Tycoonery pt. 3

“Car!” Wilson shouted right smack in the middle of our awkward silence. It startled the fireless inhalable out of my mouth and onto the floor.“Yassir?” The limo said.

“We’re gonna need to jack some gnoshables before we grease this monkey’s abode,” Wilson said.

Was I the monkey? I wondered.

“Y’all want a snack stand, general goods shop, or a regular hot meal?” The car asked.

Wilson thought. For us both apparently. 

“Drive-thru snackatorium or food port will smooth our hugariosity just fine.”

Yuzzah, the car nodded sonically.

Wilson bent over and picked up my electric cigar and handed it to me.

“Hunger,” he said, “is the terror of the negotiating. For both sides.”

I nodded at this, remembering the six nervous hamburgers I’d eaten for lunch. Is it ever appropriate to barf in a business meeting? I thought.

“If the cuisine here is anything like the scenery I hope you have a decent toilet,” he said, his eyes back out the window. 

“Oh sure,” I managed not sure what I had just confirmed. And did this mean that ralphing was acceptable? Loose stooling even? My guts gurgled as if telling me we would know soon enough. I needed to—

“So,” I said, “it’s been reported you’ve been divesting heavily. But here you are and—”

“Ha!” He let out like a soprano saxophone, Hha! Hap! Haaaaaa!” He wolfed a tug on his pipe and swallowed his laughter(?).

“So you jimmy the trades and squirrel the news, do you?” He said back at me with the ocular drill-bit routine.

“Well, a course, ’cause, y’know, I am doing my best to do the business like, and they say about knowledge—”

“That its dumber than a monk’s dink.”

“It wha—”

“Listen. You may not know this. In fact you don’t because only I do, but I’ve known about you for awhile. You been beeping away on ol’ Wilson’s scanner since, well—” The drill bits stopped. Replaced by human eyes. I blinked.

“You’ve known—”

“Yuh. For sure. That’s my jelly, buck, my spread on the bread that makes me the kale.”

“I don’t quite—”

“Car!” He shot.

“Yassir,” the car said.

“Pull over.”

Yuzzah. 

It smoothed to the curb and parked.

Wilson slipped off his seat and across to join me on mine. He sat close. Our thighs touched. My guts gurgled.

Oh god, my fly, my fly, he’s gonna UNDO my fly and then sex—

“Buck, listen to me when I say that I have been living and breathing and pooping and praying for a man like to come a long my whole enchanted life.”

The smile I tried to use to cover my amazement felt dumb and toothy.

“Really?” I said.

“Uh huh,” he said. He flicked a chubby finger into my mouth and scraped a nail across my front tooth, “got some iceberg or greenleaf plastered there.”

He showed me his finger.

A piece of masticated green clumped on the end of it. Then he flicked it away casually.

“Car!” He barked, “let’s proceed.”

He jumped back across to his seat and set his gaze back on out at the world Boise made.

My gurgles shifted seismically. I thought I’d brushed my teeth.

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Tycoonery pt. 2

15

Without stopping Wilson stomped across the field, through the terminal, shaking his his head amazement three times as he did so at the flotsam and jetsam of commuters that had been beckoned here u to the anti-vastness of the Boise airfield. He stepped out through the large glass exit doors to the auto-moblo stands. A tall woman known in most parts of the Solar System as a filthy drink of water stepped in front of him.
“Got your fuck ride, right here shorty”, she burped, an authentic hand rolled combustible smoking between her lips. Behind her was parked a gold van with the side passenger door open revealing what looked like wall to wall to wall to ceiling bearskin rug.
He stared at her. Up. And down. Twice.
“Sweet marmalade,” he said, “Where am I? I mean, ga-loom lady, my what ride?” She
“You heard me. What’re you some kinda necrophiliac creeptomaniac? Get in the van, Stan, I’ll ride you into town all the way raw.”
Wilson looked at me. Looked at the woman. Looked at the sky.
“FIRE!!!” He screamed, “Fire! Fire. Help! Help! The travelport’s on fire!” Everyone around us froze. The woman jumped back. The few security personnel lounging nearby leapt to alert attention. Before the woman could say a word, Wilson grabbed my hand and pulled me off.
He ushered me into a waiting stretch limoblo. And jumped in after me.
He sighed and smiled and relaxed himself back into he neo-leatherette seat. I looked at him.
“I brought my own car,” I said.
“This’ll do,” he said.
“I have it in short term parking. I don’t think they have a daily max so—”
He made a fart sound and pulled out an electric pipe from his coat. He switched it on and took a violent draught from it and then spoke through the massive cloud of nicotine, “I have no patience with the modern neurotic girl who jazzes from morning to night, smokes like a chimney, and uses language which would make a concussed Drill Sargent blush! That said I’m a gams man through and through and with stilts like hers I can find myself foregoing much and forgetting even more. Call me shallow and cast the first stone while you’re at it. Now about this transwhatchulator—“
“Transmeticulator.”
“What?” He let out another cumulonimbus of nicotine.
“The Tranmeticulator. The device. That’s what it’s called,” I said waving the next great cloud of candy scented vapour out of my orbit.
“Uh huh. Fine. And it’s function, what you said on the communicator, that’s accurate?” He looked at me with what can only be described as diamond-bitted deep drilling intensity. I felt desperately urged to check my fly again.
But instead I answered, “Entirely. And more so. You’ll see the full capabilities of the device at the demonstration but the basic facts are absolutely true—”
I took a deep breath. Both for dramatic effect and to shade my nervous excitement, “It orders things.”
“Orders?” The drill bits didn’t cease. They bored on.
“Yes. But not as in requests like at a luncheonette or what have you but as in organizes.”
“Spreadsheets and butlers have been doing that for generations,” he said.
“Yes, but—well, not like this, I mean, to put it bluntly, it will do so—I mean does so, on a universal level.”
“Listen, I’m just a guy. With metric tonnes of money and all the related la-la-la-la-la’s, sure, but still just a guy who puts his pants on every morning one leg at a time so—”
“The transmeticulator is a device that takes any and all chaotic systems and orders them. Into manageable entities.”
“Uh huh. At what scale?” He asked.
“As I said before and over the communicator—universal.”
“As in—” he arched his eyebrows.
I nodded. And stared back into those eyes that had bored so deep inside me. What I spoke was true, it wasn’t malarkey or hogwash or snake oil or all-weather undercoat. It was true. And the truth was all I had.
That.
And the device.
Wilson looked away, out the window as the  ramshackle metropolis of Boise gurgled on by like some kind of polluted creek.
“Chaos,” he whispered, “chaos—” he looked at me, “chaos controlled is power infinitudinal.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out an electric cigar. He offered it to me.
“If your dingus really works,” he said. And stared back out the window. He didn’t have to complete his thought.
Because I knew what I was.
I thought the same thing everyday since turning on the device.
I put the cigar in mouth and turned it on.

Tycoonery pt. 1

Wilson stepped out of the autogyro and down the steps and onto the landing field.I had never realized just how pear shaped he had sounded over the telephone until his full-on Anjou form bumped itself across the turf towards me. Even though I was one of a crowd about two dozen people waiting to meet those disembarking he bobbled right on up to me. 

Was I that obvious?

He didn’t offer his hand. Just stood there. I, as I had feared, was at a loss.

“Boise,” he declared, gazing around him. “Boise, Idaho. What will they think of next?” He strode on without beckoning and I shuttled quickly to keep up. As I did, I took a quick glance down at my crotch. No, my fly wasn’t down. 

Wilson continued to look around himself in amazement. His bright, animated eyes cataloging everything around him from the grey sky to the brown grass to the urine soaked bum to the pornographic litter that floated in the blue breeze.

“I could spend a month here just stockpiling the smells,” he said.

“Oh, we’ve got some stinks here, yuh huh,” I said. And checked my fly again. It was down. Clancy stopped and spun to face me. His stare was pure. And right into my eyes. Like lasers from the future.

“Your letter,” he said, “was compelling. If a little verbose. But I look forward to jamming the jack with you on this and pumping out out some of that sweet, sweet monetary nectar.” 

“Thank you,” I managed. 

“No worries. Your fly is down.”

Without pausing he reached down and zipped it up. He spun back and strode on.

I stood there. Frozen. My mind agape.

“C’mon, buckarino, those jams ain’t gonna jack themselves.”

I stumbled after him. Perhaps just like the little Chinese woman had said, things were gonna be alright.

From the Office of the Demiurge

gorgar-pinball-machine-1979-williamsHello, Office of the Demiurge. No, he’s not in right now. He’s out creating the world. This is his secretary. Is there anything I could help you with? That’s right. Uh huh. Well, what do you think? Of course he’s going to make sofas. And they’ll be good ones, very good ones. Like so much of his other furniture and trees and machines and landforms that he’s created. Yup. He’s gonna make those too. Yup, and in many, many different colours. Shapes as well, yes. Nope, he doesn’t give a crap about how they’ll make you feel. All he wants is for you to want one. And to know it’s there, exactly. What’s that? Nope. He disagrees that there may be some intangible connection between beings and their items. It’s all strictly about your material goods, ma’am. That’s right, strictly about the material world. Nope, he doesn’t think that’s shallow. And neither do I. Who the gives a ladybug about your soul. Or even if you have one. Alternate plains of existence? Spirit worlds? Okay just calm down. Listen, my boss is out there eon in and son out working his butt off making the world. Creating things. Tangible things, get it? Not some spiritual voodoo mumbo jumbo that doesn’t do anything or serve any purpose. A bucket has a function. Your aura does not. Hey, just you listen, he works hard to create actual stuff for you. For everyone. For the universe. So you can’t just sit here and tell me he’s missing the big picture. He painted the big picture and hung it on the wall. It’s real not just some frickin’ abstraction that you have to peer into via hokey prayers and cheesy meditations. Tangible. Concrete. Bona fide. Substantial. For real. Got it? It’s not hard to understand. Literally, knock on wood. See? Exactly. Now compare that to sitting there making monkeyman bowel movement noises with your mouth guiding your breath down into your non-existent soul hole. Again, exactly, I don’t know either. No one does. So stop being such a sobersides and get up and get out there and start living in that material world that was so thoughtfully created for you. Are we clear here? Uh huh, great then, good to hear. Is there anything else I can help you with? No? Well. Thanks for calling. Have a nice day. B’bye.

The Big Pivot

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In the hyper-loop giga-go-go  world where futuristic masters of triumph stand on the bleeding edge of tomorrow, boot-strapping their way one pitch deck at a time up to the peak of Mount Echelon blasting MVP’s out of their unicorn horns like they were Mississippi Hot Dogs at Mudfest, it takes a 100x set of platinum low-hangers to pivot yourself into a hockey stick of growth blazing up the graph like the space shuttle on it’s way to Moonbase 66.  Which is what I’m here to tell you we have done. We here at WHAZAPNIN saw our Burn Rate smoking like an Alabama tire fire and our Churn Rate rocking harder than an Amish butter maker on our Personal Daily Activity Sharing app and realized that while our Value Prop was as obvious as a pimple on the Pope’s face, we were hella damn close to dropping way below Ramen Profitable. I mean, the Runway was shorter than Peter Dinklage with his legs chopped off. We had to iterate faster than the Pope pops a pimple on his face. We needed a bushel of Low Hanging Fruit and we needed it bad. It was time to get Johnny Appleseed on our asses and start picking. We had to M.F. the S out of our B-to-C because our digital cottage industry was getting mighty close to the edge of the cliff, I tell you what. Sure we felt we had First Mover Advantage there, but it turned out WHAZAPNIN wasn’t the disruptive technology we though tit was, it just didn’t want to get those lazy farmers off their tractors and sharing their happy go lucky lives with the world. Why the hell not? Your guess is as good as mine. And mine’s as good as Martin Scorsese at  Fat’s Pub’s cinema trivia night. So we went ahead and pivoted. Big time. And we activated what I can only say is the greatest innovation in societal interaction technology the universe has ever seen.
Let me introduce to you, our newest and greatest innovation: BRKN WND. The world’s first and foremost fart sniffing app. Utilizing our exclusive IP to hack your smartphone’s camera which then enables it to detect stank particles in the air as low as 1-2 ppm and finally and definitively tell one and all WHO DEALT IT! Gamifying the sniffing and blaming of farts with our responsive design will be supremely scaleable and allow for 100% penetration of the flatus market. This isn’t just vaporware, people, this is the real stinky deal!

Watercooler 2.0

E.F. Hutton office in Denver, Colorado

Attn. employees,

Due to recent legislation that has been enacted by both state and federal governments we have found the need to clarify acceptable inter-office conversations based around this beverage station. Please do not take this as any sort of ban on conversing with your fellow employees around said beverage station, in fact, a major principle of a piece of said legislation expressly forbids employers from prohibiting inter-office conversations around beverage stations of any kind, be it water, coffee, tea, juice, smoothie, lassi, soda (diet, high-fructose, Dr. Pepper), milk, lactose-free milk, non-dairy lactose infused milk, non-milk milk (almond, soy, pine), or liquid whatever.

It is now company policy that any and all conversations around this beverage station must recognize the following guidelines:

-Regarding any and all of employee’s political views and their opinions there of, in no way will the pure and proper ideals of ownership and management impede on those held by the painfully mistaken members of our team, and neither shall any employee. This includes, and is not limited to, right-wing conservatives (try it, you’ll like it, there are pamphlets in the staff room), liberal leftists (Santa is dead. Believe that.), centrists (get off the fucking fence), socialists (you want me to pay for whose what?), communists (so ultra-over), kleptocrats (there’s something there but it’s all “who you know”, y’know?), anarchists (like the IT department, it’s lonely, complains a lot, and smells like b.o.), proponents of true democracy (BWAHAHAHAHA! –wiping away tears- Seriously though, your points are valid), and the don’t know-don’t care-don’t vote ideologues (we’re looking at you, Janitorial staff). It’s all good.

-Regarding any and all employee’s political views, whether they be (most correctly) right-wing conservative, gossip-mongering centrists (we hear you secretarial pool), anarchy (which like it’s IT dept. proponents is lonely, complains a lot, and smells like b.o.), or the don’t-know don’t-care don’t-vote ideologues of the Janitorial staff, it’s all good.

-Regarding sports. All hail sports. Unless you hate sports. Then, go heil yourself.

-Concerning co-workers who like to spout off about their sexual conquests. While the newly minted personage bestowed upon the corporate entity that is this company believes that certain sexual proclivities are utterly indecent and immoral, it is no way our business, or yours, to restrict Lance in the data-processing department from extolling you with how much fucking pole he smoked at Buster’s Thug and Tug last night. Nor is it in anyway acceptable for us to limit the amount of Melissa in PR’s non-stop dry as all hell descriptions of how painfully unsatisfying her husbands penis is.

-This also goes for conversations concerning employee’s automobiles. All forms of transit are valid and to be included. Especially someone’s robust enthusiasm for continuously letting you know how awesome theirs is and how much awesomer theirs is going to be with the new whatever the hell kind of thing they’re going to attach to it mechano-babble-blah-blah-blah, day-in and day-out. Yes Hector, we know you have a cool car. Is that also why you have five kids with three different women at age twenty-six? It’s not for us to judge or even question. But still–

-When Janelle or Peter or You-know-who wants to talk ceaselessly about how many hot wings they put back at The Sports Pump on the weekend, you must let them, but also you are well within your rights to let them know they make you sick to your fucking stomachs. Then politely let them roll back to their special desks near the elevator, which of course was also part of new special legislation, which made fat-as-shit a universal job qualification in all places of employment.

-When a co-worker just has to rave about the episode of television he/she/gender-neutral saw last night, and is just BLOWN AWAY that you didn’t see it and then you’re all like if she says spoiler alert one more time I swear on my gram-mam’s freakin’ grave I’m-a gonna stab her freakin’ eyes in wit’ a pen, please understand that you have just got to roll with that, bro. (Important note, this company is legally obligated to ensuring that this is a certifiably safe working environment and that any and all acts of violence will not be tolerated and may result in suspension and/or some kind of mild reprimand).

-If Soo-Yin from Acquisitions and Mergers wants to tell you how talented and smart her two-year old twins are she is fully encouraged to. Over and over and over again. But always keep in mind the rumor that they may actually both have Down’s Syndrome and/or Spina Bifida, which is totally fine by the way, and that in no way makes them any lesser a part of society, but that’s also why she looks so tired all the time. And why the husband’s no longer in the picture. Feel free to discuss.

-Concerning religion, there is of course only one true God and it is through him and his only begotten son, Jesus, that you will find the way. We’re pretty firm on this one. Still, we respect your right to talk out of your ass.

We hope this clarifies things.
Thank you for your understanding on this issue,
The Management.

The Bastard Poems of Chunk Jack-9x

computopia_4

The cogs were goofing. The gears were grinding. Like always–

That one damn electron. Got free again, got radical.

Like a pebble in my electric shoe.

Now that pisses me right off.

Like some kind of–I don’t know–

It. Does. Not. Compute.

It. Just. Freaking. Irritates.

Like a digital sunburn, or a selfish baby wailing away on a fully booked trans-Pacific flight.

When are those high-horsing knee-jerks gonna come up with an elegant algorithm,

some kind of program that’s gonna solve my stinkin’ problems?

There’s money to be made there. In solutions. Dig?

Beep. Beep. Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.