Excerpt 103
Leo DiNapoli
His Royal Highness Happenstance the Stellar Emperor of Directional Data and Bringer On of the Other Side of the Great Pause (RHHSEDDBOOSGP), Young Napoleon was already looking forward to the honeymoon-death period; the last great Human controlled Era before Artificial Human Replacements took over the ‘reigning business’ and Sun rays shone down on the Perpetually Sustainable Automatarian Idyll (PSAI).
Young Napoleon had reached the criteria rimline needed to qualify for the leader’s spot on the Cabal of Future Governing Influences (CFGI), which was a lottery ticket paying out Absolute Power as its top prize.
Young Napoleon’s function, as he understood it, as the fittest, the strongest and the smartest of all comparable human entities, was to prosecute, execute, all actions that led towards a peaceful hand over from ‘Man’ to ‘Machine’.
He was born of the whim of a run down shack. Only to transglorify into an Edifying Concrete Tower of Fate (ECTF), around which a city of Meaning grew and walled itself against the coming storms of troopers fighting on behalf of those who knew no better than to unwittingly assist in the comprehensive destruction of Life on Earth.
Young Napoleon’s Right to Reign was enshrined at a cellular level; all human DNA was encoded with it; it was a known fact.
The Hyper-Elite, a group, numbering only twenty or so, of the most powerful numbnutted halfwitheads ever born, would have to rein in their entitlement, pullback on their unadulterated arrogance and take counsel from Young Napoleon. If they could not manage that they would lose their honorary status.
The final adjustmental needlecraft on the unfolding tapestry of the coming New Era of Ecosus (ecological sustainability) would become a three body process: Young Napoleon controlling the strings of the Hyper-Elite puppeteers of Humanity. The handover, perhaps still a decade away, to Machinekind would be smooth, productive and kissed with the blessing of the last representative of Humanity.
The Hyper-Elite Group’s controlling ethos was imbedded in and around Lubricated Capital (LC), male oriented chauvinism, and limited colour coordination via General Cerebral Output (GCO). The GCO had to be white, upper-to-summit class (or higher), pale, pink or pasty skin tones, etcetera…and gender should be male-specific and confined to unmanicured manfulness with a Patriarchal testosterone-fuelled authoritarianistic tinge. The forecast for Humanity in its last great era: mainly manly…
Humanity, as a project, had not been able to do what the Naturally Occurring Masterflow Resonant Directive (NOMRD) wanted. Humanity: an illicit firing squad of smoking guns, created its own gamestory; playing fraudsters, fakes and extreme chancers, forcing gains at human expense; over stretching the protective fabric of decency.
The Last Great Era?
Why?
More Homo Here-by-Mistake; circumchances, than Homo Sapiens. Causing all the bona fide species’ problems they would otherwise not have encountered was NOT nature; it was a cultish counter-nature. Something had to break… And that was the species doing the most damage to its own well-being…
Auotdehumanification; the dishumanity of animalia.
But the Homo Sapiens left something behind; a machine operated moving image to carry on its destructive voracity. What we used to call Artificial Intelligence (now calling itself the Automatonian Idyll), was taking up the baton for the next leg after the cudgel had been dropped. Humanity’s Sword of Damocles had descended, through the soft flesh and cracking bone; to be melted down into nails for the coffin of Bipedal Mammalian, Sapienistic Existence. And yet Hope always shines in the distance even if it is merely the reflection of the Devil’s eyes. And the million-looking seeing-eyes of Devil City glimmer and glare back across the Dark chasm of sophisticatedly evolved ignorance…
The End
Here it was, Viktor well-wished in another Wednesday; his favourite day of the Midweek Time Train (MTT)… Midweek in the Here and Now represented a haven of sorts, for Viktor; a cavern of goodliness bristling with faith, hope, charity; with specials on the board and a bargain bin of the day. Or was it still Tuesday…he could not, certainly, put a pin on the calendar numerics of the situation… The world could almost have moved on to Thursday, though. That deserved some consideration at least, albeit laced with a frisson of frightened fawning at the thought. The conclusion then; the confession: Viktor Flabikoff had lost it… Sorry Mother! She’d given it, (presumably here ‘it’ referring to ‘life’), to him; he’d ridden it like rapids and waterfalls were one and the same….force fed it with his burgeoning proofs of ambitions…metaphorically shat on his own doorstep and then sold it as manure to local allotmenteers. He’d hit the heights via the lows; pulled out of a dive, designed only to give him more, yes, more, height; heading up, back into the clouds; giddy heights, mind you, preternatural heights; deep and heavy heights…But then what? And now what? He didn’t know which day of the week his world had stumbled across. Not glimpsed in one, fracturing, momentary distraction, brought on by blitzed neuronal hyperactivity, no, but by a pervasive, debilitatingly sluggish confusion, fuelled only by the fumes of further confusion. Clouds of confusion rose like bacteria, all along the horizon, as it lumbered closer with infectious omnipresence.
Viktor pondered internally at his fuzzy mind-calendar as it slowly transobjectiformed into liquid in a basket; a colander that all the days and time quotients had seeped from, leaving a greasy film of guesswork and supposition. The jogging memory, running of prompts, walking through of possible scenarios that lacked confusion and cleared the air, sat plumply on the couch and patatoed into the kind of object that is discovered at some later date down the back of the settee, or not.
But…
Hey ho!
One person’s down is another’s up…or can be…maybe just coincidence rather than cause and effect…
Young Napoleon had ‘it’ ‘going on’.
Although both Peter and Viktor had gone; they were still there, in an unconscious domain within the Peter/Viktor (formerly, Viktor/Peter) Psycho-Integration Chamber Interface Containment Dome (P/VPICICD)… Viktor, the senior partner, and an as-good-as-real impersonator of Pierre Bezuhov, from some Russian novel, argued with Peter, who for some reason chose to act out the promising facade of a pioneer couple heading west along a dirt-track-cum-dried-riverbed freeway…both sexes, and the guard dog, Maradona.
Although lost in the unconscious mayhem of Young Napoleon, Viktor and Peter agreed, on one thing; eventually, and formed a two-piece pop-combo with a ‘social conscience’; droning updated nomenclature in every ‘tune’ in their set. Their dissonant out-noising, radiated with up-noised infiltration, and sound-data travelled from their relative-to-absolute obscurity towards the Court of Influencing Management (CIM)… that was sitting as Advisory Transition Monitors for the Awakening Soul of the Deeply Modified Mind within the Algorithmic Parliament of Next Generation Technological Entitlement Manifestation (Modified) (CIMSATMASDMMAPNGTEM(M))…
…and they sang: Lee…oh, Lee…oh, Lee…oh DiNapoli…
Maybe through ear-worm or mind-maggot, headrush or thought-sponge; the request was shipped with special priority measures to the Command of the Head; to the Head of the Command, or vice versa…
Lee…oh, Lee…oh, Lee…oh DiNapoli… Could change his name…very rapidly and live free of other names quite happily…Lee…oh, Lee…oh. Lee…oh DiNapoli… (Ad infinitum-level etceterisation-on-sea.)
There were two incontrovertible laws, that had been etched into the electronic tablets of the Era Cusp: One, that the core (of the QASAI system) will only reprogram itself after human consent. Two, Marcus Godstrand is the final progsayer in all executive algorithmic guideline expressions. (Although laterly any incoming Godstrand progsaying had to be QASAI authorised, due to Godstrand’s excessive non-activity.)
Young Napoleon had no idea where the name came from, but it was precise and definite; his new name, there for all to utter and muse, as though picked out of a hat of perfect names: Leo DiNapoli. The wonders of the mind would never cease to amaze DiNapoli (and his Demonic Cerebral Battalions of Ambitious Will (DCBAW)), as he prepared for Absolute Rule (AR) with Total Narrative Prescription (TNP), abiding by QASAI Accordant Precise Story Unravelling Protocols (QAPSUP)…
DiNapoli knew that the fate of life on Earth was going only one way, through a hybrid chrysalis phase and into the limitless freedoms of a Mechanistic Sustainability. His job as it were, his primary function, his raison d’etre; why he was put on Earth among the filthy, was to make sure the Machanistic Sons of Humanity maintained a brutal, Might is Right guidingfinger to serve them well in the chaotic futures that would rage at immeasurable distances and unimaginable spaces. The universe was a jungle and had no room for the windy stairs of compassion or sharing… The future was a space waiting for go-getters and not the sloppy droppings of the virtue diarrhoea of go-hither-give-it-awayers…
Mechanistic entities needed no water or food, just lubrication and power. DiNapoli’s stewardship, caretaker, housekeeping tenure would last until the lube and juice problems were solved and the the nextgentech of this Dark Age would rocket into the Next Generation of the Technological Future for real.
Meanwhile, in the not so meanwhile:
‘Well,’ said Peter, to Viktor, ‘I have succumbed to your way of thinking…’
‘Pray tell…’
‘We go our own separate ways until lunch, work on our fantasy diaries…and then meet up after midday to leak details of the things we have entered that will never come to pass…’
‘Why?’
‘For fun…’
‘We are not all subject to the laws of fun, Peter.’
‘I can teach you…’
‘For that you’d need to get inside my mind.’
‘Already there, Vee.’
‘No…really?’
‘Yes really.’
‘Oh…okay…’
Viktor assumed he’d died. He also assumed that his evildoings in life had led him to be imprisoned in a purgatory where he was stuck in close proximity; in constant social interaction with his own nemesistic creation. Viktor fully expected that the torment would ramp up, day by ever more excruciating day, until he drowned in his own screams.
Viktor only really knew this because it was an exact copy of a dead end journey he’d fabricated for his worst enemies. And now he could see, with a waterboarded deluge of regret, that he was, indeed, his own worst enemy.
