Excerpt 129:
Your Alias is My Alias
Imaginary phones and walkie-talkette-otrons were there for a reason… Sybil needed to communicate with Tiny Guy whose need to communicate back was a ditto-dashed-synchro-dashed-ditty; there were ways and means through avenues and alleyways…comms flood rushing into pools; reservoirs of mutual exchange. Body fluid data mucous. But all this was taking time and time was the one thing nobody could understand. Time was the kind of Providence that eventually robbed you of everything it had ever given you plus a few things you’d added yourself…maybe there wasn’t anything to understand about time, it just was…and is…and always will be…a perverse affliction.
Tiny Guy was bringing Sybil in to the infinite loop end game in order to mop up any potential down-the-line nastiness from the energy hotspot causing persistence in and around the area regarding itself as Little Sudlow-on-Russet once and for all. A drastificater with 1005% drastivision or 360 drastiview millstoneware appheadache could see that the envirodomainspace could be populated with mechanical stooge aliases and do a Little Phoenix-on-the-Fire encore move. If Tiny Guy opened the door to Sybil’s world of destruction the place would be neutralised before the door had stopped swinging in its doorhole…
Tiny Guy was taking a big risk. He needed Little Sudlow-on-Russet off the map and Sybil was the only removal tool option. What he had to avoid was Sybil overstepping boundaries leaking, bleeding, oozing out of her station into the sidings.
As long as he could put her back in her box. He felt with certainty he could manage that but with slightly less certainty coming up on the outside with fresher legs than a rehabbed centipede, the feeling of a thought that glowed in the dark, that is and isn’t but might and could, he had a vague and mild suspicion that the thoughts he was forming were being constructed from crikey-additives living in adulterated foodstuffs Sybil was supplying the market with.
What the hey ho…locked-on, latched in…go light, go beep, go go-go…
All systems add go except the damnable safety systems who were blocking Sybil’s pre-vibes-sync master signal bastification, for its own good reasons…
Stealth was discussed but very sotto voce, broken whispers, hush-hush codestreams…
If Sybil could see her way to being ignored; subject to attention renuncification and ordered attention deficit explication, by all agents, thereby covering the bad agent contingent, even while in the highly performative act of her melodramatic annihilation trade was being plied, then they’d have their in.
Ad hoc planning, on the hoof rooftop dance moves; spasmogenius intoxifictious narrative manipulation. This is going where it was never intending; boundary buffers skipped and hopped over; Sybil. liquid in the off beat rising like a flood, raising as a flood; flooding. Tiny Guy error number six the biggest error to date will its damage come out in the wash? Will time heal the wounds? Will the wash cycle ever end?
Tiny Guy bends back the twisted out of focus perspective and pats the creases. Picks himself up and carries on…Access to Little Sudlow-on-Russet, impossible sit seemed. had a glitch in the fence which could be capitalised on.
Sybil could gain entrance by impersonating one of Tiny Guy’s aliases; she’d breeze past security and scrape a jagged snake tattoo the length of starboard of the Good Ship Safety. The plan could then unfold, crap in the crypt, and fold itself back up again in time for tea with the vicar.
It was all agreed and arranged…signed, sealed and converted back to coded untranslationable gobbldigibberish…just like in the old days…
Sybil was super-up-for-it…
She went for the Guatemalan Frida Kalo, mainly because Tiny Guy himself found it hard to pull off his own version, so Sybil thought, with Tiny Guy’s blessing, that she could could be a better Tiny Guy alias than Tiny Guy in this specific character dimension.
And Frida Kalo, in Guatamalan apparentocity, was one of those types who everyone recognised to some extent but no one could place with any settling sense of accomplishment.
Usually she’d be Trida Guyleau (under Tiny Guy’s helmshoodship) but for this eventuality her name would be Carla Phraedo, the icing on the iceberg cake looming and hoving, with inconceivable collision-course bobbing motion into the village of the doomed…
They’d used meaningless, semi-meaningless and ‘meaning-less-ish’ banter-coded words and phraseology wherewithallapps to agree on terms and conditions. Since absolute agreement was never possible, all the agreement rested on agreement to an alliance of disagreement. In cosy yet somewhat brute force operational headwinds. It was like twin cities of disagreement straddling the banks of a river of agreement. Waiting for the winter rain to quench the thirst of the dry river bed with its annual flood.
Una had warned and warned away at Tiny Guy not to set traction steady stability factors in motion; not to allow static manual control to panic-wave from distant hills with Uncle Franz in his Sunday best. Which became moot after Tiny Guy had let unbridled ambition runaway with dance-feet-freedom in enthusiastic shoes of moon-eyed lunacy.
Tiny Guy allied himself with a pure Evil that he metaphorically kept at a distance, under wraps, obscured, and banished to far-fetched-fantasyland, semi-ignored, hyper-not-there, in poorly maintained-yet-holding-on-for-the-duration white-knuckled, put-a-penny-in-the-meter-quick abeyance…which was another mootful twerpminded concoction because in the real world of not-at-all-metaphorical the Evil uncontrollably turned all localised ambience into a deep rank sewer tunnel with identifiable undigested food parts of dead and dying human livestock.
Henceforth:
‘You told us the place was clear…’ a Sybil subaltern snidely seethed into one of Tiny Guy’s operational open channel ears
‘It is…isn’t it?’ he replied in all honesty.
‘There’s human detection. Which, as you might know, brings with it all manner of walls; slippery, barbed, motion slant operated. auto-gyrating…need I carry on with more etceteras?’
‘Christ’s uncle Jemima on a bun. This is not scripted. How many units?’
‘There’s one node unit. I have crosshairs on it. We are lone-rangering the entity with visceral amplitude.’
‘Sounds inventive… It shouldn’t be a problem. Only it is, obviously. I’ll send an alias to try to deal with it. If it is just the one node unit. Anymore and I’ll have to retire and open a paddle store up at Brown Crack Creek,’ Tiny Guy joked, wondering what jokes had to do with the situation.
Tiny Guy cut a thought slice off his mindcake and spread some genius pâté on it with a very sharp knife and a clean serviette readied for bloody action…
Gai Ty Ni, an Arrowmatterwhackhawk tribal shaman and numbworrier, snuck around the village via the house-by-house method; not confronting the entire settlement with overall considerational observitude, but by piecemeal snackulets of tastebud by tastebud discernment: slowly…slowly…tastie village. Calling ceremonial-like up each chimney hole: chimilly pipe, oh chummy chimilly pipe of great substances…generally playing the role with gusto and import…sucking in the words that no longer mattered…regurgitating white men’s historical coverups; gesturing the mime-theatre of the great spirit-actors…while in actuality peeking and eye-peering with peripheral scancharts for signs of the live node unit that was preventing the entrance crossing introduction of Carla Phraedo. And a new era in town planning transformation via rewilding.
Everything was going to and by the shaman’s hastily written playbook until the presence that was not supposed to be there was revealed. And the revelation was…drum roll…Judith, ‘I am just feeding the dogs and kittens left by the outflow of Little Sudlothians,’ she said.
‘And the goat?’
‘The goat is in hiding. The goat will not be found unless it wants to be found.’
‘While your Samaritanimalonian work is to be applauded this theatre of destruction needs its curtain hoisting…’
‘I know you, of you, about you even, a little, you are Tiny Guy. Yes?’ And with that his alias fell off and rested supine in the dirty grass of Little Sudlow-on-Russet; seen through, make-upless.
‘Have we met? Wait, you’re Judith.’
‘I am, but in a sort of, am I though? way, you know.’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Oh, okay! What are you doing here?’
‘We are contracted to unleash Sybil on this confederacy of premises…Sybil will be here and Sybil will be there until there is no here or there for anyone to be in.’
‘I don’t know much about Sybil except she will take over if she has a chance and destroy everything until there is only herself to destroy. That’s the gossip output.’
‘We’ve written into the contract that she is to have no working imagination and must go with the limited idea flow she’s been given passenger access to. Her idea factory has had to shut up shop for the duration.’
‘So, you mean to hope that the destruction will be isolated to Little Sudlow-on-Russet? Little Hope-on-Thatfront!’
‘What do you mean?’ Tiny Guy said, with a dawning of what she meant that made him sound gaspy and raspy.
What had he done?
‘What have I done?’ Rang out from the highest bell, on clapper-wearing repeat…ad infinitum.
