White Rapture of The City

[Iron Sulfide]

Chapter 0
A View From the Bottom (Which is Also the Top)


White Rapture coursed through the streets of the City, entering every home and place of business, coming through every odd angle obtuse enough for it to gain access. Most people haven't left their homes for days, now. The ealiest victims of White Rapture, in fact, had locked themselves up together with enough food for months to come and porn as far as the going-blind could see. Jonny awoke from his bludgeoned fantasies of bobble heads and clock radios, grabbing his head and rubbing his eyes.

Strange, he thought, I could have sworn I still had my left eye...must've been the dream.

As Jonny lay there trying to remember, grasping futility that goldfish experience every 23 seconds or so, he started to feel odd. Odd in a "Check your pants for Shit Stains" way, as opposed to a "Hmm.." way. Completely gone, foggy in a dark alleyway, Jonny looked to the sky, as though it might offer him some advice, or console him. Maybe the Deity would grace him and Explain It All.

"What in "Bob" Hell is THAT?" he said aloud, for the same unquantifiable reason that any primate makes communication sounds when no other primates are around to hear.

Now, Jonny was not overly educated in any sense, and it was better that way. It was supposed to BE that way, that's how he was programmed. "The less educated a soldier is, the less he questions" was the basic principal training soldiers at Government, Inc. Intellectual, Spiritual (for lack of a better term) and Emotional education never passed the age of 15 for Jonny. This is why had had so much difficulty figuring out what was going on in the sky. Surely, it couldn't be the Deity...

A Large (at least 20 meters across), translucent, seemingly two dimensional ameoba loomed in the sky, as faint memories tried to jump start in his brain. Unfortunately for him, his neurons were out for Tea and Conversation.

Neuron 1: Hey 2, c'mere...I gotta tell you somethin' !

Neuron 2: Hey 1, YOU c'mere...I gotta tell YOU sumpin', be-yotch!

Neuron 1: Don't be such a shit face.

Neuron 3: LET ME SLEEP YOU FUCKWITS!

Jonny stumbled to his feet. Jonny does Not like this, he thought, patting down his clothes. Strange...I don't remember my clothes being torn...

He looked up to the sky again, remembering the ameoba; it was splitting in two now. Two wholely seperate, but completely identical ameoba. He had no idea what an ameoba was. I can only describe his expression as puzzlement boardering on alarm. He closed his eyes and shook his head, then the ameoba was gone.

A bit flustered, he tried to regain some of his composure. Then as he started to walk to the end of the alley, the voices started booming.

"Ptztztztubblestzzzz..." just hissing and white noise, at first, then building into a thunderous choir. "...tzzztzzzzzurrrrrrburburburBOW BEFORE ME!" chided the voice(s). The voice was thousands of voices, each in a different frequency, each in perfect unison- the way people who've had 'near death' experiances describe the Heavenly Chorus. Jonny just stood there, seeing no one, but hearing it none the less. "I SAID BOW! BOOOOWWWWW!!! I SAID...FORGET IT, I NEED NONE BOW BEFORE ME. WE HAVE BUT THIS TO SAY: YOU FAILED, JONNY TAMBOURINE...AND IT'S TIME TO RECYCLE..."

The space around Jonny, and the space Jonny inhabited for that matter, began to...to...the only way to adequetly describe it is "...to slowly and methodically implode at all points," until nothing of him was left, and in his place was a portion of Space-Time that no longer existed. And then the rest of Space-Time ceased existing, as well.

So I wound my pocket watch once more...

[Iron Sulfide]

Malkuth: Vulgar Manifestations

Few people long unto insanity. I don,Äôt mean your Benjamin Franklin, repeating-the-same-mistakes-but-expecting-new-results-ad-nauseum brand of insanity; that one,Äôs quite common. No, I mean the stark insanity that comes quick; the elusive and lucid insanity that shatters the ego. I,Äôm talking about the moment when you wake up in an unfamiliar place; those few precious seconds where you don,Äôt know who you are, or where you are, how you got there,Ķand the anxiety wells up inside. Panic takes a swing, Chance is the catcher and Circumstance is pitching; Anxiety is on first, and insanity on third, let,Äôs hope for a home run.

Strike one!

You wake up and you,Äôre maybe too groggy to consider these things. As if, to be sure, insanity requires awareness.

Ball one!

Look around, my friend,Ķyou don,Äôt know this place, do you? Things are perhaps a bit unfamiliar, are they not? The hint, the pinch of awareness is all that,Äôs been mustered so you can begin to think, all for naught when,Ķ

Wait a minute folks,Ķoh my God, Anxiety is stealing second! Look at him go! Chance throws the ball to Circumstance, Circumstance to second-base, to good ol,Äô Pomp. But,Ķoh,ĶHE,ÄôS SAFE! Anxiety just stole second base!

Fate announces what transpires for all the people at home listening to the game on a radio. Destination is his sidekick. Aside from each other, the only companion in the world to Fate and Destination are pintos and cheese. Pass the chips, please.

But now, my poor friend, the fog has passed you. No more is it overcast, but rather the sun split the clouds like a Babe Ruth homerun. No grogginess can be your doctor,Äôs note to forego potential madness anymore. We,Äôll have to leave it up to the players.

Strike two!

You find yourself, in a flash, hurling excuses for not being insane; instead of pitching a ball back to the pitchers mound, you tell Chance to give Circumstance a cumquat. Maybe that will work.

Panic returns to the plate,ĶChance gives a signal; Circumstance winds up the ball,Ķthe pitch,ĶPANKIC BUNTS! Holy Toledo! Pomp runs inbound to scoop the ball,Ķ he gets it. Pomp to Chance, tag!, Chance to Happenings at first, tag!, Happenings back to pomp, tag! A TRIPLE PLAY! WOWIE!

Insanity, Anxiety and Panic are all out! Reason wins the game! Reason wins the game! Reason wins the,Ķ

As you fetter into full consciousness, you become aware of who, what and where you are. Insanity subsides. Order reinserts itself. You go on now, and start your day; the one just like the day before. And the one before that, and the one before that and the one before that,Ķthe regular old insanity of mundanity; the plague of routine.

Fret not, my passenger. There will be other ball games.

See you at the World Series! cries Destination, the only words to have left his lips in the whole,Ķ5 seconds did this take, you say?

* * * * *

Jonny woke up as detached as his eye had been in his dream, desperate to recall himself.

"Jonathan E. Tambourine, Soviet Detections and Investigations Department of Government, Inc, Soldier and Investigator of Claims and Liabilities, Beast Number 325 55 8165..." Jonny rattled off Intonations of Identity, his programming repressing deeply the dream he experienced. Was it a dream? Yes, obviously it was a dream. The question shouldn't even be asked. This is Jonny's Subconscious Internal Dialogue. "... and I AM sane..."

His alarm clock was blaring, announcing the results of a Ball Game radio broadcast in delay for people who couldn't tune in at the proper and normal time, like normal, decent, God and Government Fearing Citizens. Fully upright in his bed he turned to turn his alarm radio clock off, but the sound died and his clock flashed: 12:00. . . 12:00. . .12:00. . .

Ugggghhhh, I shouldn't be awake right now, this can't be natural. . .or healthy for that matter. Jonny had Standard Reality Programming, just like all other official and recognized citizens. This limited Jonny's ability to change his degree of reality, to alter the system parameters of his thinking process and therefore what he could consider for himself. Jonny was also completely ignorant of himself- The perfectly brainwashed soldier. No Questions, Everything Told to you by a Superior is Automatically True, even if it contradicts his previous set of beliefs (those ones bend or break in order to accomodate the new imprints.)

Slowly, the last known reality he had experienced came back to him. It was 2003, the World View (tm) had just been brutally assaulted by Terror attacks from our Northerly Foe, the Canadian Soviet Republic. Jonny never lost his eye, Jonny never saw ameoba, Jonny was sane, and that's how he liked it.

The phone rang, and a sense of excitement entered his stomach. He didn't like excitement, it made him aggitated.

The phone rang again, and so he answered it.

"Ummm. . . "

[Bob the Mediocre]

RAH!!

(mostly at the baseball, but I liked the last part too)

[Iron Sulfide]

i'm finally starting to get to dialogue....

this next portion of Malkuth is gleefully brought to you by pivital
roleplaying on LMNO's part:

[LMNO]

You can't prove anything.

[Shibboleet The Annihilator]

I just got around to reading this, nice work Zenja.

[Iron Sulfide]

Government, Inc. is a very large buisiness. They take care of their fininances first and foremost. In that respect, they pioneered many, many, many clever ways to monitor their employees (as well as non-employees and potential employees), to make sure they weren't leaking or turning commie.

Here's an Excerpt from one such monitoring endeavor. . .

Excerpt from Central Intelligence Report #115-Alpha-236-Gamma
Employee Suveillence: Jonathan Tambourine
Threat Level: Minimal
06/07/2003-Gregorian

Phone transcript:

[jonny]

Yeah, hello? what do you want?

[Dao]

It's Dao. You read today's wirefeed? Fifth item in, after the article about the increase in genital mutations?

[jonny]

No, not yet. I had one of those bizzare dreams again. Don't remember much, but it was bizzare, that's for damn sure. lemmie get over to it...

{checks wirefeed}

{mumbling}

. . .2...3...5....summa summa...What?!? More mounty bombings? How did that happen? It says that 3- Three for fuck's sake- Mounties suicide bombed a Government building? How did nobody see it going on?

[Dao]

Well, I figure it could either be one of those cases where you're so trained to see the ordinary, you completely miss the weird stuff; or it's one of those grand conspiracies the the Feed is always going off on.

Although... those wily canukistanians could have finally found the solution to demension jumping... That might do it...

{Jonny is silent for a moment}

[Jonny]

No. coudn't be. They still use Rocks for half their arsenal, it completely defies any sense.

hey, I've got to do some stuff, I just woke up...let's get coffee, say... the Motorola Starbucks, 30 minutes?

{Dao sniffs in a snobbish sort of way}

Starbucks? Are you kidding? That place has been overrun by the CultureAddicts-- The last thing I want to do is hang out with a group of over-privileged, easily offended, World-music-listening assholes. Hey, I heard of this new place that opened up recently. It was leaked in one of the Underground tabloids. It's supposedly run by a cat-human GenMod. You up for trying something new?

[jonny]

Not really, but you're senior over me, so I doubt I have a choice. Where is it?

{End of Phone Excerpt}

[Iron Sulfide]

forgot to add:

if you happen to have an idea i borrow, or steal, or you pitch something
to me for possible inclusion and i use it...

i will maintain my heritage as an honest thief and give credit where
credit is due.
;)

[Malaul]

SWANK

Hey, I heard of this new place that opened up recently. It was leaked in one of the Underground tabloids. It's supposedly run by a cat-human GenMod.

[Iron Sulfide]

. . .am i asleep?
am i been dreamin' ?
am i been squeezin' and bleedin' and
needing you here?
needing you dear?. . .

Jonny fiddled with his car radio. Nothing but cheesy, manufactured- dare say-  crapulence. He settled on a Talk Radio station.

Refocusing his attention to the road, okay, let's see...safety belt...10 o'clock, 2 o'clock...gauges, check check check...scan the road...10 o'clock, 2 o'clock..., he fiddled his way to the the corner's address. What was it? Oh Yeah, "I'll meet you at the corner of 13th and Ashcroft" , the words played back in his mind, with recordesque crystal clairity. Now how do I get there?

Reaching over to the passenger seat, he delved into a box of fiddle faddle, and let his mind take attention to the radio, while trying to stay observant to the road. It was a talk radio show he'd listened to before, the voices were familiar, but he obviously didn't listen enough to remember their names. Anonymous Speakers in a sea of radiowaves, the thought had some appeal to him as he drove by a Palm Reader on Condo Liza Way and made a right turn onto 13th. So, logically, he paid more attention to the voices emmanating from the radio. What the hell is it they're talking about?

"What I want to know," said a deep, grusky male voice, "is why are they attacking us? What did we do to them? I mean, Christ Almighty, we have a consumer trade alliance with them to dominate the western markets. Why would they want to endanger that? I just don't see the sense in it, so maybe if you could explain that to me?"

Another male voice, Higher and more Fluidic, "Well, the problem isn't so much as to say that "They" [Jonny imagined the man making a visible hand gesture, commonly known to him as "Chicken Scratches", from the way he said 'They'] are trying to endanger they're alliance with us. The problem- actually- has nothing to do with Them [more Chicken Scratches], per se. Rather, it's a small faction of Them, which is who we should be referring to as Them [Chicken Scratches] in the first place. Of course, now, I'm Talking about the Brotherhood of Mounted Soldiers, who are trying to stage a revolution in Canada. They propose- through means of terror and self-sacrifice- to make Canada a Socialist Republic. Their main arguement is that Canada was headed that way on it's own, before it started dealing with US, ltd. And admittably, one is encouraged to think such a thing when looking at Canadia's, ahem, erm, Canada's history. Indeed they were headed for socialism, but the foundation of the Mounties' arguement is flawed in that they believe socialism to be superior to capitalism."

Jonny tried to absorb this with greater ease by turning up the radio a bit when he hit a stop light on 13th and Powel St. He ate some more fiddle faddle.

"Oh, I see." said the grusky voice. There was a thin layer of silence that ensued, but the more feminine male voice chimed in to try and cover that up.

"Yes, obviously, they can't make that claim, logically. You see," Jonny sensed he was about to hear some propaganda, so he intently listend trying to figure out who wrote it...a little game of his. After all, there were only 5 people in Government, Inc. that were responsible for writing and disemmenating propaganda. "Logically, A System of Socialism views Everyone as equal. But in Capitolism, there are The High End, and The Low End, and Various Greys inbetween." Jonny fiddled his mind, trying to think of which of the five could have written it. If not one of the five, there may be some crazy Canuks planting disinformation in the system, which is very bad. The Anonymous Radio Voice went on, "Socialism can't say that they are better than someone else, they're equalists. But Capitalism is all about distinction and discrimination. We do believe that everything and everyone is different."

"THAT'S IT!" shouted jonny, the the cabin of his car. Then realizing he was alone, resumed internal dialogue. It's gotta be Bobby. No body else writes jokes like that into his propaganda. . . he thought, triumphantly, as he cruised right by 13th and Ashcroft.

Good, laugh at him. Anyone who fiddles that much deserves to get laughed at.

[Iron Sulfide]

Jonny walked into the cafe, which was astonishingly named The Cafe.

But before that, Jonny let his old ways set in again. Jonny had what Government Inc.'s line of Highly Paid, Highly Educated Shinks called a Shiney Object Deterrant Syndrome, SODS for short. SODS isn't to be confused with AD(H)D (Attention Deficit). Actually, Jonny never had problems with a lack of an attention. In fact, Jonny paid more attention than taxes. (Interests rates soar when Investing in Attention, they say, which led to many offers among the Intelligensia of the City, like "For a Limited Time Only, I'll Give you a 50% Discount if you Pay Attention!!!") What Jonny had, however, was an overwhelmingly precise attention span that could only focus on one thing at a time. When all your thought is on one thing, that is a strong force of concentration, there. But if you become distracted from that, it's the equivalent of getting kicked in the back of the knee while playing hop scotch. With SODS, you were always playing hop scotch.

This is why Jonny missed the cross street The Cafe was on.

As he walked in through the front of The Cafe, almost 50 minutes after he'd gotten off the phone with Dao, he felt a little noxious. Dizzy is perhaps a better word. Looking around the room with dialating pupils, his eyes adjusted to a dimly lit, suprisingly large cafe area. A good 4 meters were between the Bar and the Front Door, maybe another 10 meters farther, filled with Publik Axess(tm) computer terminals, couches, bean bag chairs, tables, and people. Lots of people. Where's Waldo? Jonny began to feel agitated again. What if Dao got impatient and Left?

He turned around a bit, raising his voice just enough to be audible over the pitter patter of conversational cacophony, "Dao? Where are you? I'm sorry I'm late... damn... Dao?"

Dao was sitting in a bean bag chair off to the side of a group of fat loud chicks. "Over here. To your left. No, more left... Lefter..." purposely softer than Jonny could hear. Dao liked hide and seek.

Jonny explored a little bit, perused the menus...not outrageous prices...lots of weird item names...typical Dao would want to meet up in some dive like this. He grew more and more agitated in an environ outside his norm. why would Dao want to conduct business like this around a bunch of freaks and hippies?

Then Dao sits up in his bean bag so Jonny can see him a little better, and Jonny shoots pre-emptively, "Sorry I..." Jonny looks around, again, "I was listening to the radio and got a bit involved with the program. There was some of Bobby's propaganda in it, I think you would have liked it."

Barely Looking in Jonny's direction, "They've got Bobby writing the Mounty story? That's a bit unexpected. Why not Sandra? She usually has a better grasp on Canukistanian policy."

Jonny inspected his choices for seating in the vicinity. Bean bag chair. Bean bag chair. Inflatable Chair. Ground. Jonny sat in a bean bag chair. "I guess cheddar makes it better. Say...did you notice anything weird about this place when you first walked in?" he said, looking over his shoulder again.

Dao, however, was determinately fixed in his stare. "Actually, I was too busy focusing on the Barista's... unique clothing choice. But now that you mention it... Why is there a barbershop quartet singing 'Love is a Battlefield' over there?" A barista brought Dao's order, and Jonny's eye followed a naked hard up a naked arm, that was seemingly attaced to a naked female torso. They let freaks like this serve coffee?

"I haven't the foggiest reason for that. You're the one that told me about this place, not the other way arou. . .sed?" Jonny's neck cranes steadily to the left, then the right, then the left again, following barista's in a chris-cross pattern. "Ummm...I mean, ummm. '...around.' Heh. So, let's review the more recent attack. What do we know?"

Dao pulls out a slick looking LCD writing tablet, and manuevers the stylus around the surface. "Ok, lets's see what we've got so far.  One: Mentally unstable Canukistanians were able to enter the country.  With horses.  Two: They were able to either smuggle in, or buy, explosives.  Three: They were somehow able to ride their horses, loaded with explosives, into the Govt, Inc. Colosseum without being stopped.  Four: Bobby, Bobby, for fuck's sake, was assigned the spin." He scribbles a few confidential notes for his personal file. "So what does this tell us?"

"That you're obsessed over Sandra? What's wrong with Bobby, Dao? You should have heard his prop. Total spin doctor." Jonny continues with a bit of a snobbish sneer in his tone, "In fact, I was going to tell you what it was, but now you'll just have to wait. Ass.

"We need to stay on task. Mounties. Derranged, Pychotic Mounties. With explosives, and horses, possibly explosive horses. But how is it that no one was witness? Personal cloaking devices? We're working on some stuff like that aren't we? How far along is it, might be feasible?"

Dao whittles something out of his tablet, and looks at Jonny for the first time in this whole conversation. "Well, let's kep in mind that the people who saw the Mounties last are all dead." Then he leans in close to Jonny's ear and whispers,"Just between you an me, there had been some strange things going on in The City just before the attacks.  Some of the scientists have been fooling around with sub-atomic wave functions, and got some unexpected results."

"Physics. I always knew that physics was going to cause me trouble, since my senior year in highschool. Good thing I studied the enemy...once. Um, and failed, if I recall correctly. Damn. You're not going to make me do maths now, are you?" Jonny looked around some more, becoming more agitated and nervous. He hated math. But suddenly, in his line of sight was something that made him give pause. Dao hadn't noticed that Jonny was agitated in the first place, or at least gave no appearance as to having noticed, so it wasn't suprising when Dao failed to notice Jonny jittering, and then suddenly grow still and frozen- or at least to give no appearance of it.
What Jonny noticed was Malaul, The Cafe's Proprietor, also Head Barista. Also, a GenMod.

This is worth discussing somewhat before we proceed. A GenMod is someone who paid lots of money (or favors, or at least knew someone...) to have their DNA/(i)RNA extracted, examined, deconstructed, labelled, edited and then retrofitted with segments of DNA/(i)RNA from (an)other animal(s). The results varied. By varied, one means to say that a piss poor GenMod would may look clumsy and awkward, like the spelling of the word 'awkward.' But the higher end of GenMods may have genetic segments more fully integrated, smoothed over, artistically implemented, etc... Just as in the hacker world, there are those with beautifully scripted hacks, and those with crude, messy hacks that just get the job done. Malaul was either very well-to-do, or else she'd resorted to tricks or knowing people. She was a definite High End GenMod, with a very skilled genetic hacker's implementation of feline genes and what appears to have been a very successful orientation course to using her new body. All the sex appeal of a goddess, and the grace and agility of a house cat.

"I'll try to make this as simple as possible." Said Dao, shaking Jonny's gaze momentarily. "When things get really, really small, weird shit starts happening. The normal laws of physics no longer apply. There are a lot of reasons for this, but I don't understand half of them, and you probably wouldn't understand any of it. You just gotta go with me on this."

Jonny says yeah yeah in a passive manner, still appreciating his gracious hostess from afar. This gives a momentary pause to Dao's dissertation.

"Anyway, some of the more ambitious science drones in the Gov't Inc's experiment pool have been trying to use the structured unpredictability of the quantum world in real life. But it seems they weren't as smart as they thought they were. Either that, or the probabilities took a turn into the extreme...What the hell is that?" Dao had inconspicuously followed Jonny's line of sight, and then conspicuously called on Jonny what he was looking at. It was typical for a monkey to stare at something unusual, even to be strongly enticed by it- aroused, maybe. But silly monkies were always afraid that someone would catch them being enticed, which was bad monkey behavior. Dao was one of the small group of monkies that knew about this and found fun in jostling other monkies with it. No harm, no foul, right?

"I believe that's your GenMod. Fits the profile, at least." Jonny returned his eyes to Dao, somewhat ashamed. Dao knew this would happen. Dao was unashamed, though. He was still staring at the GenMod of Malaul, drooling in his mind. "You know, the idea of someone getting gene spliced is slightly revolting to me, but She's pretty sexy. It wouldn't count as beastiality, would it?"

"I'm sure the Ethicists at Ivory Tower University have written volumes on the moral ramifications of Gene Modification, in all it's vagaries... But you know what I always say: "If it's revolting, who can say you're wrong?"

"The Deity can always say 'You're Wrong.' I don't care what you say, I know the Deity exists. Anyways, I should get to the Bureau soon and start workin' on this. You coming with?"

It must be stated at this point, for the sake of the reader's present and future convienience, that Dao was with Gov't Inc for one reason: He was an extreemly talented actor. He could play any role, at any moment, for any reason, most convincingly. This was very useful for collecting Intel, or Data about the World. This was also very useful in espionage and the like. Dao now assumed the role of a bad ass from some old biker movies, James Dean era. He stood up and put his jacket on, all as though it were 'without a cause'.

"Oh, clever, trying to slip in that bullshit about 'Deity', and then changing the subject. Don't think you can get away with it that easily. Your 'Deity' is simply Government, Inc in an imaginary form. Why do you insist on living in a cage, Jonny?"

On his way out, Dao would have done anything he liked to, but he ever so rarely did. He knew that he had no real control. The impulses of an animal are the Divine Will, but there was no Deity anywhere. Just an author.

"I'm definately coming back here. If it feels good..."

Jonny Sat there for a moment, though, in a slight daze of bewilderment. Monkies have a hard time having their beliefs called into question.

[Iron Sulfide]

Jonny sat in a bean bag chair, slightly lop sided. He waited for his Drink, and sat thinking. If you're thinking, You're Stinking, he thought.

Growing impatient, though, he started playing an old game from childhood, where he imagined himself as two people, and spoke to one, and had the other respond. Most children who develope this game are single children, and it manifests in the form of an imaginary friend. He hadn't been so creative, as a child, so he imagined himself. Probably as the result of an early childhood experience with mirrors.

The game started off well, and then took an unexpected turn. Well, I wouldn't say it was exactly unexpected, per se, but...rather, it was unexpected to Jonny.

Have You Ever Wondered Who You Are?

* * * * *


The question of who I am certainly comes into play.

-Does it?

Yes, of course it does. Who am I talking to?

-Yourself?

That's what I'm talking about. Who talks to theirself this way?

-You?

Do I always answer in questions?

-Do I want me to?

No.

-Okay then.

So what is it then that I am? I worry about talking to myself, sometimes...

-Why? Why do you worry, I mean.

Who else talks to theirself? I mean, Shit, Seriously...the only other people I've ever seen talk to themselves are crazy. Like, not just weird... balls crazy, homeless people wearing underwear outside their pants, tin foil hats, ranting and raving to themselves. Who else is there?

-Maybe other people do it, just in a quiet way.

Or maybe I fabricated that answer to make myself calm and placid through my insanity.

-But if you can question your sanity, you're most likely still sane.

Where did I hear that? I think it may be bullshite. But sane or not, that still doesn't answer the question of who I am. Who AM I? Who is asking the questions, and who is answering them? If you are really only Me, then how can you talk with me beyond my control?

-I can be you, if we are the same person, and still be beyond your control. It's easy to illustrate, though I'm afraid neither of us know the answer to that. Let me draw you a picture. You jump out of the path of a semi truck doing 55mph towards you without thinking, right? Ingrained mannerism and behavioral tendencies are also done without thinking, often without control. But that you have never sought to control those actions, perhaps you never questioned your ability to control them, as well. Maybe you are an organic machine, I know you thought about that sometimes in your youth.

A machine? If I'm a machine, then how can I question my programming? I can't be expected to believe that I'm a machine without proof that I am.

-I didn't mean literally. Well, not totally literal. How often have you sat and watched nature shows? Watched the animals and thought: "Wow, those animals act strikingly like People."? The way you say it makes all the difference in the world about how you think and preceive it. Like People. How do you know that they act like People? From their perspective, we must act a lot like Animals. If they cared enough to pay attention and not be rightfully scared of Humans.

Okay, People are animals are people, right?

-Wrong.

Well, people are animals. Okay, how does that make me machine like?

-You act like them. You act certain ways in situations that call for certain responses. Structured. Predictable. Programmed. Like a machine. You can't program something that isn't a machine. More proof? Brainwashing. You remove or fragment or compress and archive someone's personality, and condition another into their brain. Like a Machine With a Computer.

Wait. That's backwards. The brain came before the Computer, you can't compare them backwards, that's backwards.

-Computers are a study of the brain. Creating an artificial brain. The only people who've been able to construct them, though, are mostly left brained technical geeks. The ones programming are also usually less right brained. No or Less right brain activity means less creativity, less intuition, less of the inexplicable. While a computer may not be perfectly accurate as a metaphor, it is the leading study, none the less. Right now, if I am really you, as I suggest, you're playing games in your right brain, looking from your left brain.

So then who's looking at the right brain right now?

-You are.

Who's looking back?

-You are.

Who ARE THOSE PEOPLE?!?

-You are.

Well then, I'm going to come find you.

-Are you sure you won't find yourself instead?

Well, that's what I'm looking for, right?

* * * * *

Jonny's Drink never came. He hadn't ordered one. But if he had, as he thought he did, he still would have jumped up from the bean bag and ran out of The Cafe just then, which he did.

[Iron Sulfide]

Walking with Tau


Ba-dink ba-dink, clack, ba-dink ba-dink, clack... The train was loud as I stood there, watching it pass. I don't get to do this often, I'm so busy. I hope it works.

Clack clack clack clack... These are my thoughts as I step up to the rail road tracks, it having passed completely. I'm looking for the nickle I placed on the rail road track, not 60 seconds ago. There it is. Ah, yes. It's beautiful. It's still all there, but now it's completely useless. Thinner, and oval in shape now. If you look slant-ways, you can still see Montecello's Phantom.

I throw the defaced nickle down the tracks after the train. It's much prettier than it was now, but none the less, useless.

I'm just passing the time, waiting for Jonny. I don't know why I think I'll see him here, I just...I have a hunch. Don't ask me to rationalize this, I just rely more on an intuition I've always felt I had.

I've sat down on the rail, and down the track to my left, an old woman is pulling a stack of newspapers and magazines and books across the tracks in a little travel cart. And I'm thinking about some newspaper clipings I read earlier.

"Elven Cult Leader Saved By Jesus", which was actually a story about the frontman of an Underground Music Experiment (The Elven Cult Band) who choked on some fatty meat in a diner called "Papa Muerto's Mexico Trip" and the bartender, Jesus Del Castillo, preformed the Heimlich Maneuver on him. Such a let down that story was.

"Hymen Lost in Age of Innocence", was another, but equally disappointing in content. That article was a movie review about a George Hymen flick.

Then I recalled the series of events that unfolded to me from those clipings. I remember Adam telling me once: "Those goofy headlines you read that never really match up to the story it's about, they seem to be 'misleading to get you to read the article' but really, they're 'misleading to get you to read the article, so you won't notice that the headlines are secret messages.' " I don't know if I believe him, if I ever did or ever will. But it was very eerie the way he insisted that it was the God's Honest Truth. I don't believe in God, but I can't deny having seen habitual connections where there ought to be naught. That's what sold me on the mystics. Most of them don't talk about God. Well, most that I've talked to, at least. Maybe it was just that they weren't mentioning God to me because they knew I wouldn't be receptive to that concept. That's the kind of thing that sold me on the mystics, as well. Sure, lots of them are crackpots trying to make a buck. But that doesn't account for the people who aren't in it for money.

One mystic I talked with once proclaimed to me that he wasn't a mystic. "What do you mean?" I had asked. "I'm no mystic!" he repeated. "I'm a Heretic!" I reflected on the emphasis as he started laughing wildly. He taught me Cabalah. And that was it. It all clicked together there. The connections. The Web of All Things. An explaination for anything just from looking at it's connections, even the ones that don't [iseem[/i] to make sense. He had me like a hook has a fish; worse, like a pimp has a crack whore.

When he realized his position of authority over me, the first things he did was smash it. "Look Louis," he said. "I am NOT the authority of Anything. I am NOT an absolute or a Goal. Be Thyself!" Actually, I just like to remember it that way. In truth, he turned into something more resembling a Zen Master, and hit me repeatedly while saying, "I command you to Not Be Submissive." This is why I still believe in mysticism.

Then, here comes Jonny. I knew it. He won't even recognize me, I'll bet. But here goes nothing.

"Hey, Jonny!"

Oh, what the crap? It's Louis Friend. What the hell is He doing here?, thinks Jonny, as Louis jogs down the tracks to the street.

"Hey....there...What's up, Lou?"

"I was hoping I'd see you here," says Louis. "Can we talk?"