Tagged: Virtual Reality

Absentia

“It isn’t easy — reflection often leads to mental instability,” the lecturer sadly suggested, “A warning label is metaphorically branded on the head of every newborn: ‘too much thinking is dangerous to your health — avoid thought at all costs.’ A new age of doublespeak is upon us. We are inundated by fakery, not just fake news. Life is no longer grounded in any recognizable, proven reality. The devolution of humankind has accelerated. Virtual Reality has supplanted life itself,” Aubrey Bunsbury spoke in vain to a group of eminent social scientists at the 2nd annual gathering of the VR in absentia society.

Monica Lewinski was in the audience. It didn’t matter. Monica and Bill were over years ago. Even with the upsurge of Me Too they failed to be an item accept for certain Republicans who had remorse envy. Others were also in attendance. Sarah Huckabee Sanders led a prayer group. Bill Cosby looked twenty years younger after his prison make-over. Trump look-a-likes gathered in the anteroom for a game of Simon Says.

People were wearing digital screens and wireless suits. Sponsored broadcasts flocked together like vultures to attack social-media. A respected doctor was on the run from the law; suspected of murdering his wife. The true murderer was a man with one arm. {The Fugitive stumbles from one channel to the next trying to outrun himself. Futility sets in. Big D sets the parameters spelled out in legalese without an escape clause}.

Aubrey sat with Mona Freedlander in the Golden Pavilion Cafeteria (VR edition). Mona was beginning to be aware of prickly feelings she had toward Aubrey. Both participants radiated the same sensations. It was a mutual synesthesia-experience, 3rd party mode. Rebellion-of-any-sort flew the coop soon after Aubrey’s impressive lecture to the VR in absentia society —in fact, VR was never absent, it was ubiquitous. The couple bonded over chartreuse, the color of the future. The most fabulous 2nd Life homes were always colored Chartreuse, often combined with Purple to present a spectacular video display. The domestic chit-chat was part of an elaborate courting ceremony that inevitably led to conjugation. Prior to this arrangement/engagement Aubrey Bunsbury was someone else.

A-Priori Bunsbury was placed in a sensory deprivation chamber and reprogrammed. His before-name was Eric Faction. He had just ingested a Time-Release capsule that resulted in the unfortunate circumstances that followed. Time was released, unfurling like an American Flag in a windstorm of conspiracy. At the moment of his disposition, Eric was married to Forchan, his true love. It was an incestuous relationship. Forchan was a hipster who pursued Eric with the passion of a Dance Master choreographing The Rite of Spring. Eric was a simple artist who spent his days sketching botanical oddities. Eric’s life changed in dramatic and incontinent ways after he married Forchan.

Together they crossed into another dimension. Genetically-altered guards protected the border against illegal incursion. There was always the question: were the guards monsters or men. Ice-water was rumored to flow through their veins instead of blood. Eric and Forchan devised a cloak of invisibility from wavy-mirrors with queer reflective properties. They flowed across the border like Magic-Chef kitchen appliances on steroids.

They entered the Land of the Dying Sun, but it was just like the world they left behind, except that everything was backwards. Did they enter a mirror? Friendly neighbors with pets told the couple the experience was different for each person who entered the realm. Eric had to work slinging hash in a penny-ante diner. Forchan kept house. They rented a two-by-four in an area that catered to flotsam washed up by the ocean of the universe. The boredom of shopping, working, and washing dishes was endless. Suddenly life became unpredictable. They met David Anderson, a scientist who was researching Time-Warp technology. Eric and Forchan flourished like vines entwining one another. But the ecstasy and wonder became too familiar, retching and intolerable. Everything was backwards. Occasionally Big D, the boss, came around to cull the herd of new arrivals. Funerals broke the monotony. One day, out of the dull blue-sky, Forchan wandered off on a walkabout. Eric took a time-release capsule.

They were standing in the kitchen staring at one another through rising steam from boiling water in the sink. Raw emotions cut like knives. They stood like deaf mutes. Frayed fingers reached across the bulwark of Time to gently connect. Chaos and order dissolved in a furnace of volcanic ash. The vicissitudes of apathy retreated into the void of frozen space.

 

 

 

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Pillar of Salt

As stated in the Ars Majika: Lot’s wife was turned into a pillar of salt. All the salt ever consumed came from the pillar of salt that was once Lot’s wife.

“Steamy fingers reach across the canyons of Time to touch my brain,” Willum sighed as he pried open the door to the inner chamber. There are always secrets to be exposed and Willum was an explorer. He told himself he was after the truth. He felt life itself was a cover-up… that something greater existed. He could have been fooling himself. The door to the inner sanctum was an ordinary boulder covering the entrance to a small cave. Nothing out of the ordinary; but Willum fabricated an elaborate story. He should have known better after all the years of furtive searching. Time-and-again nothing of significance was discovered.

He was talking to his lover, Jonathan Dell, in the backroom of the Casino-Nova-Bar. It was a strange conversation. He was reciting a screed about an invasion. Carlotta Dramamine was onstage singing songs of misbegotten love. It was obvious that Willum was crazy. There was no invasion. It never happened. The stories about super-powers and invisible invaders were purely the result of politics. TV talking-heads couldn’t decipher the reasons behind the current situation. Stories were fabricated to explain the inexplicable.

Carlotta sang like a whippoorwill, “when your lover has gone…” Willum chewed his nails and recited verses from the Necronomicon. A black-and-gray ambulance arrived to take Willum to the Sanatorium (this development was purely allegorical). Willum was getting confused by television and videos on You-tube. He was an avid Facebook devotee. He went by the pseudonym, Kyle Venagrette. People loved Kyle. It was all made up… all fake news.

Jonathan Dell led a double life. He was an agent working for the Republic of North Korea. He had undergone surgery to look more American.

Lot’s wife was never given a name in the bible or in the original Jewish texts. We must assume that women were not considered important enough to be named by god (of course there were a few notable exceptions, but very few). Women of the bible were anecdotes and nothing more. This holy tradition is carried on by our current leaders who consider themselves to be quite religious if not actually “holy.”

Everyone was wearing a Coutre Costume constructed from computer screens to enable the following: inter-netting, interfacing, interrogating, masking, faking, face booking, tweeting, web hoping, fabricating, downloading and uploading).

Carlotta sang, “Windmills of your mind…” She was multi-tasking while chatting and texting with Willum. They connected at a Surface Table in Cafe’ Nova, a few blocks away from the Sanatorium where Willum was temporarily held hostage by competing corporate entities. Everyone wanted a piece of the action.

Carlotta was complaining. She demanded more from Willum. Even though they were never married they had an intense relationship in a chatroom for role-playing adults. Now, Willum and Carlotta were getting divorced… their VR marriage life was getting exceedingly boring.

“What about the kids, Baby Juicebar and Bobby Trendoll?” Carlotta texted.

Willum was not aware they had kids and said so in sotto voce so no one else could overhear the conversation. Unfortunately his call was tracked and he was attacked by a fleet of baby-product army-drones.

Carlotta blacked-out and returned in a nano second wearing a baby-pink bustier. “Rats,” she texted, “did I say kids? I mean’t crypto-currency. We have crypto.” Bit-coin contracts exploded on the screen. Judge Judy voice-overs recited terms and started proceedings for protective custody of the couples virtual assets.

In a confusing melee of texts, chats, and digital mishaps kids were confused with crypto. The monks of the Order of Trumpets Et Sessions worked furiously trying to decode the Mary Poppins Codex that revealed the key as to why a controlling entity must separate children from parents.

It was all Jonathan Dell’s fault. He came between Carlotta and Willum (and the crypto). Dell’s plans for world domination cut daggers into his niggling affairs of the heart (Dell was not an honest man). A hired prostitute (code named Salty) was not helping his case. The tweets smacked him across the face like a wet trout. Judge Judy presided. He was never a North Korean agent. His cold heart belonged to mother Russia. Even the best spies get confused. Dell blew off many agent’s attempts to disclose damning evidence. His lips were unforgettable. Agents loved him.

Personal avatars slipped into another Hot Spot where they became characters from the movie, The Manchurian Candidate. All went smoothly until glitches appeared like Pac Man eating the virtual scenery.

“Hold me,” he said. They just had an argument… about something inconsequential like doing the dishes; but it was very upsetting because so much tension and hurt roiled beneath the surface. It seemed terribly important, yet it couldn’t be resolved. Words weren’t enough.

The embrace helped. Physical contact always helped. Still, he couldn’t stop wondering if it were real or merely a soap opera playing on a computer screen. After all, the world was falling apart.

When the oceans dry up nothing will remain except salt.

Another Sideshow

Gordon “Snaptrap” wondered if that was his real name or a pseudonym. He wondered if he was an investigator or a journalist who wanted to keep his real identity concealed. Of course, it no longer mattered because he was enjoying his most recent lobotomy. He was under the knife and loaded with drugs.

Gordon sat in a high-powered dentist chair while a computerized Bum-Bot took control of his brain. It was all for the best. This wasn’t his first lobotomy. Every operation had benefits as well as unpleasant side effects. The Robo-Doc assured Gordon that benefits would outweigh the pain. Gordon briefly recalled inconsolable sobbing, but the pain had subsided considerably since his last lobotomy.

The current operation was given as a bonus. This time the lobotomy would free Gordon from all his doubts, depression, and negativity. Before the lobotomies Gordon was, indeed, an investigator. He had damning evidence of government corruption. All the facts, names and dates, were locked in the safest place he could find: in his mind.

The world was in his brain.

We live and breathe in peripheral spaces.

A mouse walked around in the supermarket with a cell phone. She wasn’t really a mouse, but the cell phone was real. The market was almost empty at eleven PM. She played out a psychodrama, her and the phone. Talking to the phone. Her squeaky voice penetrated the emptiness. She had a license to kill, government authorized.

Evidence was everywhere: Government collusion at the highest levels. The top dog gave legitimacy to white-supremacy and misogyny. The Special Council was pilloried by political hacks and fake-news outlets. Officials were replaced with clones. Military might was extolled. Tariffs decreed. Mass shootings were officially condoned. Immigrants were hauled off by ICE and sacrificed to the God of Megalomania.

Political hacks and lackeys authorized the “operations.”

At first Gordon disparaged himself for being careless. After the first lobotomy he forgot all the details and no longer blamed himself. He forgot the evidence he hid in his mind. All that remained were flashes of memory: manipulators, roving Proctologists, and military drones.

How can we survive as humans when robots are better at surviving?

Gordon was decommissioned — body parts farmed out. His brain was hacked, deconstructed. Reality was hijacked, crowd sourced, and replaced.

Turning Point

Tom Bisant dream’t he was an astronaut who just returned from a twenty year journey to Enceladus, Saturn’s moon. He rode a Super Stegosaurus rocket… It slipped through time on the wings of a Proton-Drive Engine.

Space surrounded Tom like a cold, black room. He saw a gray shadow, a stand-in for death. The shadow staggered across a make-shift stage while struggling to perform a song-and-dance routine. When he was a teenager Tom wanted to be a comedian, but he was never ready to perform in public so he became an astronaut instead. The dark hole of space gave him time to think and revise his comedy act.

When the ship landed on Enceladus Tom was met by a younger version of himself.

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“Look… they see me coming and they want me to screw them. I’m a celebrity. Women let me do whatever I want.”

“Obviously,” Doctor Zosimo Kulio replied, “the stress of your new job is making you feel inadequate so you compensate with bravado.”

“Hey, what gives… I’m here for your support. I thought we had a deal.”

“Oh, dear… no deal… you were ordered by your manager to get an evaluation and, in my professional opinion, all your man talk is covering up a deep seeded sense of inadequacy and most likely homosexual tendencies.”

“Fake news!! You must be working for the networks. I’ll sue!!”

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When Tom Bisant returned to Earth he was old. No one remembered him. People were no longer interested in space flight. Everyone retreated into Virtual Reality, self-contained versions of Paradise. Real world scenarios were too complicated to understand, let alone manage. The real world was binary and everyone was sold on digital. The binary world was characterized by conflict, opposites, compromise, and adjustment. The digital world was always perfect and seamless.

The memo slithered out of congress like a viper. The ruling party was committed to building a bigger, better swamp. The memo was a distraction meant to inhibit enforcement of the law.

There were aliens on Enceladus living beneath the ocean that covered the moon.

Tom was a relic. He tried to talk to his estranged lover who he hadn’t seen for twenty years. It was impossible to bridge the gap. She was no longer present. She slipped the moorings of time-and-space and hung quiescent in some VR holding cell. What can you say to an empty shell?

Tom faced disaster everywhere. Space was an escape. Back on Earth disaster loomed large. The doctor prescribed pain-killers and anti-anxiety medication. Thoughts of suicide increased (a side effect caused by the drugs). A dark street hid malicious intent: strangers suddenly appeared like ghosts, asking questions and demanding information. He worried constantly about unlocked doors and faulty electrical-wiring. The plumbing in his home moaned like a wounded elephant. The house creaked. The TV assaulted him with ads and news about government shut-downs and social unrest. Tom longed for the peace of Enceladus.

We all crave attention. We are obsessed with celebrities on TV. We are social creatures so we create terrifying acts of mass murder. We want to be remembered. It is impossible to escape danger. The sun gives Cancer. The air contains contaminants that lead to COPD.  

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There is no way to justify an abduction in the middle of this narrative; still, it happened. Millie Vincent from Moorpark, Idaho was reported missing on the morning of February Fifth. Although she returned two days later, many unanswered questions remained. Where did she go and why? No one believed she was abducted by a UFO, but that’s what she described. UFO abductions are as common as cattle mutilations and crop circles, but no one believes those events occur either. Millie’s story had a strange twist. She recalled everything that happened on the UFO. Her description of the alien ship was like nothing ever reported before. The inside of the craft looked exactly like a karaoke bar with decor from the 1960’s. Rock music was blasting. A few gray aliens were also in attendance. Most surprising to Millie were the people in the bar. She recognized many government officials led by the Commander-in-Chef who let loose a disco rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner. The officials cheered, bowed, and praised his glory. The aliens took notes.

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On Enceladus Tom Bisant confronted his younger self. The boy was fragile and insecure. He tried being the class clown in order to make friends. His comedy hung in the air like flatulence and Tom ended up in the Principal’s office. The boy was humiliated and wanted to commit suicide. His mother’s pills mixed with alcohol would do the trick. At the final moment the boy had a vision of himself as an astronaut. His life was saved.

Corporations gained profits and the stock market hit greater highs since the new president was elected. But, it was all negligible. There were rumors of a pole shift. The president was beginning to feel trapped by the fake news hammering him from every media outlet along with low poll ratings. A new plan was hatched. When in doubt spread the wealth, shore up the base, and lower taxes for power brokers and lobbyists. .

The administration supported a new Black Label miracle beverage to be marketed to all segments of the population. It was a scientific breakthrough that promised a universal cure-all and remedy for the ailments of old age. If people couldn’t afford to purchase the drink it would be given out for free. A Day of Reckoning and Reconciliation was declared when everyone (as one) would drink the Black Label.

Tom Bisant knew it was a sham. The life he led was make believe. He tried and failed would be written on his tombstone. His career as an astronaut and the journey to Enceladus happened in his brain after taking LSD while listening to Jimmy Hendricks. He confronted himself in his head… Time seemed to stop. When his turn came he would gladly sip the beverage along with everyone else.

Signs of the Times – A Saga

Amarosa was the springboard leading to strange and peculiar events. She opened a secret door that few people even knew existed. A great wind rushed through the open door on the wings of sulfur and corruption. Jeremy Hidelwink was caught in the torrent. He had no interest in politics or government. He was an innocent bystander. Jeremy’s brush with the wind changed everything. He gained a super-power, “critical perception.” His power grew and Jeremy became the vortex at the center… exposing political corruption and scandal. He became the most convincing witness for the prosecution. His sojourn in Russia made his testimony air-tight. He had the evidence revealing what really happened in that Moscow hotel room.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” the wind whispered in Jeremy’s ear encouraging him to step forward with the proof.

An old friend sat on the other side of the secret door. He held playing-cards in his bony left hand and a scythe in his right hand. A Cheroot dangled from his lipless mouth. Each card in his hand represented a character in the drama. The First Family were caught between his thumb and forefinger gasping for air. Amarosa dangled precariously from a small finger-bone. Jeremy was in a prime location at the center of the hand of cards. With a slight twitch of bone, Jeremy was suddenly gone as if he never existed and new cards came into play. Mr. Death chuckled at the turn of events.

Death wondered what was real and what was fake. He perceived himself to be a philosopher, therefore he questioned everything. He wondered why he existed… he was not certain he was even real. He had to constantly test reality. He had to make people die in order to substantiate his own existence. Mr. Death often partnered with misfortune, disease, and corruption. He particularly enjoyed the current climate, the turn of events in the White House. The lies gave Death confidence. He would enjoy deflating the tiny humans who claimed to have power. They were as insignificant as bloated balloons. One prick could erase them from the face of the planet.

 Sierra Quantro was a time-traveler who tried to discover the meaning of life. Sierra was a multiple, several personalities existed in his head. He-or-She was part of a Collective Dream, a digitally composed aria enacted in Hyper-Reality.

Sierra crossed the line and entered the Trumpet Cafe in Devastation Alley where he met other searchers from the Collective Dream. The neon night was visible through the glass ceiling. Bolts of lightning lit the interior of the cafe.

Perhaps it was in another dimension where they found a body on the moon. We don’t know the particulars. The discovery made no sense until the body was recovered and analyzed. It was preserved, frozen, and inert. The body was an outlier, a true anomaly. Rumors went viral. The President had a science advisor who coordinated a special X-group to explore the possibilities of extreme life extension. The newly appointed Head-of-Science was publicly viewed as atavistic: anti global-warming, anti birth control, and anti science… this was part of a government campaign to deceive the public with fake news. In fact, the President secretly supported big science projects: Black Projects to develop laser weapons, super soldiers, and life extension. The world-leader was concerned with his legacy and his mortality. He wanted to live forever. The scientists involved in the President’s projects were not very skilled. Several had a limited education, receiving degrees from Trump University. The experimental projects all failed. The corpse on the moon had nothing to do with the President’s quest for immortality — that was just fake news. No one knew anything for certain concerning the corpse. It could have been human, alien, or a mutant cyborg.

“You are working with hypotheticals and none of this is real,” Sierra Quantro blurted in frustration. A major disturbance rippled through the Collective Dream. They had just experienced a visitation from a spirit who called himself Jesus. It was Christmas eve, but no one expected a miracle. The face of Jesus went viral. Everyone was mesmerized. Coincidentally, many unidentified flying objects were seen everywhere across the world… and governments started releasing reports about UFOs that were once hidden from the public.

The soap factory down the block was developing a cosmetic scrub made from skin retrieved from corpses. People were rounded up and put to work on resident farms till they died from exertion and lack of food. Some ne’er do wells were put in ovens and gassed. Bodies were recycled. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” was the government motto used to circumvent the law. The soap factory was just one new enterprise that relied on human recycling. Critics agreed it was good for the economy.

Sierra Quantro became melancholy. He offered a suggestion, “couldn’t there be an alternative scenario as a counterpoint? Perhaps two teenage boys meet at the playground and inexplicably fall in love. How’s that for melioration? Love could be an anodyne to political upheaval and destabilization.”

Everyone had to wear an Eye-Cam, grafted on to the skin of the forehead. It was the law, newly authorized by the Attorney-General in order to monetize moral turpitude (another way to boost the economy). Even the President had a Cam, but all eyes in the White House were discreetly blocked. Eye-Cams were promoted as fashion accessories. Citizens became Keepers of right-behavior. The stock market boomed. Right-behavior was good for society and good for business. Women were no longer allowed to complain. Men were, once again, in charge… led by the Commander-in-Chief who now ruled the nation like a personal harem. Women were recruited from every town to service the White House.

Bondeer Saville entered the Dream Collective. She was followed by Jeremy Hidelwink who was disincorporated. Bondeer spent her life surfing the waves of digital information, adding and subtracting megabytes in order to create a perfect world; but now she detected a disturbance in the force. Hidelwink was no longer corporeal, but he had knowledge of alternate Dimensions that might ameliorate errors in the Hyper-verse.

Bondeer Saville leered at Sierra Quantro, “I know a thing or two about boys in the schoolyard. Believe me, they are little piggies just like our current White House Pig.” She continued, “I invented Red City. I’m no shrinking violet. I know how to fight.”

Mr. Death chuckled, amused by the cross-talk (amused by the chivalry and cowardice). He believed in Democracy: everyone, rich or poor, died.

Government appointees (Watchers) were stunned when the corpse from the Moon awoke.

Thousands of UFOs emerged, unseen, above the Earth. The alien occupants came from unimaginable distances in order to observe the unfolding saga. There was no intention to interfere; but the events on Earth provoked an unexpected response, laughter. The whole world quivered, shook, and broke apart by the thunderous roar of uncontrollable laughter.

 

Transgression

Volvina Complex was a wet dream. She sipped Green Hyacinth and nibbled gubber-fish with her companion, Professor Pangsong. The two were conjoined and very happy. The sex-wars were over, global warming evaporated, and the destruction caused by humans was effectively fumigated. Food was no longer necessary for survival, but it was still delightful to nibble when communing with friends. Musica LaMode was building a sub-routine of background dreams. Ecstasy floated through the cascading balconies of the Crystal Pagoda where Volvina and Pangsong reminisced. They were lovers. They were Androids. They lived in a virtual world, a perfect world where humans no longer existed.

Professor Seigfried Pangsong lectured a class of neophytes. He remembered what it was like in the human world before he became an Android. His lectures were popular and infamous. He could tell the newly formed neophytes what it was like to be mortal and to live under the onus of death. No one died anymore. As part of his lecture he introduced Volvina Complex and they had sex at the lectern. Human sex was driven by compulsion and obsession. A man adopted the persona of an animal, priding himself on violent domination. For an Android, “play” was more important than penetration. “Survival of the Species” no longer mattered — there was no longer a Species. Professor Pangsong continued his/her lecture by explaining the nature of existence.

“Now, we live in a virtual world,” he exclaimed, “but before this world another place existed and it continues to exist. Everything in time exists as a hologram. The surface of our lives is a very small aspect of the hologram. There are many levels of depth. The life we experience is like a low resolution jpeg. The deeper we go, the higher the resolution.”

At the close of the second world war a man identified himself as Renfield, Dracula’s slave. He was incarcerated and sent to a mental hospital. Renfield believed he was imprisoned in Bedlam. He spent his days-and-nights catching and eating insects that crawled out from the walls in his cell. Renfield constantly mumbled. His words revealed a vision of the future. Renfield was a true prophet.

Dr. Zosimo Kulio always felt he was in the wrong place. He fought against the guiding principles that defined insanity as incurable. He felt compassion for his patients at the hospital. He tried to help Renfield. Sometimes during their obtuse interactions Kulio caught a whiff of the future.

“No one listened when I said there are too many voices in my head. There are too many layers, levels of hell; plateaus of heaven. I have a lover now, but that only adds to the complexity of the situation. Questions bubble to the surface. Answers flicker and fade like ancient Polaroid photos.”

Renfield lay on a dirty mattress. Dracula, his master, kept changing like a silent film revealing different characters. Now, Dracula dripping with blood… now, Hitler goose-stepping through the meat-rack of history. Renfield, drifting and dreaming, steps from one abattoir to another. He delights in a sexual throw-down as commanded by Dracula. He forces himself on a young inmate. The intensity of the rape ignites his prophetic proclivity — his third eye burning he sees the future: the world engulfed in flames. The fires rain down on Renfield. He hears messages from a satellite known as “Black Knight” — it is thirteen thousand years old, circling the planet, waiting for the command to cleanse the Earth.

“California is burning. Jerusalem is burning. I am helpless in the face of the oncoming tsunami. The face of old age haunts me. I can feel my life draining away like blood from a severed vein.”

Sam Bolt couldn’t take it anymore. He was fed up. He wasn’t alone. Lots of men felt like him — he saw it on the internet. Men were screwed. White men were screwed. There was a time he could do whatever he wanted. Now, other people were getting in his way. They were taking what rightfully belonged to him. Sam’s only hope was the new deal-maker President. Sam thought a tough guy in power might make things easier but if nothing improved he always had his gun.

Renfield was forced to do his master’s bidding.

Talking heads dominated the Virtual Worlds. Conflicts fumed. Headless horsemen roamed the land. There was talk of collusion. The public was subdued and ensnared by fake-news.

“Mr. Gorbachev take down this wall,” jumped off the screen as people scrambled to steal a piece of history.

“Follow the money,” rumbled across the internet shaking the foundations of government.

“He is President Pussy Grabber,” was whispered in the backrooms of Congress.

Professor Pangsong was suddenly melancholy as he looked out at the sea of eager neophytes. He was filled with remorse. Something was missing. He sensed a remnant of quality that no longer existed: the essence of humanity. The hologram of existence had calcified. It was no longer possible to feel the pain and joy of being mortal — it was no longer possible to die.

The Mission

I was cut off at the knees, ruptured… unable to resolve a problem that could mean life or death.  A terrible wind was rising, threatening to engulf the world.

There is a switch in my brain that turns on and off and recycles my personality. I am forced from one dimension to another… never certain of who I am… or where I am.

What really happened in that Moscow hotel room?

Gordon Levy was an astronaut, happy and successful. He loved his family. His son, Timothy, wanted to be just like him. They played ball in the yard while Margie, his wife, watched with pride. Gordon was good at his job and he was rewarded with a special mission: to be the first astronaut to visit a habitable planet in another galaxy.

Moreau Manta reaches out to stroke the head of Piscador, his pet Peacock. The bird bites Manta’s hand. Blood oozes from the wound. It happens every time, but the ritual must be enacted. Manta is obsessed with order and repetition. He insists the bird will come around. At the same time, he relishes the pain as it represents the bound between him and Piscador.

He could never return from the dream.

Moreau is elderly. It has become more difficult to look at himself in the mirror. He is a gross character of the man he used to be, once trim and well-proportioned, now pushed and pulled out of shape by gravity. The years take a toll even on the rich and powerful. There is no escaping death.

Everything about the mission was top secret. Even Gordon was not privy to the exact technology that made the voyage possible. The mission was only supposed to last a year, an impossible objective since no one could go faster than the speed of light and the destination was hundreds of light-years away.

I’ve joined the legions of the dead in the land of the dying sun. I hang my head in shame for what I have done. I stood by while the world was dismantled. The machines came to my town and tore it apart.

Gordon was ecstatic to be chosen, but it meant leaving his family behind. Still, he couldn’t resist the challenge and glory of such a mission. On the morning of his departure, Gordon got a call from the President wishing him luck. His wife and son waved goodbye from the monitor in the cabin of the space craft. The countdown seemed to take longer than the actual trip through space. An incredible journey flashed through Gordon’s brain — faster than the speed of light.

I am drawn to young, teenage bodies, the warp and woof of skin over muscle, the surge of eroticism in every movement. Male or female… it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the expression of youthful grace and vulnerability. I am older and wiser so I can easily corrupt the innocents of youth, although I no longer believe anyone is truly innocent. Perhaps I am deluded thinking that I am still attractive and capable of love. It is a pleasurable delusion. What more can any one ask of life?

The new world was teeming with life. Furious colors, plants and creatures seemed to mutate before Gordon’s eyes like strange cartoon characters.  Suddenly his silver space-suit began to ring. Gordon picked up the receiver and automatically responded, “Hello.”

“With new, improved PROPEL you are only limited by your imagination. Doctor recommended. Side effects may include PTSD and paralysis. Propel: don’t let life hold you back from your dream!”

“This is the voice of your on-board computer… this is not happening!” Gordon didn’t have time to understand the message because the world around him went totally dark. The dark absorbed all light, even the beam of his lantern was absorbed. There was only sound: chittering, snapping, gobbling noises that seemed to be closing in on Gordon.

What more can anyone ask… Unfortunately I am more complicated than that. I make trouble for myself. I indulge in pain. The painful search for understanding, for truth.

Back at mission-control there was applause and congratulations. Engineers managed to isolate Gordon’s brain, separate the brain from the body.  The project was speculative, authorized by the Union of Cybernetic Scientists. Outer space was never the goal of the experiment. The scientists were concerned about “living space” on planet Earth. There were too many people on the planet and resources were limited.

I am constantly curious. I crave forbidden knowledge.

Gordon was the prototype… by taking the brain and recycling the body, more space would be available — space that could be sold for a profit. Gordon was never an astronaut. He was just an uneducated man collecting unemployment benefits. Billions of brains could be stored. Benefits would no longer be a drain on the economy. The brains would be treated well, preserved and allowed to live in virtual dreams. In time, the project was so successful most people vied for a brain transplant and eternal dreams. Of course, no one knew what kind of dreams would haunt the remains of  humanity.

I am locked in a dungeon of my own creation from which there is no escape.