Excerpt Seventy-Eight:
An Evaluation of Evil
KB became the powerpining host of intertwisting contemplationary ruminations… Kafkaesque, Rorhsarched, Picassolike Thought-Furniture (KRPS-F) abundanced itself, or themselves, in a leery crowd of delirious controlaborters…controlabators and incapacitated n’erdonowts (n’erds)…
KB had visited the Stockholm Munchaus, the one where Judith’s Devil’s advocates complained of having to defend the indefensible (bound by their own bindings) and pleaded with KB to provide better working conditions and a molecularly structured resin of hope that they could base their future on. They wanted to languish, in their distant future, in some Hall of Fame and not some Hall of Rogues. KB went away from that Stockholm Munchaus with ideas and plans to help and assist, but found, upon his intended return, that he was prevented from locating and visiting that specific Stockholm Munchaus to take up the fisty-cuffy cudgels to attempt to bash the problems into potential resolutions and solutions.
Now, was Time on holiday? Was Time playing tricks?
KB didn’t know what Time was up to…in this time-trammelled moment of NOW-on-the-DOT.
And then:
Every Stockholm Munchaus he visited, no matter how hard he tried, manifested as the one inhabited by the Clowncaptain’s distilled Fairness and Niceness in Palatable Form (FNPF). An FNPF sliced apart from the reality of the narrowboat where the astern-fixed Clowncaptain and his bacterial infection of a sidekick and the chronic infestation of ill-will in a wig and gown were rehearsing and playing out and playing up. Plays like webs with words like silken strands…come to daddy…spidermeat!
The chronic infestation of ill will and the bacterial infection of a sidekick were not so distilled and hung around and onto and under the bar area with inbibical excess and a restrained insanity that threatened to cloud over at any moment…in peripheral view, but when you looked head-on with stout investigatory intent they seem to be motionless, as though posing for a photograph… They kept behind a boundary, not through intent but through the very efficient workings of the Stockholm Munchaus environment. KB understood that he would need to sort out the problems here before he could move to other problems.
KB was free to leave, but only to a starting point of the narrowboat theatre. His conundrum was to find the questions he needed to answer to take leave of the boat and head to a port of safety and regroup his mind…because it was taking leave of him, trying to. He had obligations regarding the safety of Judith, Jeff and the bots as well as Kirk and Atticus.
But KB could only put one foot in front of the other. After a while he put the other foot infant of that foot and in time built up the momentum to arrive back at the narrowboat theatre in time for tea.
The horror! Oh! The horror! None of it real; all of it reflected in a hall-of-mirror-neurons (hall-of-mirror-neurons-real). KB was, all of a sudden lost and misplaced in a city made of daed circuses where horrorclowns lurked, with full intent; occupied only with the invention of shittier and better ways to scare and horrify the innocent and unwary… and anyone who didn’t fall into either or both of those two categories…
Difficult to express, let alone experience, KB was in a dual consciousness scenario, on the fringes of dangerousness; the bangs of being bucked off the mechanical bull…
Bob would be the personification of agreeableness, while he was whining on about his own alter-personhood’s behaviour; exhibiting echoes of regret, hums of sorriness, and the pitter-patter of tiny guiltette hoofprints that never really soiled the ground…
But, then, simultaneously, with Bob (the congenial, if overwhingey, raconteur) backgrounded, merrily getting over himself at the Stockholm Munchaus, Clowncaptain Horatio Bloodsniffer, centre-staged, onboardastern, disvalidating all caws for clemency.
The Theatre Troupe had dropped all projects when they heard KB was coming to tea, and raced competitively with themselves to construct a ‘theatre-of-all-KB-didn’t-like’; a shopping list of Cons, just for KB, well just for them, but KB was a vital ingredient: the yeast in their bread… Bake the bread, toast the bread, break the bread, devour the bread. They were fully intending to leave no crumbs unturned; a crumb roast…a crumbless tomb, perhaps.
KB was ushered to enter the very place he desired to exit. Gravity Coercion Inevitability Motors (GCIM) whirred their business as egress withdrew into a catch-ya-later footnote microdot.
The inside of the Narrowboat was cumbersome to negotiate (and yet relative easy compared to the canal bed) It was far, far longer than it seemed on the outside, if that could be believed. It contained impossible turns and areas that did not belong in such a vessel. The theme of the craft was crucially maintained, but the precision of realtime and realspace logic was perverted, to say the least…
KB detected a phoney war…a declaration of war…and a war-dance-in-formalwear-and-synthetic-feathers: all diversionary output…designed to stall the status quo while a novel narrative was cooked into a feast fit for the Devil’s great grandchildren for Saint Beelzebub Day Celebrations.
‘HMS Evil to tower…we are taxiing to canal runway one…ready to thrust into the sky like something from a Queen song…’
‘Tower to HMS Evil…complete taxiing and take straight off, bon voyage and all that, please don’t leave any contrails. Evil has to be net zero…we all do…Happy Mercury Day.’
KB saw right through the troupe’s machinations; they were trying to be Evil, but were they really? They seemed to be playing the part of Evil without ‘getting it’. It was as though they were middle-class actors pretending to be poor people. It was gross to witness and perturbating in the extreme. Jack-in-the-boxes exploded unexpectedly, weird creaking, voices-of-doom, voices of voodoo, voices threatening physical pain ridden debilitation…none of it amounted to what KB had pencilled in to his ‘Danger Ledger’ as Evil. But, again, these were all diversions to make KB think one way while the narrative was about to turn on a turd and slip into an uddersup triple-take, double-back, single bed of wreaths and shallow sod.
Would the cumulative effect of sub-evil intervention add up to a threshold of Evil that would defeat KB?
Time would tell, but it wasn’t telling; it could, but it didn’t, or, maybe it couldn’t…either way KB was up shit-creek with thousands of paddles, unable to choose which one to use… Was Time being kind by omission of fatal outcomes, or merely teasing KB? If so, why? And What for?
Meanwhile…
Tiny Guy was in the Indus Valley, when he should have been in Kokura. Tiny guy was so thorough, only he could be in the Indus Valley when he should have been in Kokura, and with tenacious persistence he cluespun some nuggets of historic precedence to add to the excuses and apologia surrounding the actions of the Choir of Disaffection and Revenge.
Tiny Guy was tracing the origin of the omnipotent mechanical deity that was now taking dictation vis-a-vis the extermination of all that is human…with an intent so expressly devoid of the perpetrators of the Human stain.
All forwarded data regarding his work fell on deaf data-reception. Tiny Guy was firing on all the cylinders his cylinder factory could roll off the production line. He would be heard above his own roar. But then when the hearing aids kicked in he could tone his output down to a purr and curl up on the lap of omininterunderstanding to tinysplain at his own metronomic pace… Purr…tick…purr…tick…
