Excerpt 141:
The Dance of the Stupidesque
There was a time-quotient-period that stood down; clocked-off; a clock-down standoff, if you will. It languished, loaded with insouciance, reclining on a bed of sleep-occupied-intention. And perhaps it spread over days’ worth, could’ve, but time was not exposing itself to qualitative or quantitive judgementation, as it was, elapsing in a special cognitional, multiversed multiadversality, that intertwangled with horological interspersions. Anyway, the place, Middle Russet did not sync the harassment of time with the space it dwelt in. It wasn’t anything life-threatening, or even worth mentioning, really. Yet it is essential to document such anomalies in case at some later stage there is some power or force that gives a fuck.
From Mohican 12, the last functioning Communications Peeping Global Personal Macro-Micro Identity Exstrangulator Satellite (CPGPMMIES. See also: hypersuperexstrangulation Puppyhorse), it appeared that slugs were slugulating around the crater-side in a slo-mo wall-of-death-act of deviant diversion. But the Patience Quotient Engine (PQE) of Mohican 12 was semi-unlimited and the slug ID’s that were coughed up into its orbit-to-Earth pipeline, and remaining stuck there unexpressed, told the story of the last known Human survivors on the planet. A brief narrative sketch-cum-doodle.
As Mohican 12 eye-cammed the group from above, Tiny Guy watched them from below never having endured such a binocular craving before. He stood, sat, jogged-on-the-spot, and goon-danced & mime-played, at the place closest to where evidence betrayed the entrance out of there, albeit apparently false evidence that betrayed zilch. He waited canidlike as if he were a mutt; Nether Russet his bi-pedal co-mutual pack-leader. Middle Russet was temporary for Tiny Guy, he knew, perhaps they all knew, the permanenters, that Tiny Guy had been led there for the purposes of leaving there via a specific exit-cum-entrance arrangement; anything further than that, prediction-wise, was off the table and would be swept up, and filed away under ‘dust’, in a fervid bout of spring-cleaning at a later date and time.
The high-banked doddering-pursuit around the carefully trodden trip-hazard continued unabated; fierce as it was micromotionally incremental, (also see: practically stopped). Round and round they went breaking for biscuits and a chat, or to sleep, tied to rocks to preempt the recoming of insidious pushy-pully off-gravity. The biscuit fuelled entourage, compromised by high sugar intake causing internally physical battles for the health of each bodily structure, maintained a kind of saunter-gait that had to deal with an ever-present steepness threat; interspersed with numerous shuffle variations and hop-skip-avoidance and balance-related-spasm-like motion and counter-motions. Their indulgement of cyclical pursuit curved into the funneloid craterscape; eased into the morning’s light pushing & shoving into the fright of day. Unless we keep moving, the group think went, gravity will drain us into the last hole on Earth; a hole that could only lead to existential disenfranchisement. Raw collective assumptions suggested outcomes; plied their conspiracy-ware as to where they would end up: the place where agnostics will bloom into gnosticality trees, Sapiensplaining; an epitaphal blip before memory shutdown; the death of a dodgy salesman tribe…Mother Nature breathing a sigh of relief…planet saved; to thrive humanlessly… But that was their collective white-knuckled guiding-fear-spirit talking; cheap talk, counter-corporeal-cant, cunt talk (see: Vagina Monologues, Eve Ensler)…
Worlds change…poles swap…God’s get old…simulations get overtaken by alien AI invasion…these things come to pass… Old guards go back to the old guardroom and the newly fraught cocksplaying sentry-pluggers arrange themselves unguardedly; meaning: Gravity was dictating one route for Tiny Guy and another for the Others. The difference in gravitational gravy and gravitational dishwater dictating the route out of there.
The Others were footrooted in disindestinational route-wrangling leading only in ever-decreasing Bermudan circles. But, Tiny Guy…as long as he changed his name, would eventually discover that there was a void to make his peace with in and to throw his bundle in with, route outta there or dead-end resting point… That is what he capicsed, and to a deep-down hard driven degree, so did the Others. They were not invited physically, but mentally, or at least spirituocognitively, they were all part of the whole that was hole-bound and ripe for reconstruction into the semi-brave hyper-novel-reality of a well-oiled future of opportunity.
The Others were circumrounding (circumferencing) the cratorial terrain environment like clockwork lemons…
Cycling round…time stamping, leg-ticking…
And…as it was…
Judith came to Tiny Guy, as the group took a respitical-micro-semisojourn from their looping travails and pencilled in a sleep-based-itinerary for the duration of the foreseeable night-cap that was promising to unfurl before them atop the pate of the day, before carrying on into the semi-onslaught of light’s mass-gathering…
Then, as night called for scattered light to return home through the end of the tunnel… The group waxed up for another lap, and another level, and some death-defying, screamingly slow-coach, wallbank, Indy-velodrome, gravitational-shenanofrippery…
Judith had her concerns and she wanted to express them to Tiny Guy alone. Under the taught laws of paranoia, every survivor in the remaining group could be a mole with a sideline in Trojan Horsetrinkets and craftware. Maybe they were all moles, she thought, mowing the lawn sinisterly from underneath. Maybe this was an inverted mole hill; the place where all moles ended up. Molehood descended on Judith, however psychosomatic and disrespectful to the way of the Talpidae.
Judith tried a few different and distinct styles of whisper, but nothing in her sound-arsenal matched the right output to outcome ratio. ‘From up near the lip you can hear the houses talking,’ she told Tiny Guy, who was far from surprised but very close to examining all recent audio to find out the extent of any bean-spilling that might have exited his mouthal area.
‘What are they talking about, these precipitous abodes? What do they say?’
‘This is the Republic of New Caldera…’ They just repeated that over and over and over.
‘Anything else?’
‘Isn’t that enough? One gets the impression, though, that if we responded they might shift on to other matters.’
‘What response do you suggest?’
‘Maybe a question…’
‘Go on…’
‘Asking them to supply more information, with a concise and collated narrative and sense of what purpose they intend to protect on the world…’
‘Wait, you are getting too technical for me. Are you coding right now?’
‘No, no, no, yesabit, no absolutely.’
Was Middle Russet itself initiating a name change? The overriding sense was one of progression, one word that could be used to denote the place was: evolving.
‘Well…as long as they don’t start with the code.’
‘Yes, but, sometimes the seemingly unnecessary can…you know…yes, we don’t need more code…not on top of code, on top of code, on top of code.’
Was that code? Judith seemed coded up, inconveniently so. Tiny Guy left it hanging.
And nothing more was said until the next lap but one, when development had strutted the catwalk and jumped spritefully into the backlit runway fashunfunpoodles flailing and handing out fudge like super-sale discounts.
Code, code, bloody code…can’t we find another mode?
‘It is not Morgan’s turn…it is Alicia Morgenstern’s turnip’s turn.’
It was a house, turning out to be the the house chosen as spokesperson for the other houses, the false buildings being nothing if democratically unified. The spokeshouse being adept and skillset-ready.
Although the spokeshouse uttered quietly in tones reverentially intended only for Tiny Guy’s ear-organs to behold and pass on to the relevant sensory apparatus for processing into human dramatics, the rest of the group could hear unavoidably due to Middle Russet’s trumpet-shaped audio-disposition…its amplifying bowl had laws of its own to dispense.
‘We hear Nether Russet, the alien’s child, calling,’ the spokeshouse told Tiny Guy, and everyone else, not sounding houselike in the remotest way, ‘you have been chosen.’
‘What for?’
‘Hard to say…
’Is it good, do you know, or bad?’
‘Yes, it is good or bad, like so many things in life.’
‘Well, I am glad we cleared that up,’ said one of the Others who were far off in the upper reaches of the sound bowl.
Tiny Guy felt like he had been found guilty and the sentence-tariff, yet to be delivered, was either fun times or end times. Probably not a mixture of the two, that seemed like an undeliverable prospect, for some reason.
Upon a thin terraced cul-de-sac of housing units built in a mock 1970’s kitsch with faux gingerbread decorative malfunction, the Others went house to house…they discovered data-keeps and information-reservoir bothandlers (DKIRB).
Investigation permeated the questionfabris like a leaky gushole…and reported back to Tiny Guy, who was deep in a turbulent struggle with his very self, to find his next and indubitably manfated final name. There were lists of names he had to consider and more lists of names that consideration evaporated over.
The Others hyperhypnoed Harris because evidence guided them there. Harris who had a barrel of dirty secrets to swill around and spit out… was pressed like slab tofu until the moisture ran away leaving a firmness that was textured with truth bolstered confession.
Post-permeation, the readouts suggested that algorithm’s in Middle Russet were yet to be formed or malformed. Outcome landing discovered that algoauthorship was linked to Tiny Guy, inactive, waiting for the last great name change. In a Heston-meets-Liberty, fashion glands of realisation swole; eyes popped, ears pricked; an electrochemical mini-mania ensued: Tiny Guy, (née Tiny Guy), was the heir to algorithmic programming. If it was just Middle Russet the consequences were slow-to-middling, but if this caboodle was to be transferred to a new world kit, one which bore the fruit of unit-souls…well, the outcomery could be bastardatious, to say the least.
Was Tiny Guy like some kind of Kurtz whose action dictated the play, like he was a dictator and his administration was the burgeoning of a paneverywhere New Algorithm? Sitting in a cloud way above the fripperaneous thrones of smug-ravaged-ego, the new Tiny Guy was sole inheritor of total Global Governance (and may Satan feast on its pustules)…
Questions were being put to bed, but would they go to sleep, and once asleep would they sleepwalk? Would auto-defenestrate in somnambulant accident? Spill out into the streets and thoroughfares of Main Street, Downtown, Hoodville? A viral tsunami panopresence optiomnilogically spread thick and deep?
What or who was behind this binding-web of a situation was (most likely, if at all) secreted yonder in Nether Russet. The Russet below, the belly of the Russet, the Bowels of the Sudlows…
Tiny Guy was (sort of) invited to find out. Not by invitation, but by ‘Intimation of Code’ (IoC) with subtext attached to it like a last minute thought-addenda manifestation.
The others were trapped, strapped fast to rafts made from the buffers they’d hit, metaphorphically, and hit them, literally, is a metaphorical sense (see: Metaphorical v Metaphorphical, a stupidesque rant on words that don’t exist, and the existence of them.)
The others were at their end, and they knew it, even if they were unaware of that knowledge; their escape would enabled only by, somehow, allowing themselves sublimation within Tiny Guy; the Tiny Guy Complex. All of which seemed impossible until Harris wandered past, pretending to be on his way somewhere despite the physical restrictions of the place…
Taken to referring to himself as Harrison, he carried two kettles in a rucksack built for single-kettle-carrying usage: one held the answer to all the questions that stubbornly remained within the group’s questionomical purview, despite the answerlessness of the finality-sludge they found themselves in, and the other was a medievally dumb hot-drinks-making device. Teas and coffees flowed as the Others parlayed with the potentialities of end game Outcomery… The future as it Will Be, was going ahead with Itself. Adaptation was a screaming necessity.
Tiny Guy, the name was letting go… It came down to two names: Kurtz or Crazytrojanrockinghorse, or Shalalalalalalalalalala la te da, which was more of a gobbledygook song lyric, the meaning of which evaded all reason…unless…unless…it was code…
Was Tiny Guy, as was, ‘code’.
That’s when the nickname Cody stuck. And Tiny Guy was briefly documented as Cody Kurtz. But everything that ‘Was’ was filed under ‘Has Been’ and the new order gate was revealed that Cody Kurtz had to negotiate. All the Others, even Harrison, climbed aboard, mentally, and took refuge deep in Kurtz’s psyche.
The only thing baulking Kurtz’s passage was that the ‘gate’ from New Caldera to, even newer pastures, as yet unnamed, but nominally called Nether Russet, was a biologically correct orifice. Cody held is breath on and off with lung preparations before more serial baulking and a belief that forwardness was never going to be challenged by backwardness. From ‘here’ to ‘there’ required easing through a tight gap that resembled and smelt, not actually, but suggestionally, like a giant anus.
