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.
***
