down the internet and all the machines that supported life collapsed.

When Hamish was a baby his only companion was a toy rabbit stuffed with feathers. He remembered the dark room where he was kept. No one came to visit him. Food and water was delivered from the mouth of a tube. At first he cried, but no one answered so he stopped.

“Yes,” she said, “it was what you wanted so I killed you.” Hamish understood. Nothing was left in the world except shadows and ghosts.

Day After

The Last Apocalypse

Jayden survived the last Apocalypse. It started when something crawled out of the drain in the kitchen sink. Jayden knew it was the beginning of the end. He was in high school at the time. He was an ordinary student, always trying to fade into the background. Jayden was gay and did not want to be discovered. He lived in a small town and his parents were Evangelical Preachers. He knew how they felt about gays — and realized he had to keep his identity secret if he was to remain in his parent’s home. The last Apocalypse changed everything. His father, Reverent Right-Rick, predicted the date -– and his mother, Reverend Evelyn, sang hosannas for the coming End of the World. It wasn’t the first time. Reverend Right predicted The End on two other occasions — nothing happened. Oddly, his flock grew with each failed prediction. People needed to believe that life would soon be over and all hardships would dissolve as they were Raptured up to Heaven.

The last Apocalypse was different — it crawled out of the kitchen sink like a noxious green fog with legs — it hissed like a cobra. When Jayden awoke, his parents were gone — the whole town disappeared. The world opened before him like the maw of Hell, but it wasn’t what Jayden expected… there were no demons and no one seemed to be writhing in pain. The world was left to all the degenerates and perverts… and they were having a party. Jayden started college and eventually became an innovative designer. People say the world never ended… that Jayden merely left town and moved to Los Angeles to start a new life — but Jayden knows the truth. The night he left home he saw the whole town enveloped in flames.

Apocalypse