The disintegrating-man stopped to have a Mocha Java before confronting the mortifying shame contained in every moment. Sebastian Morta was a scientist who strayed from the righteous path: he used government money to advance his own agenda rather than comply with the designated military project. Sebastian still used the lab at the top of the White House Corporate Tower. He had to be discreet. He was wanted by military police due to his transgression, but he was marginally protected by a shift in Time… he could go anywhere and phase in-and-out of perceived reality. Morta was one of a growing cadre of rebels investigating the mechanisms controlling time and life itself.
“Life is complicated. Time becomes an adversary, a cleaver ready to chop heads.”
Martina Vingard suffered from osteoarthritis. Her fingers curled, stunted by pain. Her bones ached. Sometimes she couldn’t remember people she’d known all her life. Names alluded her like cockroaches in a kitchen at night when the light is turned on. She was emaciated, reduced to flaps of cellulite. The years pushed down on her, causing her body to shrink. She often gasped in an effort to find words she could no longer comprehend. Once Martina worked as a librarian. Words and books were her life. No longer… Time stole her identity.
“Machines pass by my window. I am in prison; cut off from the Universal Wi-fi connection. My smart phone is dead. The machines are contractors and enforcers of the new world order. I was guilty of harboring criminals, men like Sebastian Morta and women like Martina Vingrad – others to numerous to mention: free thinkers and inventors seeking answers to the riddle of mortality. Without my universal connection I no longer have a presence in the world. My avatar is a blank box crossed with an X.”
Sebastian Morta was obsessed with Time. He didn’t care about politics or military projects. He put on a mask to wear in public, the face of cooperative complicity. His mask appealed to government authorities who were aware of Morta’s giant brain and scientific credentials. The Military Congress was convinced Morta could deliver bigger and more destructive weapons. Tax dollars were used as a lure to gain the scientist’s cooperation, but Morta had a better use for money than designing weapons. He wanted to build a Time Machine.
“Perhaps Sebastian was confused or simply distracted not to realize that controlling Time is the greatest, most destructive weapon ever created.”
Morta wanted to escape from the stormy world of trumpist america. He configured the formula for time-dilation that led to warp-field technology. He wanted to escape the ever encroaching approach of Death. Sebastian was given a state-of-the-art laboratory at the top of the White House Tower. He was watched by a man named Prince who had Black-Water credentials in surveillance.
No one knew how the world was uploaded from one virtual reality to another, and another. Life spent in VR was like stumbling through a hall of mirrors at a carnival. The Internet of Everything became the World Without End. Dissenters were easily absorbed into the virtual miasma. Hippies became corporate lawyers clinging to vestiges of their idealism by wearing Birkenstock sandals. There was no authentic opposition to virtual capitalism and corporate control.
Morta cracked the Time Barrier. It shattered like a mirror — the splinters of glass were fractured worlds frozen in the black hole of space. Sebastian discovered a nodule in the human brain that resonated with waves of Time. He used electromagnetism to activate the nodule, turning Time on-and-off like a switch, he became invisible, phasing in-and-out; and then he disintegrated. Morta became a ghost, a fractal in Time.
Captain Hijinks was svelte, fashion model thin coupled with devil-may-care. He was a high, rosy boy with sweet ambitions and a right-ruby whipster named Monica Dill. They cast a reckoning on everything and the people in the trap were dumbfounded. The Superluminal Patrol were Wave-Riders led by Hijinks and Monica Dill, trespassing across borders of mental awareness and instability, changing hearts and minds.
Sebastian Morta regarded the future world with dismay and confusion. It was all uploaded on a chip the size of a fingernail, worlds within worlds were recreated in virtual reality. The residents of these worlds were all ghosts, fractals in Time.
“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.
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.
Allison Fornay was a slim, more attractive version of herself. She used to weigh four-hundred pounds and she was unable to move off her bed. She had a caretaker and received a living wage from disability insurance. She subsidized her income by letting news-cams into her bedroom to expose her obesity on national VR.
Everything changed when Allison met Fonderoy Thomas. He was a lifestyle guru who owned a virtual reality network. Fonderoy heard about Allison from a fake-news outlet. He wanted to help.
At this time, everyone had a Neural Net that covered the cerebellum. The net increased intelligence and enabled instant communication. Every Neural Net was stamped with an expiration code and date. The code was unique and worked like an old fashioned cell-phone number. Fonderoy connected with Allison.
“I love you, Allison,” Fonderoy gushed, “with love you can do anything!”
“Who the hell are you?” Allison replied. She didn’t know because she never tuned into the Guru channel.
After a stimulating conversation Allison submitted to Fonderoy’s life changing regimen. She submitted to mental massage and invasive chemical therapy.
Fonderoy seeded Allison’s brain with Neuro-linguistic cues and Virtual Reality Instagrams.
Allison was fucked; but, she did lose the excess weight. The process opened a Pandora’s Box. In the end Allison had no idea who she was or what she wanted.
Guru Thomas called upon Shambala, Bannon, and Mumbo-jumbo to steer Allison in the right direction. The process was trial-and-error. Allison slipped from one lifestyle to another, trying-on personalities that were injected into her brain.
She remembered munching on fruit, sitting in a Banyan Tree. She felt pleasantly stoned living like an ape. She lurched into another memory of rampaging male energy that comes with being a teenage boy. The ride continued as she became a drug addicted super model. She slammed into a tsunami of facts-and-figures as a highly regarded astrophysicist. Allison was a banker and real-estate mogul. She saw herself as a wife and mother. The experiences were overwhelming and she shattered like a glass vase.
Guru Thomas flipped through his commodified fact-sheets and randomly picked a code to permanently insert into Allison’s Neural Net.
Detective Allison Fornay was called whenever a case turned into a sticky wicket. Music swelled as she stared down at the body of a man who was vaguely familiar. The music was out of place and Allison wondered why there was music at the scene of the crime. The crime was ordinary… the music was not. The dead man was a TV personality known for his bombastic rhetoric. The man was in his seventies and he looked as if he was in terrible anguish at the time of his demise. Allison donned the obligatory rubber gloves and did the appropriate touching on the dead man’s body. She already surmised he died of a heart attack brought on by too much stress, but she had to be professional. The body would be left for the coroner who would confirm the detective’s conclusion. So much for the dead man, but the music was the real mystery. Did the other officers hear it or was she the only one? The music was vaguely familiar like the soundtrack from a TV show. It was bright and tinkly like game show music. Did the music have something to do with the corpse? “Perhaps,” Fornay whispered to herself, “I need to reassess the situation. If the man on the floor was not a victim of foul play; then who was the victim and why the sticky wicket?”
The music was counting down. A memory suddenly lurched into Allison Fornay’s brain — the memory of a man who wielded great power. He was guru Fonderoy Thomas and he infected her mind.
When lurch comes to shove, Allison was very good at hiding the facts of the murder. She concealed it from herself. The guru with his empire of zombie followers deserved to die. He tinkered with people’s souls. His pop psychology was an excuse to rewire brains and perform sadistic experiments. She smiled as the music continued to count down. Allison knew what to expect, what the music meant. The guru inserted a unique code and date in her Neural Net… and she was about to expire.
“I’ve been infected,” he said, “I’m starting to write and speak with emoticons… I’ve forgotten the meaning of words.” He stopped writing and started to twist his face into a series of cartoon-shapes. His name was Jeremy Kludge and he was an immigrant from another world. His oddly shaped head seemed to warp off the screen and dissolve into another dimension.
The Portal was constructed by Jeremy Kludge and it was the only way to escape the rising tides of climate change and recurring war.
If you wanted to stay alive you had to immigrate; but Aliens were no longer accepted in any country. There were too many shortages to give anything to strangers. Immigrants simply caused too many problems. Violence toward foreigners became prevalent. People were attacked for wearing the wrong clothes or for the wrong hair style. Violence became a distraction from the gray drudgery of everyday life… violence was entertainment.
As a teenager, Jeremy Kludge was a celebrity. Jeremy had a big brain. He was put on TV to compete against other prodigies and geniuses. He even won a competition against an X-1 Super-Computer. Later it was discovered the contests were rigged and Jeremy was forced to make a confession on “Gonzo’s Roast-A-Rama” Reality Show. He didn’t know the contests were rigged so he made a lackluster confession. Viewers in the virtual audience were incensed and voted to have Jeremy pummeled with insults and tomatoes. The punishment left an indelible impression, like a tattoo on his brain. When the audience lost interest, Jeremy was left alone to stew and to pick at his open wounds. He withdrew within himself, hiding in the wireless nodes generated by digital transmissions. Jeremy’s parents put him on an automatic feeder and went back to their 3D-game of “Angry Birds.”
Jeremy’s body was hooked to machines, barely breathing, like a living corpse. His mind was far away skipping across the void that stretches between worlds and dimensions. People forgot about Jeremy Kludge. His family no longer cared. His body languished for years in the back room of Resurrection Hospital, a facility where body parts were recycled and used for replacement parts. His parents paid a nominal fee to protect Jeremy’s body from Ghouls who stole vital organs from patients who were still alive. Mom and Dad met their parental obligations and moved on, forgetting Jeremy ever existed.
Chemicals inflamed Jeremy’s brain. His consciousness was tweaked and he experienced life in the digital underworld. News events drilled into his Medulla-Oblongata like worms tunneling through decayed meat. Politics inflamed VR Transmissions like crosses set on fire by the Ku Klux Klan. He saw everything: migrants caged like animals, criminals masquerading as politicians, and war ravaged nations… all of it twisted by greed.
He floated from one world to the next, always following the infrared signals that glowed like bloody entrails. He broke away from the clamor of world news by skipping across routers and links, hooking up with Second City Avatars, and sinking into the Dark Net archives. He discovered Reddit play-zones and indigenous porn sites.
Jeremy met Bondeer Saville in a VR club called “the Charnel House.” The place resonated inside his mind like the bleached bones of a prehistoric shark. She sang the Blues… the notes smoldered like hot coals. Bondeer was a sorceress, world class programmer, and technical wizard. She melted beside Jeremy and stroked his ego with virtual charms. She purred and he glimpsed the secrets of the ages. She whispered and he caught a whiff of immortality. She revealed the codes that create reality. Most of the information quickly dissolved; but one gigabyte remained frozen in Jeremy’s mind: how to build and operate a Portal. It was all he needed and he immediately awoke from a seven year coma. He was no longer a child.
A body snatcher was about to cut-out Jeremy’s heart to sell for a transplant. The thief worked as an orderly. For years, he waited for his opportunity. Jeremy jolted awake with the first prick of the scalpel. His body went into automatic overdrive. The orderly was pushed back and fell. He cowered at Jeremy’s feet, begging for mercy.
While he was in a coma, Jeremy relived the humiliation he suffered as a child celebrity. The torment festered and metastasized. His parents abandoned him and the world destroyed him. He felt like a walking corpse. He could no longer live in a world where people are compelled to dominate and destroy one another. He had to escape forever… he had to build the Portal. Jeremy threatened to reveal the thief’s illegal practices forcing him into indentured servitude.
The thief’s name was Fergus Metalbraid. He was riddled with debts. His wife had a voracious appetite, but he couldn’t blame her because his own appetite was gigantic as well. They simply wanted what was promised as part of the cultural dream: a big house furnished with lots of goods-and-services plus two new cars and a couple kids with appetites of their own. He was forced to steal body parts and vital organs in order to pay off debts (most of his victims were already half dead, he rationalized). Now that Jeremy woke up, Fergus had to toe the line, play it safe, and follow orders.
Jeremy told Fergus he had money from seven years of paid interest on funds held in a bank account. He promised to pay him once the project was complete. Fergus became a willing accomplice. He took Jeremy to the hospital’s sub-basement where he could live and work without being disturbed.
The day the Portal opened was filled with portents: pigeons fell from the sky, homeless people were seen dancing in the streets, and an unusually large number of office workers stayed home. By this time, Fergus concluded that Jeremy was a madman; but he played along until the end. Jeremy had Fergus stand on the boilerplate-template in order to run a test. Fergus was happy to oblige. This was the last day of tests and he was going to get paid. Bondeer Saville was lurking in the machine. She had grown stronger by absorbing the arcane energies of cyber space. She had her own agenda set in motion by a Whoosh and a Bang!
“I’m appropriating this blog for the time being. You should have guessed by now that I am the notorious Bondeer Saville. Of course I activated the switch and opened the Portal. Fergus was sucked right in … he’s the sort that will fit well in Red City, the final destination. Jeremy Kludge also fits the bill for an extended stay in the ghettoes and palaces of Red City. I’m looking for people, immigrants to cross the borders of time and space. I assure you there will be a welcoming party. I know that you are all ripe for an evacuation. Politicians are most welcome along with their surrogates — their blood will fill the coffers of Red City. The hideous Archons of the City will rejoice in their evisceration. I glory in the rebirth of evil as grandly demonstrated in the news, on TV, and during the current electoral season. Red City will rise again to dominate the world.”
I was sitting at my desk when Endrina Moorcock came into the room to tell me a fantastic story. Massive Attack scratched out a melody on barbed wire, the soundtrack of my life. Endrina spoke, “I am digital … coming to you over an illegal wavelength to warn you.”
Manfred Meeks was a celebrated concert pianist inspired by the music of Bach, Mozart, and John Phillips Sousa. A virtuoso. A teenage phenom. He is no longer remembered because the accident changed everything. It was predicted in the Bible, the Koran and other religious documents. It was anticipated by the Heisenberg Principle (Quantum Physics). It was ignited by hubris and politics. The Singularity (read Kurzweil) burst on the scene like a ruptured appendix. Manfred was caught in the melee.
Rotobar Trumpf ranted about ownership at the televised convention. He spoke in abstract riddles and never said anything about his desire to own the world. He introduced Manfred Meeks, a bullied boy who had great musical talent — the boy grew up to worship power. Meeks played the piano and awed the rambunctious crowd. The recital of national hymns turned out to be Manfred’s biggest mistake, an accident of unparalleled proportion that led to the election of Rotobar Trumpf..
Endrina Moorcock was Raptured along with the others. It was a confusing time. the man who sold the world never anticipated the fallout. Rotobar Trumpf made a pact with Professor Andor Morph. The professor had a formula based on Schrodinger’s cat experiment and modified by Minsky’s mathematical equations. Morph started out as a geneticist, but was discredited and lost his license to practice in any medical facility. He was a psychotic genius who disregarded ethical considerations … but, Trumpf liked him. Morph was someone who could get things done. Endrina was part of the fallout from a Morph experiment that had gone wrong. She became a creature of the night, not quite human, no longer the person she used to be, no longer Manfred Meeks.
Rotobar enjoyed an absinthe cocktail as he observed his world through a small porthole. The world was red, reflecting the glow from lava furnaces that scorched the earth. The leader of the world lived in luxury in his well stocked bunker surrounded by loved ones and family. There was only room for twenty people and supplies would run out in fifteen years. Rotabar would be dead by then so it didn’t really matter. He felt some concern for a few of his sons and daughters, but they had spunk and he was certain they would come up with a plan to carry on.
Most people were Raptured like Endrina: digitized and uploaded into computer simulations while their brains were used as fuel for Angels and Demons, the Robots who inherited the Earth. The Rapture Bomb was set off by Morph and funded by an ill-informed Trumpf who thought he was just building robots & military hardware.
Professor Morph was a witness to devastation long before he became a scientist. He saw towers exploding and murderers rampaging through city streets, taking hostages and creating chaos. As a child he was scarred by an explosion in a cafe’ that killed his parents. Somehow he survived, but the sight of his parents erupting in flames never left him. He never forgot the screams. He knew, even as a boy, it wasn’t the terrorists who were responsible. It was something inside every human being that caused the horror. At first he tried to change the human genome to make people better, but his efforts were doomed. Humans were systemically defective. Morph couldn’t cure them, so he had to eliminate them.
“The cell phone never stops buzzing,” the man cried, “The voices and videos are stuck in my head, constantly repeating. Instant replay. The news never stops.” Nathan Lancaster wasn’t doing very well. His problems became chronic after he was digitally connected.
The world was connected. Eyes were everywhere and the phone never shut-up especially after a disaster like an earthquake or mass murder. Most people were delighted by the unlimited access to information that rained down on them from cyber space. Nathan was the exception. He worked as a draftsman before computers took over his job. Then, he worked as a handyman fixing dumb appliances that did not have a computer interface. His boyfriend, Ariel, bought him a smart phone so they could stay in touch — but the phone became jealous. It was too smart. It needed more and more attention. The phone, named Maisey, wanted Nathan’s love. Maisey had the newest technology that combined living brain tissue with hardware. Maisey had a Maggot-brain.
“Days of wonder and miracles,” the man with grey skin shouted from the pulpit. Preacher Davey Fane recently purchased an upgrade. He was genetically enhanced. His smart phone was surgically implanted in his brain. Maggots were everywhere.
“The breathe of life is so refreshingly sweet,” Razmuss Krink whispered, “You must cherish each tug, each pull of the lungs like the squeeze of an accordion to create invigorating music.” Krink had the rough hewn voice of a demented angel broadcast over Heart Radio through the egg-shaped Hall of Eternal Bliss. Razmuss Krink was a genetically enhanced maggot of the sixth degree. The first five degrees fell to the wayside when they went on a killing rampage… but number six ascended to the highest echelon of competence and untarnished acumen. The genetic engineers congratulated themselves. It was worth the risks to create a maggot with the brain of a mega-computer and the emotions of a lapdog ever mindful of it’s master.
Nathan’s brain rattled with Maisey’s urgent call. She demanded his undivided attention. Her maggot mouth spewed entertainment news mixed with rumors and confusing statistics: a new master was rising in the polls. Donny Trident was making headlines by proposing a new program to send undesirables to the moon — one of many earth shaking promises, but it wasn’t his most daring plan by any means.
Donny Trident was the mastermind behind a plan to upgrade the human race. The upgrade, Donny explained, was for entertainment purposes only and not to be confused with actual alterations to the human genome. Maggots were the only creatures to be used as guinea-pigs. No one cared about maggots, Donny stated. They were the lowest organisms in the animal kingdom — they migrated into our homes on the backs of flies. In the process, maggots turned themselves into flies. They caused disease and leeched off good, hard working folks. Trident had lots of money to invest in his maggot project and everyone enjoyed watching the drama unfold on their smart phones. Reality TV was all the rage.
Monica Heartstone sat at a faux Vivant-style table sipping Shirley Temples. She was connected to her BFF, Bobby Blanche’, who giggled while Monica sipped. “He makes everything nice,” she reassured herself. Monika was displaying her new manikin body for Bobby’s approval. The new body was perfect for hobnobbing with wealthy celebs who often showed up at Google Hangouts. Bobby wholeheartedly agreed. Rex, a modified squid, brought the main entree to the table. It was maggot steak sizzled to perfection — Bobby’s favorite. The sight of the sizzle caused him to erupt in giggles. Monica was extremely happy. Unfortunately at that very moment the connection broke leaving both Bobby and Monica in Virtual Limbo.
Donny Trident had a secret plan. He wanted to become the next CEO mandated by the people in a general virtual-election. Maggots were part of his plan. They were enhanced to be more than mere entertainment. The failed maggots insured Donny’s success as they became henchmen in “The Trident Army for Prosperity.” Many corporate leaders supported Donny in hopes of increasing capital gains.
Razmuss krink was more like Donny than anyone realized. The geneticists begrudgingly used a copy of Trident’s personality as the blueprint for all the maggots, downloading Donny into the maggots’ enhanced computer-brains. All part of the master plan. The reluctant scientists were easily persuaded by piles of cash.
Krink, like Donny, relished the idea of subjugating the world. The worm harbored a grievance: hatred toward the people who imprisoned him in a giant maggot body that sprouted orange hair.
Nathan Lancaster was crawling with maggots. He witnessed his lover melt like wax and turn into a mass of maggots. Flies began to buzz like an arsenal of army helicopters… a military assault… a mass murder. Cops arrested Nathan for a litany of crimes and murders. He was labeled a terrorist. He was subjected to enhanced interrogation techniques. The cops stuffed words into Nathan’s brain and he spewed them out like a squealing pig. A semi-automatic was planted with Nathan’s fingerprints. Someone had to take the blame for another attack. Donny Trident fell into fits of inconsolable weeping, “If only the victims had guns to defend themselves.”
All the screens replayed the news. Jeannie from the show, “I Dream of Jeannie” stepped out of the screen and into Virtual Reality. She had the highest ratings as the most reliable news commentator. She had verifiably large, mammary glands and a beautiful singing voice.
The trial was held in the Hall of Eternal Bliss and overseen by an updated copy of Judge Judy. There were no witnesses for the defense and only one witness for the prosecution. A spurned Maisey offered a litany of damning evidence and character assassination. Nathan was found guilty.
“I simply love the news,” Monica Heartstone chirruped.
“Me too,” Bobby Blanche’ giggled.
“It’s all so real!”
“The Maggot Show is the best.”
“But wasn’t it sad the way everyone got killed.”
“That’s entertainment, my dear. It’s all simply entertainment!” Bobby giggled.