Excerpt Fifty-One
The Universe is Small to Those Outside…
Without linear recording of events within the Stockholm Munchaus environment it is difficult to say when K. entered and, thrown into a unbalanced shape, was confronted by the smell of Tiny Guy’s team within the bar area, which had been converted to a restaurant capable of food. Although at present the kitchen, a modular room created from used shipping containers, attached to the back and side of the Munchaus edificial arrangement, giving the impression of goods ‘awaiting export’, was closed; the food incapacitated.
K. still maintained a duty of non-commotion to the custom sat there in, and sloped back out, receding from the establishment’s suspicious and surprising popularity, to linger in a doorway; to contemplate his current afflictions.
It appeared that all options were no options. They offered themselves up with no consideration of their inability to deliver.
K. had never actually felt sorry for himself before (outside beta testing) and as it slowly dawned what the wet tarp that smothered his forward progression was, he tried to reset as mush as possible, which was not the old reboot of yore by any stretch of elasticity. Every intention’s destination was a thousand miles away and the only mode of transport was the individual step.
He’d put everything in to the Munchaus, it was his idyll in the mirage…it had been his affirmation of existence… ‘solid bricks and mortar’; a monument to his own living ingenuity; now it was his Alamo, his last stand; a last stand that TG and his mob was standing on…dancing the usurper’s jig.
In the past he could re-frame everything. Now the past was doing the re-framing. K. needed to get out before he was consumed into disexistentialness. But where could he go and how could he get there?
But then…from amidst the desolation framing imposed by uncontrollable external interventions…i.e. some form of hacking…probably…or internal trojanegg niblets…possibly…
… He could hear a music of sorts; a kind of mealtime jazz: the scraping and tapping of cutlery on bowls and plates and beneath that, underneath, the choir of hubbub, both angelic and demonic, as though angels and demons, post sing-off; a choral duelling banjo affair, had fallen into boozy after-performance shindig shenanigans… Demongelic Angelideems!
He chewed on that crunchy idea; started devouring his own teeth; before an aside swept in:
If only angels and demons got on better the worlds would resonate with less profound abruptness and be more mellow. It seemed to K. that cushions were made of crystals…what would improve things would be crystals stuffed with a marshmallowy substance.
But then, inevitably…
K. told himself to stop with the thoughts. His thoughts always used be…well, thoughtful, but now the thoughtlessness of his thoughts entertained K. to the point of execution. Thought itself became a dead end. He was heading nowhere, so…
… K. headed for the library…in pursuit of a solution; to what specifically, he couldn’t think…
He felt around in his pockets that were not only empty but also not the kind of place you’d find a lost diner like, let’s say, the Stockholm Munchaus; loss whirled round K.’s field of protection from the outside world leaving him unprotected.
He approached, reached and circled in front of, the library entrance; unsure of how big the threat from Sybil was, especially now he himself presented others with a threat comparable to a light, unrepeated hiccup that no one, except perhaps a person with a perverse interest in the competitive art of Hicuppery, could even detect.
Before, Sybil seemed to present a radiation level, half-life danger capable of consuming whole lives by the million. Now K. just felt embarrassment; it was as though Sybil, the ‘mortal enemy’, had become his unoft-visited aunt, a familiar-stranger with an intimate history that contained no real reason for embarrassment, but secreted the threat of debilitating embarrassment for no reason perfunctory examination could fathom. He wanted to avoid (it felt like a reunion, oddly) meeting her face to face almost as much as he felt a compulsion to avoid meeting himself mind to mind. Was this about her…or him?
Kirk and Atoll, returning to their accommodations at the library, having reached the climax of their evening stroll, hardly slowed as they passed K., affecting a nonchalant ignorance of his presence that dragged with it a deep undertow of suspected complicity in something akin to nefarious treacherosity. K. was swept in in their wake and stopped with them in an authentication threesome that social convention, such as it was, could have allowed…but other agendas were at frivolous play.
‘We are not with this guy,’ Kirk said.
‘It’s just us two…’ Atoll stated, looking at the ground in some sort of vaguely apologetic mime while ‘siding with the mob’. Kirk shot K. a glance that said many things, none of them spelt out; more a random collection of gobldegooking dingbats.
‘Kirk James and Atoll Goodmanson may pass. The third person is not recognised without purified data progression (PDP).’
Kirk and Atoll passed out of the foyer into the main building.
K. hovered in a holding pattern, eyeing sitwear and time excelleration publications.
They knew who K. was…
… Whoever ‘anybody’ was…
They knew he was a fundamental building block; they must have known that if this were a cup final he’d be the cup and the stadium and maybe the sky and ground surrounding it.
Then, though, with some floorfruitfound impetus, K. separately confessed to himself that he was framing the situational view with ornate and guilted historic thinking; a ghost ego street performer extending the performance long after the crowd had dispersed and been resituated.
He was now a faceless fellow queueing to watch whatever stadiumised game that happened to be fashionable…But did they now that? And, how could K. turn this avalanche of misfortune into a positive plus point (PPP)?
Tough one…
By way of the interruption of K.’s musings…a punctuation in much need of insertion into the stalling plot: an automated sounding voice sounded:
‘Do you have a ticket?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Do you want a ticket?’
‘I suppose…’
‘Collect your ticket from the hatcheck boy/girl. Do you have a hat?’
‘What kind of hat?’
‘Any hat.’
‘But, I mean what kind of style hat would fit in?’
‘All hat’s are fine.’
‘I mean… a sombrero is very different, and more context reliant than say, say… I mean a pertinent setting for a hat like a…sombrero could be impertinent in an altogether different headgear fashion milieu…obviously.’
‘You don’t need a hat.’
‘What?’
K. could see and hear himself standing there, speaking. He felt dogged by his own helpless, cloying interactions. He was beginning to think someone had spiked his drink, removed his brain, cutting out the smart areas and murdering the defenders therein who had been battling on the ramparts of commonsensicalness, before replacing it undetectably imperfect. He felt a stab that was more metaphysical than anything; he wanted to feel physicality; if it was there, as a reality; he wanted to feel it… He’d never felt so brave and so hopeless. K. was still at odds with his body. His body was learning admirably as it went. His mind was not so sure; self pooh-poohing, admirably…
Maybe a staircase descended below him raising him a level… Or was it an elevator? However it came to be…K. sat on a chair in a briefing room. He waited and tried to feel his sit bones that were a work in progress…he imagined what he felt; imagination laying the foundation for sensations that could be detected with no imagination at all at some future perfection.
Out of the ‘ether’ seemingly…thunderclapsneezing…
…:
‘We are going to induce a connection between Atoll and Atticus!’
Shock faded out… Silence dribbled into K.’s earholes; soothing the aftermath of explosive data… What was ‘anything’ to do with him? He was retreating in torpor, unpredisposed to swivelling round and firing arrows. They should know he’d become detached and stop climbing through his attic space.
Another sneezclap came in, assailing…
‘And if that pans out…Kirk to Dave connectivity functionality… What do you think?’
What do I think? Thought K. ‘What do I think?’ He echoed, aloud.
‘You have to be onboard with this. You have to be fully synced up.’
‘Wait a minute! Was this subterfuginal degradation initiation (SDI)? You want me onboard, fine, but what if I am a fish? Look, who is this?’
He knew who it was and what he wanted to say, but it was stuck internally and he projected a truly abject lack of meaningful stature towards Una and her backroom people.
He felt reassurance that Una had a command over the sibilance…but Sybil was there a dead monster who could be born, hungry, at any moment.
Except Una and her backroom people were not as in control as they needed to be. There was a lot riding on this race vehicle. If it suddenly flipped over, the future would be lit by vastly more than a disappointing tinge, that was for sure.
Una knew what K. needed to know. And wanted to tell him.
‘You want to know how the transfer occurs? The mechanics behind it?’
‘No!’ K. responded in haste.
‘Yes, you do.’
‘No,’ K. persisted, forging a groove of continuity.
K. paused, assessing his options. In the leisurely silence afforded to him, he back-tracked, jibed and u-turned on a dime into a figure of eight that spelt infinity all the way to the horizon… He could lie that he had said ‘know’ and not ‘no’, but the world needed to get on and the friction he was applying with his petty contributions was just universally infuriating. Making a donation of his own cooperativity to the equations would reduce drag…
‘Okay, yes, Just scrap the last thirty seconds of data emissions from myself. I do want to know… All my lights are green… Hello?’
‘Back a few years there was a mind virus,’ a much more soothing voice began, escaping drag velocity.
K. relaxed, intent on taking in relevant data by the mother lode…
… He missed a little drip of data, a little drop of data, which boded badly, but he climbed into the listening chair and deep-veined the bytes into his expectant developing narrative receptors (DNR).
‘The “worlds”, let’s call them, were designed as “playgrounds” (positioned as new-knight-style training grounds for the coming wars of the future—CWF) for the wealthiest of the elite of the elite; exclusively white, heteromale, right-wing, might-is-right, sharing-is-losing, God-lookie-likie… The “worlds” are internal, cerebral; they use the collective unconscious of the unwitting masses who have been covertly prepared for the role over decades. Their braincell indoctrination capacity (BIC) built up to house Sheldrakian pulse-waves that support parasitic paraconsciousness parcels. Within these ‘parcels’, think of them as parcels of land in the cerebral real estate complex, energy mastication and time digestion properties are manipulated into ‘perception theatres’ that give the mirror paraconsciousness recipient (MPCR) a delusion-oriented worldreality (DOW) that operates fully as a potentially perpetual life (PPL), ‘without alerting’ [missing data] the host brain.
(More data leakage…)
‘Critics cried ‘zombification of the lower classes!’. But supporters pointed to the utter bloodyminded wokeness of someone denying the elite what they’ve earned and deserve after millennia of making the world a better place for its citizens, at the paltry expense of the masses falling into, hardly detectable, dullardry. If the mittens fit don’t wear them as socks…
‘Tethered thought patterns are synced; generated outside the mind of the host (see: Isle of Man, see: A Very Chinese Coup, see: What Else Can We Sell Now We’ve Sold Everything to the Chinese); the host is unaware and the ‘visitor’ (visiting parasitic consciousness—VPC) gains all the awareness to support a whole, liveable, “breathable” world where they can be themselves and fuck everyone else.
‘Each world abides by centrally imposed laws, creating identical world narratives that are bespokly alterated by the paraconsciousness living it. All other characters are picked up as signals from other individuals’ lives to orchestrate an intertangled synchronarrative hyper-presence (ISH-P) that remotely, intimatively supports every other indesolipsist autonarciss existential panoply (IAEP). Each individual narrative (life) takes precedent in its own space and has linked acquiescent versions (LAV) unconsciously existing in every other consciousness. If actions or behaviour from outside one specific life do not tally a simple tweak of delusional perception re-evaluation (DPRe) smooths out narrativeracity and reinforces the fourth wall…’
There was silence. There was contemplation. There was processing…
‘And,’ K. eventually elongated to a giddy height, ‘The process?’
‘You are not capable of comprehending.’
‘Try telling me at least.’
‘I did. It missed your mind.’
‘Try again.’
‘Okay.’
There was a moment of the voice in explanatory endeavour that seemed to be applying some kind of salve to the itchiness of desperate curiosity, but as the topical administration enveloped the rash a stubborn state of formication attained supremacy.
What does that mean?
…:
K. could not grasp the concept of the mechanics of the process of ‘consciousness transfer’ (CT). The laws of the Universe make such knowledge incomprehensible to those trapped in its omnigenic energy field (OEF).
