Excerpt 134:
Much to Evil’s Annoyance
Tiny Guy’s turmoilic, unwanted self-hagiography palled… And palled… And palled, unjokingly; caked with a sense of the Utter… The sound, the smell, the feel of this Utteringness palled; palled all the more on top of the already appalling amount of hyperpallic superpallociousness…
It seemed to Tiny Guy, on dogged reflection, that previous alliances had been with an industry-like entity that created a poop-like excretion for its own ends and beginnings… From now on he envisaged association only with antiseptic agencies and their sterilising agents and soapy fellowships; cleanliness is a long way from Deviliness, as they say. To which end, he perused and perosed old scrapbooks and files and PR releases that recounted a story, of sorts, tainted by an odour he didn’t recognise, but whose redolence tapped him on both shoulders while couching a mysteriously bountiful, cancelled, gift-voucher, and laughing before continuing to rub his shoulders raw. The him (himness) that included princes, kings, and a wooden-horsed wobbly emperor; all supposedly wearing the latest technologically perfect clothing known to science and yet on further investigation all the must-have-can’t-have clothes amounted to was a series of captured light graphs of nakedity; uncovered flesh parading itself as if clad in Glory; stuck in a lie that had ‘everyone’ believing the stone-cold naked birthday-suitage was concealed under commonly decent wrapping…
Tiny Guy tore himself off a strip and ripped himself a new one…and then tore that off as well, for adequate measure. Carpeted, linoed and parqued, Tiny Guy, auto-restricted from creating an alias to escape the auto-justice he was auto-bringing upon himself… Bring me, he ordered himself, a jar of judicious juice for preservation…a vat, a conducive receptacle… He was about to climb into the giant jar, a miracle of award-winning glass-blowing, when it hit him with a struckness that rotated his area of orientation… Surely, he admitted to his own inner panels of judges, juries, and executioners that mud was just thick water; dry mud was sand or dust, or sandlike or dustlike…ergo: he was burying his head in water as a device, a coping strategy, because he could not handle the truth. He searched is banks for truth handling courses…there had to be a way out of his own way…a course that would enable the mapping of a new course… He realised then that he would never be perfect…perfect was an ever retreating horizon. He fantasised himself a fat portion of perfection; a slice, a wedge, or a tartlet, of the good stuff…to rub in bad stuff’s face until bad stuff admitted it tastes quite good after all and eats its words, which taste nasty; relatively, within bad stuff’s personally adapted gastrosphere.
Enough about me, he thought, exclaiming, professing and surmising in far-reaching, even far-fetching, hyperbole, lowperbole and middle-to-lowerperbole…a veritable once-in-a-lifetime fitful gormandising feast of guysplainment… All ‘good’ things must come to an end…eventually…he went on…fading out…eventually…
Kirk, was it? No it was the alias guy, James Kirk-Smith, who, with a misbehavioural aspect that was tantamount to taunting Kirk, he took up the cudgels of passive aggression; filthying the air with wide brush strokes. He studied Kirk, so as to concoct further Kirknesses that even Kirk was unable to extend himself to. Thereby creating the illusion of a ‘true’ ‘lie’ that could convince more or less anyone that Kirk was merely, relatively, an animated mannequin; the kind you’d find in a second-hand store, wearing a raspberry beret and a string of plastic pearls; only at night being whisked out back for a nonchalant stint in the stockings and suspenders donated in good faith but deemed, uncharitably, too unsavoury for public vending operations.
Kirk-Smith’s scattergun approach meant Kirk was under constant, peppery, sometimes salty, attack, which often meant he forgot where he’d put his own trousers even when he was wearing them. Kirk knew Kirk-Smith was a false-church-crypto-fakist, but he also held the knowingness, that Kirk-Smith was a better version of himself and that the ending of the Refurbishment program project was to blame for him falling behind on himself. He was grateful to the other for showing him the Kirk he could have been…that lack of funding prevented. But as it was, Kirk felt like a production-line anomaly who should have been quality-controlled binward before shipping out into the big bad world. Kirk was determined to improve; to be the better self, but he would never be more than three or four steps, and counting, behind the radiant and omni-mind-present Kirk-Smith… Besides, as Kirk turned on his own Refurbishment he initiated sprouting seedlings buried deep in his elasto-plasticity-frankenrefurb mechanisms that were designed to restrict him from having enough puff to blow the whistle if that were ever dynsfunctionised into the gameplay. In effect, his own Refurbishment was turning on him in retaliation for him turning on it; they were turning on each other…grinding, frictionalising…fawnicating; making love turn into hate…
Judith valued Kirk, but two Kirks didn’t add up to more than Kirk, they seemed to be taking away from each other and equalling a fraction of one Kirk. As impossible as that seemed, it was seeming away in absolute possibility. Judith had a Kirkorial dilemma that needed lancing.
As time wallowed in its own mire, picking itself up and dropping itself off with seconds to spare, it became apparent to Judith that Kirk had a little more of this and a little less of that and Kirk-Smith had a lot of that and a ton load of this and that…and although ‘Judith and Kirk’ had a marginally better sound than ‘Judith and James’ to her aesthetic attunement, decisions were decisions and, however fraught and lamentable, they needed to be made…and, if they wouldn’t be made, they would need to be made to be made.
While the two Kirks were tripping themselves up with micro self-cancelling interface altercations, Judith was executively ordering a less Kirked-up future for all of them; halving the total compliment of Kirks would double the efficaciousness at her disposal. On a scale of ten she plumped for Kirk-Smith; Kirk knew, but guessed anyway; his future was cancelled, the better guy had won… He’d come to fantasise that he was indeed Kirk-Smith himself, just pretending to be someone else to wind himself up.
He breathfully caressed the clarinet of clarity, blowing out a final whale’s lament…then ran down the stairs from the attic recording studio, through the levels of his building showing the workings of his very being, like a museum of Kirk display; all Refurbished, all recherché. Kirk was going to take care of the internal metaphoricals so he could lose himself in a win-win for everyone else… His strongest skill, one he imagined was there pre-refurb… He fought against the smugness and stumbled into the basement where he knew he’d find a satisfying if unexpected end… Behind a stack of boxed camouflage he found the chute he was looking for; he took the chute that landed him inside a WWII, Dakota that was no great surprise, the fact it was performing at an airshow was however perplexing… Despite the yearning to figure that out, to cling to the first handhold of curiosity that dwelt in a valley further up his mind, he jumped…sans parachute, without the utilisation of further thought or consideration; shoved his own torso from the fuselage, legs and arms flailing in vain resistance… Losing consciousness before scuffing the ground and generating yet another human corpse for history to etch into the births and deaths ledger… Here lays the Refurbished lies of James Kirk, he couldn’t even be as good a Kirk as someone impersonating him. Proceedings terminated! Good riddance to bad Refurbishment. But once beneath the ground the conspiratorial depths of the subterranean gravy-train pulled out of the station-of-one-death on to tracks bound for the birth-of-another, destination. He was no longer refurbished, no longer even Kirk, he was liberated…he thought he’d died and gone to heaven, but no such luck….he was in the governing physical-law space and Hinterland Resort and Retreat (PSHRR) of the person controlling the alias sent to take Kirk over and fill a spittoon with him: Tiny Guy… It was far from heaven, but it was a magical palace that the thing previously known as Kirk, felt a deep sense of privilege for and bore witness to a special providence which he had never known…everything about his conscious appreciation of experience seemed right in a way it never had before… All he needed to do was relinquish his identity, which he did without question.
Then the veil lifted revealing the bride apparent: It wasn’t Kirk that had any value to anything that was happening in the happensphere: it was the amiable monstrosity that dwelt within him and had grown throughout the room in a giant elephant tree that was now fructifying with the giant fruit of giant love. Kirk was dispensable, a pawn, he was always ready to be briefed and sent out as cannon fodder on a long extending leash to do the bidding of whatever twisted personality quirk the incumbent Minister of Weird Weapons and Human Ordnance (MWWHO) felt a whimsical fantasy to obsess about. No, the element that had found its way from the flap of a butterfly wing, migrating from Africa to Europe, to an ingrained enfabrication in a pre-production system that was heired into global omnipotency, was the fanciful and fanciable concept-being spreading the infection of Amour for ever more: Il Professore
Emotional flimsiness had been algorithmed out of Future Interhuman Actions (FIA); the unnecessary impediments of Empathy and Connection being deemed, by the maniacs in charge of programming the programmers, unnecessary. There would be no need for individuals to make their own love. Its restriction by the state would be a useful contributor to carrot-stick/reward-punishment system-schemes, making it worthy of comparison to a well made horror film, and a benefit to all.
Flicking through the tide of counter-perspectives, a squint could be factored in to view a different reality…that a ‘bug’ had virussed its way in, and the cool-cat of it lounged and chattered, purred around whispering meowlets of positivity-in-relaxis…gentle-scratching-softpaws…
Whatever this farcical farrago was trying to produce, it now had a massive chunk of evil removed and replaced with Evil’s most repellant antagonist…
