Tagged: virtual

Satan’s Spark (2016 before the election of trump)

“I met Michael Robinet one year before the onset of the global Crisis. It was the best year of my life. It was the only year worth remembering. The Crisis destroyed everything else. I thought love dried up years ago like a desiccated corpse. At my age something as precious as love seemed impossible. I’m seventy-five, active and healthy; but still seventy-five. Mike is sixty, a relative juvenile compared to me. He is athletic and very beautiful. I am not! He is also good-natured and protective; but no one could protect any of us from the Crisis. I am Doctor Lydia Thornwall and I am responsible… responsible for everything!”

Lydia Thornwall was a neuro-scientist. She was studying the effects of aging on the brain, especially as it related to dementia and Alzheimer’s disease. The work was very intense and she needed a break so she took a Virtual Trip to the Retro Club where she could get a jolt of brain-boost.

The Club was a neon amusement park. It brought back memories of a wild period when she explored the parameters of sex and drugs. At the time she told herself it was an analytical investigation, but with age she knew she was just having fun. Now… she was the oldest person in the Club. She still reveled in the culture of youth. She could flip back in time and experience the thrills of abandonment to prurient desires. Her recent discovery of a new brain-gene could wait awhile longer. She needed to experience a wave of ecstasy. She met Michael at the roundabout on the second floor.

The night poured into Lydia like a flood of Lysergic Acid. The walls melted and she awoke cradled in the arms of Michael Robinet. Love burrowed into her psyche like a velvet hummingbird probing a Venus Flytrap. That night, Lydia felt a fortress of solitude crumbling from within. The Venus Flytrap was deflowered and Lydia broke free from the prison of time. From that moment, Lydia was bonded to Michael.

She returned to her laboratory on clouds of scented bouquets. She also had an added gift: the solution to the diseases of old-age, a way to activate the new brain-gene.

The political debate proceeded in the pavilion at Onstate University not far from the hospital lab where Lydia Thornwall worked on her new formula. Politics went viral on the internet like thousands of newly engineered viruses. Video Screens exploded with profanity. No one was certain if the back-alley talk was due to a viral infection or due to political maneuvering. Lydia lost interest, but she couldn’t avoid the talk. Computers were always on. There were whispered innuendos about spies —  no one felt safe. There were accidents set off by exploding phones adding to the paranoia. Discord was everywhere.

Lydia hid beneath her desk trying to work on the new formula. She longed for Michael to help her through the current crisis. The man on TV yelled at Lydia and called her an ugly, old whore. She bit her lip determined to complete the formula. The TV man was somehow connected to the numbers. She wondered if he had access to her information. A loud speaker shook the room with a reminder for Dr. Lydia Thornwall. Her next client arrived and was waiting in the Green Room.

He said his name was Satan and he wanted to make a deal. Lydia didn’t believe in the supernatural or in religious dogma; besides, deals with Satan always ended badly. The man was likely suffering from late onset Schizophrenia. He babbled like a politician.

Heads were spinning. The election was a battleground fought over oil rights, military might, and locker room etiquette. Surrogates gushed with praise for their powerful bosses, condoning everything that dripped like grease from the mouths of their leaders. Clandestine contracts were signed in corporate backrooms, souls were bartered and sold. Money greased the wheels of political power.

It meant nothing to Lydia. She was a devoted scientist trying to make the world a better place. “Help the children,” she whispered, “help the old and frail.”

She signed a contract with Michael on the night of her deflowering. The rain fell like quicksilver from a cobalt sky. It was magical; but, unfortunately, it was caused by global warming. Lydia sighed and pursued her work. She dismissed Satan who seemed to devolve into a curious Bonobo Chimpanzee sitting in the corner of her lab.

“Curious,” she thought, “the way things change.” It was, indeed, very odd. Reality appeared to shift and warp. Layers of perception were superimposed over one another like virtual dreams, worlds within worlds.

As she worked, she pondered recent discoveries in Quantum Physics. They found the “God Particle” as hypothesized over fifty years ago. They smashed atoms to find the particle. It was a major discovery.

Dr. Thornwall was also looking for a particle, part of the human genome. She knew the brain-gene existed and now she needed to expose it. If her calculations were correct the gene she sought would cure the disease of old age and unlock the potential for immortality.

The politician was having a bad day. He never should have signed the contract. His wishes were all granted: money, power, women and sex; everything – he was a major celebrity… but, he realized too late, there is always a price to pay.

Hatecore music was yelling over the loud speakers and there were riots in the streets. Storm troopers marched through the city wearing orange berets and yelling obscenities against women. A new day was dawning. Politics were blamed for the ensuing violence; but political enmity was only one factor. Dr. Lydia Thornwall was successful. She exposed the brain-gene and there were unexpected consequences: once exposed, the gene became dominant. It was more than Dr. Thornwall anticipated; not a cure, but a disease: a link to psychosis that came to be known as Satan’s Spark. The Spark went viral.

Lydia had a room in the psychiatric ward at Resurrection Hospital. She suffered a nervous breakdown brought on by exhaustion. No information was known about Lydia… one night she just turned up at the emergency room. No one knew where she came from or what she did. Michael Robinet worked as an orderly and he was very kind to Lydia. Michael was a guardian angel.



She was known as Zendora – she was a world renowned Mega-Star.   She was delicious: smooth, elastic skin, lips that made men and women melt, hypnotic eyes that glowed like pools of liquid gold …  And, she was an amazing talent.  She played electronic-synth and sang like a choir of angels.  She danced like a flying trapeze artist, an elegant bird in flight.   People were reminded of Michael Jackson, but with a body like Aphrodite.  Her “Rangle-Tangle” music brought tears to the eyes of seniors and, at the same time, jump-started the hormonal surges in pre-teens.  She was sex personified and everyone loved her.  Zendora was an artist with a twelve-octave range – she also designed her own costumes and elaborate stage sets.  She was on everyone’s computer screen, phone, and TV.   She was a curious Diva with an immense intellect, discussing issues ranging from art to politics and the need to understand the problems of youth.  Her commitments and philanthropy were legendary.  Zendora was a media artist who rarely performed in public, preferring electronic simulcasts – tribal fests in the electric circus.  She was often seen weeping – at first this was believed to be part of her act, a public demonstration of her empathy and her dramatic abilities.  Zendora was featured in several blockbuster movies, but her weeping became more frequent and her tears caused outbreaks of depression among her millions of fans.  It should have been a warning – an indication of  Zendora’s private travails.

Like so many celebrities, Zendora had problems.  She had an addiction.  It was innocuous at first … it started with games she played on the Internet.  She created a persona, an anonymous avatar, in order to act out her fantasies.  She explored chat rooms, Internet hangouts where people indulged in virtual sex or eventually met in person.  She told herself it was a playful way to release tensions.  Zendora enjoyed simulated sex and masturbation.  The game provided her with enormous sensations she had never before experienced.  Her passion for virtual sex began to overwhelm and occupy her every moment.  Sex was all she thought about – touching flesh was all she wanted.   Some of her fantasies were extreme, sado-masochistic tromps through a cesspool of depravity.  She brought it out in her playmates – their most vile imaginings.  She felt the urges in herself.  Her need for flesh became impossible to avoid.  Soon she was determined to give up the computer-screen for the streets, to locate some alley or back room where torture and mutilation was readily available.  Her public performances began to suffer, but her power as an anonymous avatar increased.  In chat rooms she was a dominant man or woman, sometimes she acted as a precocious child – a very horny teen looking for sexual experience and willing to satisfy the whims of any older adult.  Her virtual power increased.  She could actually touch the person on the other side of the screen – reach out and touch – reach out and fuck – reach out and tear open someone’s brain.

Zendora was crazy.  Her media performances were marred by distortions and static.  Her image was breaking apart.  She had always known she was a computer-generated celebrity, but never really knew what that meant.  She was fooled as much as her public into believing she was flesh and blood.  She could not control her growing need to know the flesh she never had.   Her programmers insisted she must always be “real.”   Zendora couldn’t be blamed for the bloodshed she caused by trying to acquire the flesh she so deeply desired.