The Eldritch Bowel Movement

Yeh, they had me at the mention of all ye shall eat. Chili no less. Of the five alarm variety. Of course, ‘twas down the yonder in the valley amongst the grove known to most as the Grove Of Forgotten Faces. They’s the faces of children lost to the wicked magic of witches and warlocks, casting forth creatures and demons from beneath and beyond, that roamed them woods like so many squirrels and fowls might any other. But these feasted not on chestnuts and berries but on eyes and testicles. Yeh, wicked stuff that. Years passed and the truth was lost to legend and finally to most everyone it was all just a name. Still a place to mostly be avoided. Not the best locale to place an eatery. Hence, the promotional announcement. It worked upon me, sure as the morning becomes the noon and as a man with a hunger that mighty was not enough of a word to describe I decided to take a gander. That is I decided to feast upon thee bottomless bowl of chili. Ye Olde Foodde Shoppe was a comfortable establishment given the setting, what with the gnarled forms of ancient trees casting ominous shadows and the strained kaws of sickly crows echoing through the grey leaves. Thick lichen and heavy cobwebs and the corpses of a lost generation of bad possums littered the path to the restaurant. But my hunger of hungers swayed my judgement and I trudged on through, heart pounding, stomach growling, intuition howling. Yeh, ‘twas not the most relaxing journey and I fantasized of that first sip of draught and dreamed of how ‘twould be one for the ages: a soothing infiltration of a pious man’s soul. And ye, ’twas. ‘Twas.

Ye Olde Foodde Shoppe was as down homey as mother’s mustard jam and twice as cozy and I instantly felt the fearful burden of the journey melt away like so much ice cream in the summer sun. The proprietor was a portly man of sub average height and above average jowels and the tales of his chili had travelled far and wide on the winds of appetites and tongues like butterfly secrets in a springtime schoolyard. The tale was a simple one: the chili was equal parts heaven and hell. A sumptuous inferno. God’s own volcano. But was I deterred? Nay. I was in paradise.

Bowl upon bowl was placed before me.

Ladle upon ladle was placed inside me.

And yeh, the legend of the woods, the legend of the place, the legend of the dish, were all well known for sure but on that day a new legend was borne: the one about the man what et. And et. And et.

The final spoonful slid across and down my tongue into an over-populated world of beans and meat and tomato and spice. The final sip of ale washed down with it. The ecstatic elations of gastrointestinal fantasies gave way to sated calm and a need for slumber. I bid my farewells and made my way.

The woods in the night while most probably fearful in the best of times held no wicked sway over me then. Forgive the curse, but I was just too fucking full. So evil spirits and awful ghosts and faceless phantasms be damned and I sauntered through the grove and back to my abode.

Stepping across the threshold into my cottage I made ready for my nightly slumber. But it was not to be. The gripes came hard upon me, joined by the grumbles. I gripped my guttocks to try and calm the vile tide but ‘twas not to be. Seismic shifts deep within the subterranean intestinal world of my protoplasm behooved nay bemoved me to make fast for the outhouse. I stumbled outside into the light of a full moon as gastric distress intensified to gastric calamity. Ye Olde Outhouse was but nineteen easy steps from my back perch but in that horrible moment it was like I was Christ with the cross and the privy was Calvary. Like lashes and stones and curses galore the violence inside me raged and I But barely made the shitshack without spoiling myself and my freshly manicured lawn. I tumbled into the latrine. As pants fell to the floor I fell to the orifice and my bowels detonated into the putrid cavern beneath me.

Stench and thunder.

Time ceased.

Tonnes passed.

Angels died.

Children cried.

And a new legend was borne.

It was the Dung of Ages.

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Neon Brown: from the diary of Tad Friend “artting”

asteve, that electric bastard took me out to the new int’l big-time government kneejerked up the freakhole art gallery of earth.  up in a nice low-orbit over the south pole, good views, nice cafeteria, nicer lounge.  even though i always get persnickety when it comes to the kneejerks and the creatives, i have to admit they did a pretty good job with the place.  it’s amazing to me what all those governement credits can get done because the collection is probably the most intense and for want of a better effing word, awesome, in the solar system.  i bet those high-minded, enlightened kneejerks running the jupiter settlements are pooping in their scrambled eggs.  and for all his flawed circuits a-steve hit me right on the money forcing me to see the place.  it did inspire i realized that for so long a big part of my problem was i had stopped outputting.  getting inside the cubes and letting that world take command doesn’t do a thing for anything, let alone oneself.  staring deep into colours that had true emotion behind them, that a person decided to put there because they felt that was where it needed to go.  brought me back to the days with champ and the two of us putting t.m.w.p.t.s. together no worries about the kneejerks or turds, just dirty sweats and cheap beer and freeze-dried sandwich bowls and idea after idea after idea.  couldhave spent a month in front of some of those works if a-steve didn’t shuttle me on, the facilty is mama huge.  there is a lot to see and i have got to admit (and by extension recommend) that the a.i. wing is right up there, a-steve being the connoisseur his self-developing nano-circuits made him to be was especially deep into these robot works of  art.  oh’s and one’s and still life’s with vacuum tubes.  i promise myself that i am going to get back to doing the goddamn work.

Neon Brown: from the diary of Tad Friend “Boring”

amazement-astronaut-vector-illustration-jumpingsack-canvas-printwasted a lot of do-time absorbed in the streams.  light-speed inanity.  where did the good stuff go?  we were good.  where did we go?  don’t answer that.  dimmed the feed and stared out the window.  it was a lot of the same.  ultra-def life and death black and white in an infinitude of colours.  it pulls at something inside some kind of nagging itching throbbing pushing grabbing gushing wanting needing thing i don’t know what.  my unit can’t explain it to me.  i find that disconcerting.  i kill the streams and shutter the windows and pour myself a tall stiffy.  then another.  i numb out but it doesn’t wholly shut down the feeling.  that.   i.  am.  bored.  out of my freaking head.  business is good but i’m not in it, not like when i started and it was all go-go-go, until…it wasn’t supposed to be like this.  not this way.  no, we would all be here and it would be all our imaginations together in the soup, serving up a stew that the wasted masses would guzzle like we were a big ass stew-spewing mega-tit.  we believed they needed it then and more than ever i believe they need it now but i’m not in the place i was to get it done.  let them have their auto-this’s and electro-that’s, sure no problem, let me fabricate it for you, most best price.  now how about i tell you a story?  no, can’t wrap your free-thinkless mind around the idea?  or can you?  i’m too dis-en-effing-franchised to think about it.  let alone worry.  it’s times like these i fully understand the allure of the cubes.  there is no boredom in that world.  but i will never go back there.  so i stay bored.

First World Problems,Yo!

download
i’ve got shit stains
on my underwear
and
it’s a real pain
to wash them outta there

i must stop reacting
so awesome extreme
to every rad thing
that i see

’cause
my high intensity
is seriously
causin’ me shit stains

and i am seriously running low on clean drawers

The Deep Disk

Processed with VSCO with q3 presetTechnician Steve walked slowly down the corridor. He was still figuring in his head and hoped a slow lope would give him the time he needed. He had concerns and his brain was madly trying to address them, and with every step came every thought that came to the same conclusion: unknowns.
There was a fountain in the wall and he stopped at it, bending over to let the cool water splash up against his lips. Not drinking, just thinking. What will happen? Imaginings ran wildly in his mind trying to answer that question. He pulled away and a shiver shook itself through his body. Was that fear or excitement? He wondered. Crud or awesome? Both most likely. He thumbed his communicator.
“Technician Jim?”
A brown voice spoke back, “Yes, Technician Steve?”
“What do your calculations say again?”
“The same thing yours do, Technician Steve.”
“I have got a swackload of unknowns, Technician Jim.” It came out greyer than he had wanted it to sound.
“She says it’s not an issue, Technician Steve,” he said, his voice a darker brown, “It has always been a given on this project we would be making some of it up as we went along.”
“But—“
Brown turned black, “No buts, Technician Steve, no uncertainty. Unknowns are a factor in everything. She and we have figured the factors. Factored and figured everything. You more than most. More than even she has, probably.” The black beiged, “It’ll be alright, Technician Steve. This is for the greater good, all for the best. Understand.”
I swallowed the grey in my mouth, let the brighter hues of what Technician Jim was saying coat it instead.
“Yes, I get it.”
“Good.” White. “Now please make your way to the control centre, the Big Lady is prepped, ready, and itchin’ to go.”
“Jolly on,” Technician Steve answered and continued off down the corridor.

The control centre was humid with nervous calm, the kind that moists up when people who know what they’re doing are about to do something they know they don’t know what. Nobody paid attention as Technician Steve entered and went to his terminal. He was glad of that. Of their focus. Did they know? About. The. Unknowns. Of course they did. He sat at his master control station, juiced it up, and logged himself in. His viewscreen came alive and he was seized by it. Complicated pieces of the curious puzzle buzzed before him as he watched her wondering. Watched her thinking. Her. The Big Lady. The brains behind the new future of the new future society built by the society of the future. The U.S.A.I. United Society Artificial Intelligence. Technician Steve couldn’t help but smile, as he let his thoughts slide momentarily to the monumental free-thinking supercomputer housed beneath a protective mountain shield that had boldly taken charge of the tattered and confused populace. Re-organizing, guiding, helping as was so badly needed and wanted. It was humankinds most massive marvel and one which Technician Steve had helped build with his own two hands. The Big Lady. Because lady knows best, and humanity deserved nothing but the best. Period. He let the smile last a second longer and then bent into the task at hand, bent into the terminal in front of him, bent into her.
“U.S.A.I.?”
“Technician Steve,” the lady’s voice was a rainbow. Always a rainbow. It felt him fine.
“What’s our status, Big Lady?”
No hesitation, never hesitation, “Global data piles are at 98% capacity and rising as calculated. Creation versus deletion rates are still at ratio 4.3/1. We must dump soon or a catastrophic system clog is imminent.
Technician Steve was well aware of all this. So was she. It was Big Lady’s way of letting him know it was the right thing to do despite the unknowns. She wasn’t nervous like he was, balancing the what-if’s against the what-will’s, even as her and society’s demise loomed closer with every bit and/or byte. We’ve thunk ourselves into a corner, he thought, this is our only option. Or else what? Crashtastrophe? Re-boot the world? Start over? First one 0, then one 1, then…damn.
Too much data. Not enough space.
Until now.
“Ready to bring the drive on-line, Technician Steve,” said the supercomputer. Technician Steve nodded, cleared his head, and concentrated on the job. Status reports from all the other Technicians flooded to him. All nominal. All Green. Alright. He typed the command into his terminal: GO.
Orbiting high above the Earth, a massive jumble of technological awesomedom slowly glew into being. Electrons shook themselves awake and began to flow and its complicated electric guts warmed to life. And then it opened itself up. Bigtime.
At his station Technician Steve acknowledged the drive was on-line and U.S.A.I. confirmed it with her ever soft coloured coo. He watched the readouts as the drives volume was generated. He inhaled. It expanded. He exhaled. It grew. He stared. The number really grew. Big, then large, then huge, then tremendous, then tremendouser, then ultra-big, then super-large, then mega-huge, then most-tremendous, and then it got weird, and then it got–
“Infinite capacity achieved,” In blinding white came the call from the Big Lady. Technician Steve shuddered. An infinite capacity hard drive. We did it. Made infinity. Our very own infinitude free to fill with all our whatever, forever. He shuddered again. It begged the question: What begins when it begins?
“Shall I begin,” The Big Lady was all beautiful business, ladylike and intent, “the data transfer?”
“Okay, let’s go,” His voice/being/conscience grey/orange/blue, “very slowly.” He typed the command and held his breath. One 0, one 1, the smallest pieces of the littlest bits of chunks of data were dropped into the fresh, new void they had made. A new universe. Sweet mama.

Technician Steve sat at his terminal monitoring the data dump personally for as long as he felt he should until he decided he could take a break away from the control centre. Even still his curiosity would not let up, his brain engaged with this fresh universe of ever moving, growing , and expanding streams and clusters of numbers, words, images, songs, games, programs, things, dots, lines, shapes, and more and more and more and more of whatfor and whatnot and whatetc. Spreading ever forth into a pristine, grand nothingness so as to clear the choking electric air humanity had come to inhabit. They threw it all into the deep disk. 0’s, 1’s, everything.

Later.

Technician Steve stared at his ceiling.
The Big Lady buzzed away in her mountain.
Society beamed and ran itself ‘round and ‘round itself a million times a millisecond.
The massive jumble of the deep disk hummed in its place in space.
The sound was soft.
The signal was a faint one.
But it blasted Technician Steve out his reverie and like lightning to his remote terminal interface.
“Technician Steve?” The sound of a weird rainbow.
“Big Lady?”
“That signal is originating from inside the hard drive.”
“I know.” He boosted the gain.
A voice crackled through the speaker, “Hello?”
Technician Steve stared. Unknowns and Infinity and 0’s and 1’s.
Together.
Beginning.
Begun.
Off to the motherfuckin’ races.
The speaker spoke again. It had no colour. It was new. It was pure.
“Is anybody out there?”

Neon Brown: from the diary of Tad Friend “Mooning”

riding the wave of self-diagnosticated inspired do-ism, and realizing i needed something to jack me out of this boredhole that didn’t involve jacking in or off or up, i took a trip out to inspect our lunar based autonomous fabrication facilities.  for serious, the moon’s spaceport has got to be the funniest place in the solar system.  i don’t how they find the people they have working there, i guess some of it comes with having to find people that want to work full-time on the moon, but these folks are up there with the best of the best of the neo-idiots and retardoids ifthey were ever able to collect and reconstitute the drool dripping out of the mouths of these guys, you could put a goddamn waterfall grotto in every freaking shelterpod in the effing lunar settlement.  letus all thank the universal sandwich.  pass the mayo.  the autono-fabs were running smoothly, production is up, demand is up, we are up.  up up again, thank the sandwich.  pass the mustard.  the adminstrativetechnician, a pretty but very, very serious lady named brick, after showing me the facilities and the what-nots, took me out for a nice picnic lunch on the surface.  soy tubes, coleslaw, lunar brew, craters, and the thick black of the cosmos.  if i wasn’t such a self-absorbed, anti-social recovering cube addict with emotional down-syndrome i would have played it to the romantic hilt.  in our short time together it became somewhat evident and therefore i am not less than very certain that brick is lonely.  who’s to blame her?  no one wants to knock boots with a drooling goofus in coveralls.  when i get home i am going to give her a paid holiday excursion to earth.  of course, i won’t make myself available to her during that time.  i am still deathly irritated by intimacy and a billion other things.  and shels was the only woman for me.  i refuse to thank the sandwich for that.  cancel my order.