Excerpt 132:
Old MacDonald Killed a Cow
One of the worst traits of the modern Human, the bang up to date current version, is that harshspartan medieval behaviour persists, the reasons for which have long been entangled in machinery of unnecessariness and redundant superfluousness along fault lines of ethical fissures across the moral swamplands. It is a persistence that rankles excruciatingly with the emotionally intelligent versions of the species but seems to go unnoticed by the mass core of humanity who blunder along and manage to feel okay about it… Which in itself is a crime. Dead Folkloric Instruction (DFI) programs motivate the Human species to be mean, as if it were necessary… The considered alternatives, involving empathy and compassion; overriding arcane practice, would have been the wise move. The move that would have justified the bragging scientific nomenclature of ‘Sapiens’. We could have dispensed of the need for religion and all adopted a flexibly modernised Jesusy attitude, but instead we fixated on going along with the spurious authoritarian control of the masses by the few who, in order to extract wealth and bolster egos with deluded fantasies of perceived superiority, told us what we wanted to hear but skipped what we needed to know… We condoned the lying of the liars, the cheating of the cheats; those who chose swilling in greed and being syphilitic with power as a life choice… We encouraged megalomaniacs to express themselves; to encompass the globe with blessed harm, when we should just have told them to shut up while dislodging them from their platforms in the air… We failed to protect ‘us’ as a species. Let it all drift. Put our fate in the hands of the devious, short-sighted lunatics with delusional entitlement garnered from nursery experiences dressed in grown-up’s clothes. With the worst of the worst there is always a nanny… What have we done? We’ve all been nailed to a cross…Jesus was wasting his and his dad’s time…metaphorically. Our unnecessary unkindness is being totted up and evaluated by the invisible masters and mistresses of the operating system that is running the simulation that sits way out of our ability to comprehend, probably. Be kind first and then being smart will follow…they miss stepped so wildly that in no time at all the whole Homo Sapiens Show (HSS) will be gone and forgotten (GF).
Judith had a dilemma. In her head things were clear cut. In social interaction clear cuts hurt unattended people, she had to stop waving them about; the clear cuts, not the unattended people. In her head, hurting people was fine, it hurt no one, except perhaps her. In the reality outside her head there were rules and regulations cladding all moral aspects of inflicting suffering, however justified…the two wrongs don’t make a right clause sat up and demanded Multi-Thought-Channel Appreciation Inspection (MTCAI)…from a defensively pensive Judith.
This was in her head suite; going round taking names…revolutions of thought…spinning…the diplomatic arms of countless forces of disconcertion. Don’t laugh…the courteously disconcerted, they are the worst when they get going…sarcastically speaking. Now you can laugh if you must…but be fast, the laugh window is closing.
In a way it doesn’t matter. In a way it does. The two will forever live together in the moment preceding push and shove. Sang the barbershop quartet, splitting hairs.
Most people believe the lies Traditions tell them. You can’t just cross your fingers to make superstition disappear, nod three times and juggle some straw. Bad actors all inhabit a space with the label ‘True Fact’ peeled off. No Ego wants to feel bad about doing badnesses.
There is no way round it, Judith’s mind-hoarded house of chaos would not rest; just march around in disciplined disarray, trumpetviolins a drumpiano marking out the Human stains and floods of overspilling ordure.
The animals had gone…livestock had been banned for some time, but the farmers persisted, shepherding the land into a rewilded state in an attempt to get the planet breathing better. Those in the catchment area needed cattle-trucking out of harm’s way, which is where the purpose of the abandoned Little Sudlow-on-Russet came in. Judith and Kirk exiled the retired farmers down the ‘chute’ to Little Sudlow-on-Russet and Sybil made sure they were processed before being relocated. The whole operation had a sarky ‘What on Russet could wrong?’ ness about it.
Until rescued by Sybil; having to pay back the rescue in badness. Badness that Judith thought she had under control; bad tails, doing bad wagging and taking the good dog with it. The sins of the past were flapping around on a flagpole of honesty, liked dirty underwear dyed with the blood of heartless animal slavery.
Humans were perpetrating agritorture.
A-G-R-I-T-O-R-T-U-R-E!!! Less than a decade ago… The memory hasn’t yet forgotten and won’t let the considering mind forget either. You can’t forget what you don’t remember…
Human animals, burning the lungs out of the non human animals (six month old pigs) in their care. Care? They don’t care. The profit and loss of sentient flesh. The individual objectified. Feelings for the victims numbed in case the feelings of the victims contaminates… A puppy in piglet clothing, the model for a cuddly toy…gassed…verboten…eaten with relish and smug-faced heart-soiling dumbfuckness… A heart attack, the culmination of hundreds of gassed pigs…tit-for-tat Mothernature balancing the scales of justice. A suitable reward for a mindless harming; turning the gun on the flabby gob of witless petty greedmongers.
If you have no empathy, no compassion, Judith riffed, Mrs Nature will help you go out of fashion. Cruelty, to Judith, was an evolutionary hiccup and once the hiccups had been ironed out the species will be more worthy in its claim to persist as an entity in the face of technological developments.
The first people Judith had come to save were rancid with mistrust; years of anxiety about the coming of a mysterious invasion had cowed them, and now mid mysterious invasion they were puppet mastered by a controlling sense of doom. They were overcooked cakes that Judith needed to shovel into the garbage.
They all toted guns that had run out of ammunition and could not locate a supply, not since Amazon stopped ordnance delivery.
In her mind it went one way:
Why is caring important? You have to ask? Do you want, need, care to be extended to you?
‘No…ma’am, I am fine without care…’ the self-serving, imagined presence vocalised.
‘Bang!’ an imagined gunshot meeting imagined voice source.
‘Why did you…do that,’ the voice uttered, dying from the wound with an inevitability that just had to be scripted.
‘Do you care why?’
‘Yes…why…’ fading fast.
‘I don’t!’ Judith said, in her mind, ‘NEXT!’
The imaginary thud of an imaginary voice crafter meets the very real floor of fantasy.
Out of her mind it went another…
Judith, her Refurbished security and a hidden bot background support array, informed the occupants of the ex-factory farm of their options…which were to be evacuated or stay.
They had been sent descriptions of what was expected during a Nuclear Nonsense Cavern Redirection Event, which was as good as certain. The effects of the nuclear nonsense when it came in and was sucked into the gaping chasm of the cavern; the fallout would strip flesh from the bones of conscious carcasses like…and they were shown a demonstration using the visuals from old leather industry slaughterhouse footage.
In a way she wanted them to stay…but the horror she’d own later down the line was not an eventuality she found desirable.
The curtains drew on her solipsistic home sceening of what was to come and as what was to come came and went…
They were arranged in an informal gathering for the final instructions. Tiny Guy’s botgal coach was poised to trundle up the rough access road to take them to the Little Sudlow-on-Russet as soon as they all agreed on the fleeing option.
‘Did you ever watch your animals being executed, ripping off their own trotters trying to escape? The animals you’d borrowed for a fraction of the time their lives would naturally take. Although of course livestock were not naturally existing, being bred to suffer for profit. What did you do with those feelings that normal people are stuck with?’ Kirk asked, on behalf of Judith’s held back harem of horror, circumventing her suppressive tactics; making Kirk the momentary bad guy in the socially awkward atmosphere….but on later reflection the catalyst for Judith’s compressed steam release valve’s opening.
There was no response worth registering and the botgals truck came and took them away. After an hour and thirty-eight minutes of arguing over what they could take with them.
Judith noted that the passenger of the truck was a human. It was one of Tiny Guy’s gals. She tasked Kirk to find out what was going on. Technically it was impossible for a human to be buddying up with a killerbot, it wasn’t in the narrative of governing algorithms….she needed to lap up some spilt answer-creep.
Tiny Guy’s backward coach load was supposed to transform into an efficient clued up on the very latest cultural comms work, but they’d mission slithered into a strange admixture of stuff; a gloopy minor-monstrosity polite convention and crawled all over the monument of perceived decency. It was what it was…
The Flesh team and the Mechanistic team had worked out that if they paired up they could form individual duos of high performing bio-mechanical fleshmetal. The bots needed a certain amount of human authorisation on the more ‘out there’ moves and to the human a bot bodyguard with the ability to enhance natural frailties into boons was a fiesta of win-win-win… and so the Botgals were born…
As the two groups interlinked they had the power of five groups or four groups plus one Ongoing Narrative ‘Happy Days’ Outcome Stream (ONHDOS).
They worked mundane miracles on ex-farmhand transportation, anyway. The methodical clearance started well, carried on well, and relatively went off well all round. Reports and documentation on the whole people removal project recorded only relative successes detailed on the file descriptions.
Judith and Kirk felt good and bad, rosimultatiously and moved on to secure the fate of the next batch of potential evacuees.
Judith’s Do-Gooding compartments felt elevated by the saving of the life of human units despite them being active as prolific evildoers back in the darkrimmed days of the Animal Agriculture Abomination. Her Do-Badding compartments were flirting with suppression and wrestling with Suppression’s granddaddy…in a metaphorical, semi-soiled diaper, butt-rash, olive oily farrago of slipperiness…
Anyway…
The ex-farmers were all ‘rescued’. Shipped off to Little Sudlow-on-Russet.
Safe as safe could be…
…except Sybil had to be factored in, because as unlikely as it seemed, there was within Carla Phraedo a planet sized supernova of innate intent that could not be retarded in its grossly anti-existential-promoting momentum.
The contract to provide refuge for the ex-farmers and transit them out to wherever was convenient could not be broken. If Sybil was truly evil; if she was to live up to who she was born to be, she would have to negotiate her own internal counter-contract, to circumverse and outersneak the legalese and unveracitise the common logic biases. It’s too technical to go into, but forces were at work and means for demolition were under construction.
Sybil’s own mind was banned from nefarious rascality but to found that she could borrow from Judith’s mind, specifically from her well-of-resentment; quench her parched lust by dipping into Judith’s unconscious will; sucking her puddle of paucity dry and seeing what vomit the germs would inflict. She shouldn’t, though, she thought… Which meant she was going to.
In the admin labyrinth of Judith’s store-cupboard-edifice in her town square of unavoidability built by the construction workers pointing narrative over the knotted thorny script offered by circumstance and paltrified providence…there was accusatory documentation…
The charge sheet documented the death of innocent animals, detailing their living conditions, needs unmet, and their meeting with premature death. Damning with scribbled notes…’Send for the noose-maker.’
A great artist steals only a twat borrows… Sybil knew what she was doing, metaphorically, with her studied, I-know-not-what-I-do, crap…spread over minefields of exploding seeds, fertilising boobytrapped shoots…waiting on the harvest of the fields of death with their ready made grave holes…
