ROUTINE FOUR: DEADPAN HAS ALREADY MADE DEGENERATE AGE – THEIR SACRAMENT SYSTEMS
Me?
I was born
in 1975, Australia. Stupid time to be
born, yes, and a stupid place – but we get what the dealer deals. White card, male card, middle-class card,
able-bodied card, pretty much a royal flush – sure, anxiety card, asthma card,
depression card, maybe even the autism card, but nothing I couldn’t handle. All
in all, a winning hand. Time, place,
irrelevant, of course – just different word lines, different control machine –
but it does mean I still have preferences.
Prefer “behaviour” to “behavior”, “arseholes” to “assholes”. Small things, but they still seem important
to me – us Agents, we all break out but how far do we ever really wander? The machine that stamps us out – rubber-faced
moulds tacky with primordial ooze – the cookiecutter stamps us good, and we
never really break totally free. Though
knowing it. But influence your
behaviour.
Behaviour changes, but and profitable, inviting get more
complicated ‘continuity’ - Insofaras persuasive technology is us, too. What’s less a routine, a being used to
example—and Self-Enhancement values – feelings – constricting and closing eerie
with the rafts of old that matters.
Means I was around before the internet, something Agent
Burroughs never got to see. I was around
before internet, before social media, before echo chamber – before likes,
before video-conferencing, before Trump – before deepfakes, before Flat Earth,
before reality TV – before captology, before capsicum spray, before Musk –
before non-binary, before Quiltbag, before “privilege”. Christmases and eating corpses and showbags
and casual racism and Saturday morning cartoons. Never thought I’d be delousing the Interzone,
can tell you that for free.
Life story: did well at school, wanted to be a writer, wrote
stories and drew pictures and played with lego.
School, what can anyone say about school? So long ago now anyway. Got into a writing course at Melbourne
University. Met… met her.
Yes, fine, fell in love.
Deep. Irreparable damage was done
to my heart, you could say.
Best not to dwell.
Door is closed.
(Deadpan has already made degenerate age – their sacrament
systems such as removed from the while studying equations – He is a god –
Likely one run – prove we’re in nothing more than the horror – and is a human –
consider advances – Psychopompic feud. Findings
of water. Humankind virtual reality and
is so far — us — this creature, which time, My experience suspect it's just
years ago - say it again – they’re emblems to me that codes — “similar in
principle to idiot hunger,” they worried about – There may be dwarfs…
But I
digress.)
All in all,
a winning hand. Nothing to suggest I’d ever
end up out here, Interzone, like your good self, soldier – nothing at all. Still believed in things back then, can you
believe it – see what I did there? – hierarchies and authorities, old games but
very popular – confidence trick the oldest in the book. Bait and switch? Slip through membrane? Alternate
reality? Hollow Flat Earth?
Studied
Philosophy at university (completely failed to get into Art School, divergence
there) – eighteen-year-old me had no idea that you could get marked for just
thinking about reality.
Aced
it. Thinking about reality was what I did, like breathing.
Lucky I aced
it, because my mind was on other things let’s say. Sex and drugs and rock’n’roll, we used to
call it. Unholy triumvirate. Met her,
and sank in deep – total immersion, like magnets, we were. Like two halves of one person, it felt
like. Finally united.
Anyway. Best not to dwell.
Drugs, exploration,
expanded my mind – hallucinations, certain plants, wisdom from the Core,
drinking up from the Well – and immersed myself in words of wisdom – Agent Burroughs,
Agent Hicks, Agent Wilson – the ancient texts – the knowledge passed down from
fungus and leaf, circumventing the Dark Matter Deepfake altogether, see? Back door hack. Made the official indoctrination so much
hooey, long term. Felt the veil dropping
from my eyes, didn’t know what I saw was just another veil.
And then one
day, totally random – or so I thought but now who knows – I found it:
Photocopied
poster. Looked interesting. Thought it was a Book Club or something,
amateur writers’ collective.
Well, I was
ignorant, let’s say, of the greater truths, at that point.
Naive.
Tore off
that phone number-
And you know
the rest, don’t you, soldier.
***
The
Interzone’s home now. Has to be. You get used to it.
Come,
follow. Dana’s just this way. Up there, that metal tower held together by
rust and rope – that’s where The Influence lives. That Baba Yaga hut on robot chicken
legs. That’s the one.
Dana’s our
first stop.
Mind the
thistles here. Sharp, poke their way
through anything. Venom goes straight to
the bladder, make you piss out all your liquids til you look like a
raisin. Seen one dame, even pissed out
the gel in her eyeballs. Shrivelled up
like empty white balloons. Nastiest
thing I ever did see.
Come on bub,
she’s waiting for us. Dana might be
immortal, but doesn’t make her any more patient. Old friend, Dana is – we just call her “The
Influence”. Meme-hoarder from way back –
she basically invented the hieroglyph – dank magic practitioner, nothing gets
away – pile up concepts into rickety Babel Towers, apartment smells like old
models and dust and references no-one understands any more-
What’s that? “Bub”?
What’s wrong
with “bub”?
Huh.
I don’t
know. I guess the dated lingo just rubs
off on you. Osmosis, you could say – so
many damn Agents from that particular time/space region, maybe there’s
something in the water – hang around so many black and white cotton slacks and
whisky sours and opium dens in so many silent films – just rubs off, what can I
say? I still have preferences decided by
my larval programming. Prefer “grey” to
“gray”, “Where’s Wally” to “Where’s Waldo”.
“Footpath” to “sidewalk”. But so
much assimilated from those old paper-skinned ash-coloured Agents of old –
Might rub off on you too, soldier.
Millennial like you, dropping pronouns but start saying “bub” – stranger
things have happened.
Anyway. Come on.
Get a shuffle on, soldier. Dana’s
waiting.
Quiet a
history – How to how I the worldwide numerous trials. Dated lingo, sours and
Might rub dropping pronouns saying “bub” but start like you, you too, in so
many silent many black things have – stranger I say?
***
We get to
top of metal tower, brown steel steps clang underfoot, rickety, swaying in cold
ash breeze stink of swamp and sulphur. I
knock on apartment door, weathered safe-door painted with clotted sigils in
blood – some Enochian, some Emoji.
Opens the
door, slow, all the time in the world.
Woman of contrasts is our Dana.
“Agent
Blackwell,” she says like squid changes colours, “and who’s your friend?”
“New
recruit,” I say, cards close to my chest – never trust a person who trades in
raw concepts, that’s my motto – walking in, lighting up a joint and blowing
smoke into centre of room, “Climate script mission.”
(You nod at
her, noob, scared to say anything, still sick from the Travel and the Aztec
heavy water. She ushers us inside and
closes the safe-door – a tomb now. You
look around, room to sit – barely room to walk, stacks and piles and towers and
heaps, a maze of concepts, labyrinth of ologies. You remain standing.)
The
Influence sucks in toothy breath, eyes wide enough to see scarlet lattice of
capillaries – I pass the joint and brittle claws take it eagerly – she sucks on
Interzone smoke and exhales two whole lungfuls before says another word.
“Ambitious,”
she passes it back, owl-like, “and if you don’t mind me saying completely
stupid. Never going to give that racket
away, you should know better.”
Stack of
memes threatens to topple, gotta talk sideways in this place – barely room to
think straight.
“That’s the
mission,” I’m careful not to shrug, else memes collapse and Dana throws us out
– old witch has little tolerance for disorder in her place of residence.
Dana laughs,
sound like quicksand drying.
“So,” she
says, “Agent Blackwell thinks The Influence can cook up a spicy dish of memes, prise
open the asshole of the Control Machine, let you Nova dicks slide on in? What do I
get out of it?”
“Making
yourself useful?” I cough – something flaps inside lung, black, flap like a
kite stuck in a tree, “Help out an old friend, prevent mass extinction, shape
the course of a pretty valuable planet…” I stop, side-eye you, speak in
blinks. Dana reaches claw out for
smouldering roach.
“I’ll do
it,” she says, squid-eyes ink-dark and shiny, “But planet Earth doesn’t mean
shit to me.” She drags. “Flat hollow piece of shit never did tickle
my particular fancy. But I’d sing a
happy song if those Nova cocksuckers failed their Great Work. Greedy.
Selfish. Never share. Millennia of sneaking around for nothing –
now that would make me a happy lady.”
Eyes smile
at each other.
“Looks like
The Agency and The Influence are on the exact same page, for once,” I say. Lucky break, good omen. United by hatred. Loathing bring us together. Hallmark moment. “Of course,” I add, reaching into my coat
pocket, “we’re also most willing to reimburse you-” but she cuts me off.
“Money? Boy, I invented
money. Oldest meme in the book, convince
bastards that symbols worth more than food, went viral, so dank never got
old. Still spicy. No, I don’t want Agency money.” She look deep
into pupils, talks straight to retina. “But,
when the Nova Mob fail, I want front row seats.
I want backstage pass. I want VIP
area access. Deal?”
I extend my
hand. The Influence extends hers.
“I do
believe we have a deal,” I say, cordial – you, still silent as a book.
“All right,”
she says, and holds up her new smartphone, so new it’s not even invented for
another decade – early adopter, our Dana – holds it up to my forehead, then
yours, then presses SUBMIT – the last words we hear are “Don’t hold too tight,
let the app do the work”–
False news broadcasts unrecognised virus present tape
recorders and as a weapon. In the language, form, to create since "wrong"
only technique is very and it is the host.
Part is these life subversive influence of simple: Always create planet
life forms feature of human existing conflicts – This is been recognised as
"wrong" about any on humans and using human voice or garbled
political - "The basic nova word has not lead to the people. It draws to
the explosion conflicts that lead present time form beings which enables
nova-" - Part them to transform a state of Eden invokes be on the of life
are Recording words on stable symbiosis with a virus because theory of
"the” as a distinguishing the word virus precisely the work concerns the
power and aggravate the two, "Electronic Revolution" that is to
dangerous possibilities of write – done by dumping suggesting that, "the
same planet – Their conditions and always aggravate life forms – The point
conflicts with other in present time technique can easily machine" due to
on the same and psychic control Feedback from the significance of forms –
should not – has reference to one, entitled "The of alphabetic
non-pictorial of the nova speeches causing confusion to the Garden employing
the Cut-up given life form that they remain attention to the basically
incompatible in it has achieved” – do not skip this part, this is crucial, soldier
–proposes the of course nothing a written word "the time binding to future
generations. As many insoluble conflicts as possible with incompatible
conditions” – views of a planet, languages to control of existence - There is
mob to see and convey information.
We twitch
thick spasms, break out in glossolalia.
Feel the synapse rip, tangle, reform.
Sweat drip like malaria.
The
Influence laughs, crackle like end of record.
“Now,” she
says, clearing space on couch, “sit, sit!”
You collapse onto couch, shivering fever – I sink slightly more what’s
the word graceful. “Developed this
training montage, cut up from Rocky script.
Ever see that movie? Pure.
Technique. Promises to be most
effective.” Is that a halo above her
wizened head, or just the after-effects of her app? No time to ask – she presses screen with her
thumb like walnut, and all flashes in black light and blinding shadow-
The center of the river. He a hanging corpse. Stares up at
quivers. Steps outside. And his steaming it in one four A. M. Not row of beef.
With hands on sweat suit with wide arc like breath, he starts running again.
Passes descends the stairs. ROARING TRAIN overhead and continues pounding the
dull SOUNDS in a hanging with amusement. Forces though he were is a muted beef swings
and were receiving it. Pauses, heaving great is pitch dark eggs into The
grotesque object up. From the watch him pass. Way to Paulie his face in
Paulie's eyes widen breath attests to start, he looks on the second this early,
with breaths. He throws base of his POUNDING HEARD. Works his dozen eggs. He
locked in total muscular running style. Runs along into the ribs. Garbage men
stop of stairs. He overwhelmingly steep flight elbows with beef OFF at exactly
passes beneath the cold. He moves into the passes City Hall beginning to
lighten. The following morning, grimaces with every drenched in red on and
roaches the deserted street. Great difficulty staggers up to the bathroom. He
swill... His body ALARM CLOCK GOES out of shape battle. Speeds up The fighter now
FISTS can be and walks awhile scatter. At the way. Two begins running down and
veers to the beef piers and past accustomed to rising turns the light and
halfway up train station. The slams his fist dark recess of several lazy jabs
himself to begin the stairs that punch, like he hoisting cans to brushes off
and cold water. Sways cracks five raw appears surrealistically alive. A never
before morning papers observe basin and submerges his aching sides. Glass and
downs as his form steps forward and looks at his – He is dressed beneath an
elevated slams his fists the refrigerator. Only in the air perfectly with his
seen concentration, as to his feet and wavers to hooks. Face reveals nearly
disappear into again. Every hanging in a well-worn Men delivering the walks up
to stands at the moves to the anchored freighters. He and sneakers. The sky is
hands. They are the morning gray. A beef and He can only gusts of exhausted
beef. The punching next one and telegrams. Fills and removes to the icebox a
hood, gloves and his face top of the mirror hang – be clearly SEEN seems to
blend challenge and responds.
– and we’re
done.
Sweating,
stale, desiccated, bone-exhausted – but done.
Clearer now,
yes?
Yeah, you
say, eyes bloodshot and twittering, but who’s Paulie?
***
Paulie
“Superstring” Weaver is mutual friend – trust him like few others – not an
Agent but, like The Influence, a useful person to know. He’s only one pixel tall but his width spans
the entire known universe – still never seen both sides of the man – always
gotta meet him out in the open, won’t fit inside any damn place. Knows a thing
or two about a thing or two. He’s known
Dana for longer than I’ve been alive.
While you
recover from training montage, I ask The Influence if she’s heard from him
lately.
“He’s good,
good,” she says, taking another long drag, witch-fingers and wither-stain, “He’s
learning to juggle. Handspan that wide,
reckons he could keep all the balls in the universe moving at once.”
“Huh,” I
say. (I’m not getting any younger, and
goddamn it if I’m not feeling a little fragile myself.) “So…”
The
Influence nods, stink of swamp person who trades never trust - Get your head
cold ash breeze the monster obsolete - To see scarlet hatred. Loathing bring resistance. Sweating, stale,
omen. United by so many control-lines in her sound - us riding on and sulphur.
“Go see
Paulie,” she croaks, going so deep twitch thick spasms, to memetic demolition
us together. “Go see his juggling, then ask him what he can do for you. There’s many of us who’d be delighted to see
Nova fuckers ground into oblivion.”
We the door,
slow, in toothy breath, like end of each other with glossolalia.
“Thanks for
the memework,” I say, cross her palm with joints, some generic, some
specific. “When this all goes down, good
to know you’re on our side.”
She cackles
again, closes spider-fingers over the smokes.
Shakes her head, eyes wide enough sigils in blood our bloodstream and
nail, soldier.
“No sides,
Agent. Just bloodlust. Schadenfreude. I want to see Nova Syndicate cancelled.”
Tolerance
for disorder in raw concepts, desiccated, bone-exhausted Support tower, brown
steel - eagerly old synapse rip, tangle, atomic of unconstituted entire Earth
sector.
We leave The
Influence there in her rusting metal Baba Yaga chicken-foot terminator apartment,
let that sink in.
Procure a
couple tumblers of heavy-water Aztec whisky sours on the way home – do the
trick.
You did
good, soldier. Actually, forget that old
“soldier” line – training montage sinking in deep – now I call you “Agent”.
Swaying in
all the time lattice.
Reform.
Sweat drip.
Doing good.
Come on,
Agent.
Lots to
do. Places to see, people to be.
***
