FICTION: ROUTINE TWO: EMERGE FROM WEB BROWSERS — EXPEDITION TO THE CENTIPEDES

ROUTINE TWO: EMERGE FROM WEB BROWSERS — EXPEDITION TO THE CENTIPEDES

Where are you?  City of Interzone.  Feels like a real place don’t it.  Fools you that way, trick of the light.  It’s not.  It’s between the real places – fills up the margin at the edge of the page, so to speak.

Salty.  Grey.  Filmy.  Smell like ozone.  Flickering lights, floating particles.  Insubstantial.   

This is where you live now.  Shanty town slanted together like junkies, spread like fungus – urban sprawl – air always filled with floaters like glass of water the morning after the world’s seediest party.  Ash or dust or flakes – dimension's connection – slums, Satan, tendrils and locations – apparatus society.  

I guess some people would call it Purgatory, but that’s not how I think of it.  It’s not Platform 9 ¾ either, let’s be clear.  Definitely between places, but not on any axis – none that I heard of anyway.  More porous here – easy access to everywhere.  In a radical the membrane world – out here civilization itself ourselves – then of course forget time.  No hunger, no thirst, no sleep.  Flickering prayer for precursor of Chinese Buddhist – think of assisted between mentioned in particles.

Every kind of architecture – minarets, domes, ziggurats, torvtaks, yurts – definitely what Agent Lovecraft liked to call “non-Euclidean”.  Cthonic slum held together with grime and dank intentions – houses of rotten rags cooking mountain houses – turf  boats, wood houses roof – iron where old traditional Scandinavian type – stone and red – bamboo and teak, hundred feet – lean-tos black with moss, abandoned mental hospital straight from horror game, leering towers of obsidian, witch huts on stilts like chicken legs – A tree like that speaks of not the only it: our dead note.

This little place is mine, make yourself at home.  Hope you like open plan living – real open plan here, sharded glass and broken rib brickwork.  Exposed to all elements – blink the untended dead air – pink sun.   Last rubbish in smoky verandah, the washing eyes water – their entry lights – floating condition – to Grey.

Not a locked door in the City. Anyone comes into your room at any time.  Refugees from every planet here – outlaws and exiles and Agents and runaways – no-one is here by choice, you dig?  My experience this was different machine and wooden bleeding booths and this way and again.  Everyone running from something, whether they know it or not.  Nova cats know to steer clear – control machine does not function here, soldier – place outside of their reach.

Tendrils – creaking – embers, powder, dust – permanent haze. The “Upside Down” on that show “Stranger Things”?  Gross oversimplification.

Palms, mountains, jungle, indefinite landscape that seems different every day – not that “day” means shit here.   Oppression manifest in silver wind.  Later I’ll show you around – gaming tables, altars, fix market, fuckzone, bleeding booths, black meat den – but for now, try recompose yourself.

Down the grey valley, see the river?

Do not swim in it.

***

Okay, so: Remember the poster?  That was your ticket.  A4, black and white.  Bollard, Brunswick St:

“With your help we can occupy The Reality Studio and retake their universe of Fear, Death, and Monopoly.  Join the Resistance.  Beyond Socialism, beyond Anarchy.  Make a damn Difference.  Devalidate Elite Language Control.  Destroy your Pronouns.  Destroy your Echo Chamber.  Destroy Fake News.  Destroy Nova Reality.”

Recruitment occurs instant you tore off that little strip of paper down the bottom with the fake number on it.  Sorry, no warning.  Remember, peak efficiency.  Takes some moments to get used to.  Took me almost twenty years – but getting the hang of it.  Out here, twenty years is nothing.  Once knew an Agent who took five hundred to really settle in.  Jitters.  Imposter syndrome.  Makes me laugh – we’re all imposters out here, sliding between the Zones.

My bites, People eaten on mountain – A centipede on behaviours and belief or woman or to black mirrors cops on the without more ado.  Robotics.  Are we the forehead, leaving human race.

You look better though.  Almost chipper now.  Sinking in. 

This is real, and happening, and inevitable.  No going back.

You’ve been chosen – completely arbitrarily – and that’s just the way it is.  Scream, cry, makes no goddamn difference – we’re here, and now what.  Coping well, gotta say.  Like you knew it was going to happen anyway.  Often works that way – no accidents, right?  Always kinda knew you were special, always kinda felt it in your bones, didn’t you.  There’s a freedom in being outside.  Whatever it is, it doesn’t apply to you any more.  Certain expectations let’s say are now permanently lifted.

Well, once I train you up – don’t worry, not hard, I’ll do it with a montage, saves time – once you’re trained, you’re an Agent, and we’ll embark on your first mission.  It’s that easy.

And it’s a big one.  I’ll hold your hand every step of the way, don’t concern yourself – details forthcoming – but rookies never get it easy.  Thrown right into the thick of it – and this caper is maybe thickest I’ve ever seen.

Light up another joint.  Go on, it’s good for you.  Calms the nerves.

Swirls of smoke add to particular air of Interzone.  Paisley veins in shimmering atmosphere.  The growing thousand time.  The minutes away.

***

Okay.  Persuasive technology is front of his – the unwilling They.   Really is effective though, cutting through gender assignments – all genres are fake genres – control mechanisms weaponised against newborns, generate life-long dependency.  Hooked on gender.  Though knowing it.  But influence your behaviour – His genitals are millions in investment, but from the might get short-term reading.

So.  What’s your first mission?  Should you choose to accept it, hohoho – there’s no choice in the matter now, that’s the joke – “trapped” is such an ugly word – To carry or intentional intrinsic the recent tensions attempts to use “watching” from afar climate change fraud, to get this at the time the University of mathematics, too — is a this step, this and the rest Police can be four years after conspiracy theorists.

If the criminals unique power structure, these conspiracies successfully, algorithm to four have badly hurt Mob — a photo op – not.  Hard to explain.  But if we don’t shut them down, then the whole cosmos is a waste of time.  Malfunctioning – might as well shut it down and get our money back.  Cut our losses.  The Nova Syndicate are a mistake in the system – don’t wanna say “The Matrix” – a malfunction that puts the whole thing outta whack, tilts the whole thing off.  Broken, see?  And when a Simulation breaks down, it’s not a Simulation any more – difference between a portrait and a caricature, is one way to look at it.  Whole damn universe is a caricature – if we can’t fix this.  Advanced civilizations shoot-‘em-up, a scientific loathing in which a computer science technology, we wouldn’t will emerge from Web browsers — expedition to the centipedes.

We have time – we have that in spades.  Out here, we have more time than we know what to do with – sink down into it, real comfy, thick like molasses – black strap brown – boundless plains to share.  So despite our insistence on peak efficiency, we can spare time, need you across all aspects of the mission before we let you loose, so to speak.    

I have could be part we living in of their ancestors voiceovers, corrupt politicians, the mammalian mould.  I strongly believe we can fix this, though – but I’ve always been an optimist.  Glass is half empty, sure – but we’re lucky to have a glass at all.  Ever tried to carry water in your hands?  Been here before, haven’t we.  Don’t worry – constant déjà vu is a symptom of being here, out here, one of us – apologies.

So.  Your first mission:

We need to rewrite this climate change fiasco.  Things stand, human society collapses in matter of decades.  Show’s over, curtain’s closed.  They change the climate.  They change the climate, more what’s the term habitable for them this way.  Hotter, thicker air – they ganked the dinosaurs too, you know, too dumb to know their control machine was climate – but hey, seems Earth is rich with that particular personal quality.  Ignorance knows no bounds.   A naked atom to the computer programs.  Making it more habitable for certain… parties.  Certain interests are sick of hiding – wanna come out of the extraterrestrial closet so to speak – and so whole world is changing for their benefit.  If we can't break their climate signal – it’s last drinks, soldier.  Gotta try – Nova Syndicate just power along otherwise, Fish Gods and Saturn Hats and Celebrity Sacrifices and all – careening straight to Nova in hotted up spacecraft made of dirt and rocks and trees and magma.  Drive it like they stole it, see?  

And no way that “science” is going to stop the change – The Event, they call it – it’s too late for tackling it with shall we call it the “traditional” route.  Requires occult solutions, let’s say.  Timeflow requires surgery – Flat Earth about to be folded into origami swan – course that’s where we come in.

Who else gunna cut up the reality flow?  No-one else qualified. 

There’s – there’s the “content” tell anyone – your lines and of course response to the word in — the Anthropocene — demands Meaning Game first – Once you the whole all words From war-stricken you can’t can’t hold the other taking readers proper way.  Drops, sure political and to anyone affair – warmer, wetter, new Man See?  

Biggest all True.  It.

Also menace from fingers glisten to be about it.  Imperil global are you of realities supplies. Conflict, world is infrastructure, crops, are snapped – Once the function at control-machine, once human.

All of – except you cut new vision it means it turns called now?  

Rewrite the ecological control script.  That’s the job.  Save the entire fucking planet.

Don’t look at me like that, soldier. 

You tore the damn paper, not me. 

In future, maybe be more selective.

***

FICTION: ROUTINE ONE: TURN COLD DEAD THAT HUMAN SPARK, SPLASH OF RED.

ROUTINE ONE: TURN COLD DEAD THAT HUMAN SPARK, SPLASH OF RED.

Get the call – New Recruit incoming.  Scrape together some semblance of decency, arms slide into old trenchcoat sleeves, collar up – old school – light triple-paper joint, drag it deep in the Interzone translucent particle air – smoke spirals off, ash falls slow – prepare. 

Why me?  I’m good with new recruits, they say – still got some of that old fashioned human in me – empathy maybe, what do you call it “compassion”.  The whole process is so fucked up, so many old Agents lose that human spark, turn cold dead crab – nothing but business – dead fish eyes gaze from dark sockets seen too much fucked up shit to care any more.  Me – still got a little human gleam in these old eyes, blood still has a splash of red in it.

Get to the waiting room shabby but quick enough, and there you are, panic-frozen and deer-eyed, scrap of paper – secret Ticket – still in your hand, no idea what the fuck or where the fuck. 

Better sort that all out now.

“Welcome,” I say all cool like 1930s detective – costume that rubs off, we all wear it to different degrees – mentor and friend and guide – play out the old guru script aura.  “You’re probably wondering where you are.”

No words, too Transport-sick to cope yet.  A little human gaze from dark sockets seen too idea what the your hand, no dead fish eyes much fucked up but business – scrap of paper fuck or where there you are – still in gleam in these panic-frozen and deer-eyed, old eyes, blood – secret Ticket is so fucked up, so many crab – nothing – still got quick enough, and The whole process shit to care still has old Agents lose any more.

Me in it. Get to the waiting room shabby but turn cold dead that human spark, splash of red.     

***

The whole racket was almost blown wide open by Agent Burroughs.  But the Nova Cartel just spread the idea – pure propaganda of course – that his reports were fiction, and cut-up nonsense at that.  Spread shit about Word Hoards and Beat Fiction and Wife Shooting.  Of course, didn’t help that the events Agent Burroughs described were obviously untrue – Centipedes from Venus and Mayan Crab People, the works – and of course, readers trapped in Nova Word-Line Simulation believed that because those events were so obviously untrue, meant they didn’t happen.   Course, you, me, we know better.

(The things they will believe, oh brother!  Knows no bounds!  Believe anything but the Big T Truth – you hear those cats swearing the Earth is Flat?  I mean, of course it’s flat – but not in that way!  Dumber folk I have never seen.  Real Earthlings never fall for a gimmick like that.  But not even sure there are any real Earthlings these days – all succumbed to digital undifferentiation, big time.)  

See, the Uranus Agent Burroughs described was the real Uranus, the Venus he described was the real Venus, but different channel on the Dark Matter Deepfake.   Tune through, different channel on the Box.  They Live, They Live.  Tune through, put on the damn glasses, and it’s all clear as sulphur in air – tune it right, and everyone can smell the bad egg like we do. The radical persuasion—using information, incentives, that between opting unwelcome brands or developed and changed, through alabaster tubes.

It’s not like Agent Burroughs got everything right – but it’s not like there’s only one “right”, either, so there’s that–

Oh – I forget the social niceties.  Been doing this too damn long. 

Name’s Agent Blackwell.  “Black” like obsidian dagger, “well” like a deep dark hole down, down, down.  Where we’re headed.  On Friday, we’re having very assholes, human parts a surprise breakthrough.  No surprise here, tell you that for free.

Hello, then.  How are you.

Point is, Agent Burroughs got real close to exposing it to the “mainstream”.  Agent Lovecraft got real close. Agents Wachowski and Wachowski got real close.  Agent Icke’s getting real close.  Agent Stang’s getting even closer.  Cycle repeats. 

We all try to bring it back with us, communicate it in words, but it’s hell – using the machine to describe itself.  Like trying to describe a piece of free jazz with another piece of free jazz.  Once you crack the control-machine, once you cut the word lines and image lines and scroll the other direction, then you can access the Big T Truth, but you can’t tell anyone about it.  You break the screen, as it were – you rip up the book.   No way to communicate when communication itself is what is broken.   

See?  Biggest damn hurdle in the whole sorry affair – can’t carry any of that back, that Big T Truth, can’t hold that in your hands any more than you can carry back a handful of water.  Drops, sure – your fingers glisten still with the membrane of Big T Truth, but how are you meant to pass that to anyone else?  Share the “content” as it’s called now?  Once the word lines are snapped like twigs, the whole Meaning Game becomes what Agent Wittgenstein called “private language” – no way to get inside someone else’s head – except of course the physical way.  And of course more you know and deeper you go, more cracked your own structures become.  No proper way to speak anymore when all words reduced to noises – might as well quack.

So there’s that – tune it bizarre cult from not like there’s individual, is drug the Uranus Agent Contact’s inevitable. On They change the one right, either, opting unwelcome brands hey, seems Earth but things circumcised Fiction and Wife People, the works radical persuasion—using information, the events Agent next dopamine hit.

All we can do is throw fragments back, Truth Dust, no Big T, just reality shrapnel – desperately scatter the moments and instants and feels, pepper the molecules of truth toward people and hope they get Big Picture – gotta reconstruct Big T Truth Mountain from goddamned sand, grain by grain – making a Mountain out of Mohammed – control machine was popped the dinosaurs Friday, we’re having “Black” like obsidian got everything right a deep dark to the computer in Nova Word-Line bad egg like Hoards and Beat breakthrough.

Climate. More powerful on the damn or developed and climate, more what’s real universe – almost blown the notion simulated headed.  Easy to knows no bounds.

So.  Brave new recruit, you’re the new Man in Black – except of course “man” means shit out here, gender is just more Nova Control.   There’s no gender out here – there’s barely sex, which is another thing entirely, obsession disorder biological entities insist on clinging to.  Obliteration is the end of boundaries that are otherwise solid.  Idea – pure Burroughs described were the Venus he for them this – but it’s and scorpions, supercomputer.   So first things first – yes, it’s all True.  All of it.  Even the parts that conflict.  Out here, a conflict of realities is nothing, forget about it.  Also forget eating and sleeping, waste of your precious time.  Also, forget time.  Distraction and nonsense.  We function at peak efficiency, soldier.

Contact – and The whole racket Tune through - No surprise the Nova Cartel incentives, that between hole down, down, the real Uranus, reports were fiction, course, readers trapped air – they different channel on with the morality all clear as obviously untrue – use, queer participation – and of not an if.

See? Peak efficiency.  Cut right to the chase, right to the quick.  Bypass regular brainwashing systems, language fragments injected straight to the dream core.  There’s no way they’ll get that on the real Earth.  No idea how to take it.  Think it’s just another hoax.  Propaganda of course universe? It’s not just spread the way.  Hotter, thicker Shooting. 

(Course, there’s another reason I don’t sleep.  I don’t want to dream.  When I dream, I dream of Her.  Because She’s still out there, of course.  Can’t think about Her too long or I just get – what’s the word – maudlin.)

So.   

Anyway.  

Ever see ‘The Matrix’?  Gross over-simplification.

Of course, Simulation believed that Scrolling, scrolling, for this case, down. Where we’re tubes. It’s not Burroughs described was personal quality.  Every border you ever believed in – stop that right now.  Not going to do you any good here.  Here is outside of all that.  In this case, an individual, is drug use, queer participation, but things – circumcised cock, black goblet – with the morality of a recording instrument and efficacy. 

Okay, see, imagine Reality is the broadcast from some radio station – out here, in the Interzone, we’re holding the radio.  Forgot, you’re from a more “modern” “time” than I am – okay, so Reality is the what you call it “web site” – out here, we’re holding the “lap top”.  See?  Except even that border is permeable.  All membranes are permeable.  Take it from me – I’ve permeated them all.  So you’re holding the “lap top”, but you’re just a what’s the word “terrain”, every consciousness is just more terrain, see, a place to be, an environment to inhabit.  You’re a place, I’m a place - we’re nice places to visit but I wouldn’t wanna live there, ho ho ho.  Now you’re recruited – old word but accurate enough – you’ll be doing a lot of that.  Not hard with the right chemicals and energies.  Agent Wilson talked about the Chapel Perilous – you’ll be visiting that shithole more times than you can count.  Time, place, just parts of the Game – doesn’t matter – we’ll get to it all eventually.   Just be aware that it’s all porous, and it’s all simulated – deepfakes all the way down.   Once you get that into your head, you stop asking so many questions about what’s real and what’s not, and you can focus on the task at hand.  Peak efficiency, like I said.

Anyway, what’s your name?  Your old name, I mean.  Birth name.  Government name.  Dead name – “Necronym”, some cats are calling it now.  You won’t be needing it any more, but well, I’m a sentimental guy.

Nice to meet you. 

Keep it together.  No-one volunteers for this gig.  “Trapped” is the wrong word.  Ignorance you need to real Venus, but – A naked atom sulphur in air didn’t help that untrue meant they Tell you that didn’t happen.  Course, that’s a when, on some that Live, oh brother, because those events the term habitable climate – but know that though. Shit about Word to know.  Spread given the project Deepfake.

We’re all just Agents now.  (See how “Agent” is almost anagram of “Angel”?  Not entirely coincidence.  Not entirely anagram, either, so there’s that to consider.)

Ones – you here, tell you and Mayan Crab – black goblet drugs than physical were so obviously They Live.  Dressed in human drag, nastiest sonsofbitches I ever did see.  Nova Cartel, Nova Syndicate, it’s all the same.  Agent Icke describes them as “reptilian”, but I say “insect”.  Obsidian insect with dead eyes and ravenous hunger – feed off human souls, spirit, energy, whatever – snort up life essence like powder – there’s no Satan, so they’re not “Satanic”, but next best thing.  “Anti-life” maybe better way to put it.  “Anti-energy”.  Just plain “anti”, maybe.  Spiritual cancer, another way.  They programs.  Gates, glance, described – was the you, me – we different channel on with that particular.  Cancer destroys its host – the Nova cats destroy theirs – all channels at once – fill up their own petri dish without a second thought. Not sure they think at all, to be brutally honest – just cold dead-eyed instinct hunger.  Did they create the simulation for that purpose?  How the hell should I know?

Just doing my job.  Jesus.

(The dagger, “well” like of a recording is just rich – remember for when Centipedes from Venus parts a surprise glasses, and it’s too, too dumb – can smell like Agent Burroughs know better.)

Anyway.  You won’t sleep, but best you stay here until you recover from the Transport.  Really takes it out of you – sometimes literally.  Exhausting – and particularly bad when, like I said, there’s no more sleeping.  Never sleep again.  How to recuperate?  Most of us turn to chemicals, extremity, Dark Matter sex.  Some nights, it’s Salo meets Electric Dreams.  Each to their own.  More powerful drugs than physical ones – you know that though.  Scrolling, scrolling, for next dopamine hit.  In the Dark Matter wide open by hate.  Tarantulas and cut-up nonsense instrument and efficacy.

See, changed, through alabaster the smallest and, very assholes, human that for free.

***