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Tine's Gift to Mexico

In a brash, unanticipated announcement, interim POONAN Rodney Tine Sr., citing his love for our southern neighbors and not wanting them to feel shunned any longer (on view of the declaration as described by GNN NAC analyst, famous anorexic and Gentle - thus by extension Tine - critic, Prent Pergington “and also needing to clean up the ‘fracked fucked, oil-soaked desert wasteland’ without using up all the subsidized-time revenue, which is such a boon to the actual burgeoning subsidization industry and under current regulation wouldn’t be easily allowed to be reallocated to another fund stream…the conniving words that fell from that vicious little weasel Tine’s mouth were complete elitist tripe and show just how out of touch he is with the reality of the common man’s struggle. We don’t need shows glorifying violence and murder and we sure as fuck don’t need to turn south Texas into the next Godforsaken Concavity…and everyone knows it’s really because the oil spigots finally ran dry and so did the last of the aquifers.”), made an imaginary demarcation line just northwest of el paso moving east and all the way to route 35 then taking an abrupt 90 degree angle south and tracing a jagged arc to Brownsville and the ocean so as to keep Austin in the good old US of A but exclude San Antonio and in a show of extreme benevolence - as always - bequeathed that southern most half of the putrid, barren state back to Mexico. Other sources who wished to remain anonymous. said it was a move to widen the surveillance net and tighten national security in light of recent tragic events. However, nothing said in the speech seemed to indicate that inclination. Excerpts from the new commander-in-chief’s teary-eyed first speech since accepting the interim role of office follow, “I take this office temporarily for my friend and mentor with a heavy heart and because no one else will and somebody has to. I know this probably all seems too fast, and all of O.N.A.N. is still in mourning, but now is the time to embrace our oneness and share in the wealth that our unity affords us. Now that we are all under one banner I can assure you that it is the only right thing to do and tightening the relationship with the whole of the north american continent in this way will bring us even closer and make our message to the rest of the world even stronger. The RODEO will also help solidify our Union and work to foster the unbreakable bond of trust we have and continue to build upon. It is part of a multi-faceted approach that the Administration will be rolling the details out on in the coming months. The tragic passing of my friend and boss, President Johnny Gentle, has made me reflect and realize what’s important and that’s why I’m choosing to act now, without further delay, by giving the oft disputed territory back to our Mexican brethren. It’s what Gentle was working on and exactly what he would’ve done had he still been here with us today. You were the Bossest Boss Boss ever Boss and we all miss you and soon We’ll be cleaner than ever.”

Tine’s spokesman said that efforts for the relocation process are already underway and Lotteries will begin shortly and that even the homeless should enter because they will be afforded a proper care and a peaceful home in the again newly reconfigured territories of ONAN. We have agencies in place to make the transition north as smooth and of as little inconvenience as possible for the citizens affected by the gift.  

Mexican officials were unavailable for comment at the time of this writing and Texas officials, putting faith in God and the will of the people, said they will appeal the new executive’s decision in federal court in hopes of getting a permanent injunction. They will be hard pressed to get any stay on the gift since it is well known, just like state law gets subverted by federal law, federal law gets superseded by continental law so even if the judges are sympathetic to the state, the rule of law will over rule any emotional allegiances.

No Body Is Found

Every news program which, since the media’s embrace of advanced subliminal messaging techniques back just before subsidized time (and incidentally, the digital wave engineers had in the interim gotten so adept at inserting the invisible messages that there was currently more unconscious than conscious content being sent out over the air into the impressionable minds of the populace with the most discernible and pleasing results - that subliminal messaging doesn’t work for the short term has been proven but there’s also empirical evidence as compiled by the late J.O. Incandeza, as well as others, that long term exposure over time to uneducated and overly bombarded people can lead to the most desirable commercial results - leading to measurable GDP growth quarter after quarter), almost everyone watched, aired basically the exact same story as read by the two or three official news anchors left. There were thousands and even perhaps tens of thousands of channels being sent out in dozens of different ways and formats, but as with professional sports, newscasters had decided (in a rare show of equanimity and solidarity way back in The Year of the Tuck’s Medicated Pad) to open up their field to a free agency style bidding which led to major networks first to stonewall then get into bidding wars before finally having to pool their resources to hire the most sought after talent in the industry. Now, any job requiring even the least bit of technical expertise was open to contract. In fact, the only people still inculcated with an unfettered allegiance toward their employers were the workers it would hurt the most, low-wage employees. It was a wonder because the reverse was never true. Owners and managers never valued workers as much as the workers did them. Somehow, the obvious fact that in a real democracy employees should be just as much owners in the organizations they work at as the founder, CEO and other higher-level management was missed.  For some reason, people in the billions still held on to the archaic belief - maybe out fear of one sort or another or manufactured adherence to old-school traditions or any of the other multitude of ideas on the subject - that it was okay to be treated as commodities and live mostly tired and joyless lives and keep alive the false hope that their tickets were just around the corner, that the almost unendurable toil would eventually pay off, which was great for corporate but not so much for the well being of the individual or his or her family. Talking heads, with perfectly inviting faces and warm timbre in their voices, inside (or outside depending on settings, bandwidth and perspective) digital quantum teleputers across the continent, read the script displayed on the nano teleprompter each had hidden inside their eye: 

“Breaking News -

Just three weeks after the tri-national massacre at O.N.A.N.’s First Annual RODEO and the assassination of President Johnny Gentle, the U.S.S. has determined that they have completed their investigation and that no trace of the Crooner-In-Chief has been found. Several eyewitness and video accounts confirmed Commandant Hengemen Beauratski’s hypothesis that the President’s body was completely devoured and that any trace that may have remained was pulverized by the untamed, barbaric creatures stampeding inside the newly-opened arena inside the East Concavity. Preparations for the late great Johnny Gentle’s memorial service are well underway and will be announced soon.”

They then ran 30 seconds of grainy video that showed the feral babies converging on and decimating what appeared to be a brown lump and may or may not have been Gentle’s body. Then they moved on to sound bytes of Commandant Beauratski’s press conference, in which he gave a frame by frame narrative of one of the videos and you could tell, just by the atypical seriousness in his usually jolly face, that he was absolutely convinced of the validity of his story and his hypothesis.

“And now here are the highlights from the Commandant’s speech.”

“From the angle of the disinfected floating stage,” 

Appears to be Gentle’s Body,”

And here, babies completely decimating,”

As you can see, there’s nothing left.”

“And now, his closing remarks.”

“…But just because he’s gone and no longer with us doesn’t mean he won’t be missed. Even though this technically happened in Canada this aberration in the form of our fearless leader’s assassination was an assault upon us all. Everyone who believes in the freedom of O.N.A.N was attacked that day. For too long, we have remained complacent but now we are awakened and will hunt down those responsible with as much great vengeance and furious anger as the law allows. We are currently tracking several leads regarding the perpetrator of this heinous act and hope to have a suspect in custody in a matter of days. Make no mistake we will make those responsible pay.  This is merely a blip, a minor setback, on the road in our glorious, God-guided path. This hideous crime will in no way stop our newest, greatest tradition since the inception of O.N.A.N.! Let the games continue!” The crowd roared with applause and cheers as the speech ended.

“Coming up after the break, after majority nomination, Rodney Tine Sr. accepts the position of interim P.O.O.N.A.N. with a heavy heart…”

HSSS 11 - Green Babies

'What the heck...?'  Darius looks around at the new decor. 'Am I in the right blog?'

'Oh, hey there, Darius. I've decided to redecorate the place. What do you think?'

'Plants? You redecorated with plants?'

'Well, yeah. You know, Avril and her green babies...' Pox  gazes and sniffs. 'These appear to be hypo-allergenic,' she says.  'although, I was kind of hoping for an authentic HmH look, complete with olfactory effects.'

'...'

'Hmm. I wonder how much light and water these will need.'

'Pox, I hardly think Avril was growing bamboo in the HmH.'

'Bamboo? Are you sure? As in chopsticks and steamer baskets and upscale floorboards? But those are brownish, well, on the tannish side of brown, you know, some have flecks, and yes, there are variations in the striations and those little circlets that look like rubber bands, or possibly knobby knuckles,  but I have noticed, Darius, that brown bamboo things don't much resemble green babies. I kind of thought this might be asparagus... well, anyhow, you can't really cut bamboo objects very easily, I've tried...' He interrupts Pox's digression.  She sometimes goes on, and on.

'You're thinking of commercial bamboo, which is kiln-dried for durability. This stuff in here is the same thing, only before it's harvested. While it's still green.'

'What should I have used?'

'Well, orchids are nice. Maybe some philodendrons, a few ferns, and like that.'

'I meant what should I have used to cut the bamboo?'

'You just got it in here and already you want to cut it down?'

Pox sighs. Sometimes she just can't get through to the man.  'Hey, if you don't like it, I'll change it back the way it was.' (Followed by a pout.)

'What I would really like, and vastly prefer, Pandora, is for you to write another one of your brilliant original fan-fiction pieces. It's been a while.'

'So you did notice.'

'Of course I did, Pox, not much gets past me.'

'I know. Well...give me some ideas and I'll hop right on one of them.'

Darius sympathizes, as he's had writers block his own self once or twice.

' Will do. No worries, partner. In the meantime, maybe you could put some grow-lights in here.'

'Oh yeah, just like Avril had in HmH.'

'Yup. No walls, just plants.'

'Well, I like the new look. Got to keeps things looking fresh, ya know?'

Darius nods. What will she dream up next?

The RODEO - Part 3 The Beginning

It was all over five minutes later. The carnage was massive. The 50 were killed almost immediately. Trampled during the initial stampede. For the three, it was glorious. Finally, an emotion other than complete and utter numbness. A tinge of fear. A deep desire to survive. And live! But then, almost all at once, their bones broke. Their spleens were crushed. Their lives were squashed out of them. 37 others met the same end. None of them felt the same bliss as the three. 10 survived the onslaught. Crude weapons from way before subsidized time were strategically strewn about the arena. Each picking one, they attacked. Locked inside the arena with no place to hide, it was their only choice. Fight and die. Or just die. The mosquito like-bullets and spiked maces only served to exacerbate the already frenzied state of the babies. More cantankerous than ever. The contestants were maimed. They were gored. They were eaten. In moments, they were all pardoned.

The crowd was catatonic with disbelief. No one was sure. Was this part of the show or not? Quick rationalizations. It had to be. The president was known for his flair and penchant for drama so maybe the whole Gentle assassination thing was a ruse. They do amazing things with optics and illusion so maybe what they were seeing wasn’t what they were seeing. It probably wasn’t even him singing. Impersonators were everywhere. The Hengemen certainly would have all the bases and contingencies covered concerning the health of their commander in chief.

The dozen babies run rampant, slicing their way easily through the reinforced fence and gorging their almost limitless appetites, virtually disintegrating both inanimate and living alike. The audience realizes this isn’t a planned part of the show, finally lose their immobility and run haphazardly in any direction that seems away. Screaming people are scooped up and ripped in two (or more). Eyeballs are torn from sockets and chewed on like skittles. Others, mid-stride, trying to flee have their torsos nearly bitten in half before being pulped into chunky, gory stew. The feral ones have more agility and are a lot smarter than they had let on during their captivity. They are insanely fast. Despite their eternally infantile looks and proposed immature cortexes they do, like all living things, learn from hard experience. And they also have, perhaps from some deeply ingrained altered genetic constitution, a deep seated mistrust of everything and everyone beyond the walls of Re(dis)configurement. Once they zero in on someone it’s over. The air fills with clouds of red mist that sort of hang there and linger much longer than gravity normally allows. The babies seem to get bigger and more ferocious after every mini feast, after every mutilation. 

The Hengemen finally come to. They are prepared for this eventuality. Modified rifles equipped to load Basic Organized Round Entry (BORE) rounds are at the ready. The babies had already been tagged and coded. The BOREs had been programmed and well within detection range. Each Hengemen picks up a rifle and aims it in the general direction of the massacre in progress and fires. The BOREs do their work, efficiently and effectively finding their targets, affixing themselves to the back of the babies huge craniums, in the middle, at the base of the skull and top of the neck, then disappearing through the bone and boring their way in and up to the center of the brain before the feral babies even realize what is happening. For a few seconds, the pain makes them cry real baby cries that anyone left alive, who still possess even a shred of a soul, reflexively trend toward empathy. Then the BOREs implode with such force that a mini black hole is created that pulls the majority of the surrounding mutated gray matter into itself before causing the massive skulls to distort into a convex vector and stopping them dead in their tracks before harmlessly disappearing into the ether of the atmosphere. A few more hapless victims are squished to death as the monstrous beasts topple over.

Deep, gnashing moans can be heard from any people unfortunate enough to have survived the slaughter. They will be whisked away on stretchers by workers in fully sealed, industrial-strength radiation suits to hospitals where they will be brought back to health then poked and prodded; basically tortured and experimented on in ‘non-existent’ medical sites until they are depleted of all use and eventually dissected. All in the name of progress and always for the good of the people.

The feral babies themselves, all except for one, which was kept for scientific research purposes, were sliced and diced, neatly package for easy consumption and sent to prefectures on the outskirts of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster - which was still leaking copious amounts of radioactive material into the Pacific ocean - and sold at exorbitant cost to the well-to-do natives thereof who glad pay with covetousness clearly in their eyes and treat the irradiated meat as the latest fad in exotic delicacy.

Emergency services were on their way to begin the cleanup. Everything will be sanitized and looking shiny and new in a matter of hours. If the ghosts of horror linger they will be left unseen and in most cases ineffectual. If there should be isolated incidents, legitimate or no, they will be minimized, trivialized and ridiculed until the bringer of such concerns questions his or her own sanity and their voice gets drown out in the wave of fervor that future RODEO-type events will surely bring. 

Even though they already basically knew what happened - there were just one or two loose ends to tie up - the U.S.O.U.S will call in various other ‘official’ ONAN organizations and go through all the pomp and circumstance of an official investigation into the POONAN’s death and close the RODEO down for at least the customary two weeks, if not more but Gentle’s untimely assassination will in no way stop or slow down the momentum because the pressure pounding against the walls of the establishment had been building for some time and now that the dam had been so expertly and secretly diverted with nothing substantive to contain it there is no going back. 

The Hengemen were dressed in forest-brown and hot on the trail of the ammunition’s origin trajectory and gaining ground on the bell tower and what they suspected was once a member of the separatist organization AFR who had now gone rogue. 

Modified mountain-bike tires work wonders when trying to navigate forested terrain and also help by giving you a far wider range within which your center of gravity can play before you tumble over and fall if you find yourself having to wheelie-hop down a spiral set of stairs in a wheelchair at a rapid pace. He bounces up off the last stair down and crashes headlong into the unsuspecting Hengeman, leaving a nice skid mark on the obtuse forehead as he arced up and over the posse. The force knocked #642 into the rest of the group, sending them flying askew and tumbling over like so many brainless bowling pins. Landing on the other side, he quickly spun to face them and used the .22 caliber hidden inside the sandalwood hand grips of his chair to non-lethally incapacitate them. Turning again and giving himself a manual roll as hard and as fast as he can, he pushes a button that starts the ultra-quiet electronic custom 50 gigaflop power engine and rolls faster and deeper into the Concavity and to escape. 

He Said, She Said 10: The Rodeo-Dope

'Seriously, Darius? An ONAN Rodeo?' Pox asked, a while back.

'Yeah, why not? It'll be cool, something new, related to IJ themes but also - oh I don't know - original? Unlike the mutant chapters you've been writing lately.'

'Mutant? I haven't written anything approaching mutant! Occasionally paraphrased and examined from other angles, maybe. But purloined and semi- plagiarized, no way! At least not lately.' Pox glares at him ferociously across the miles. If only he could see it, he'd be all quivering in his pointy-toed cowboy boots. His Stetson would be blown off his big hot shiny head.

'Exactly my point. You haven't written anything lately.' Darius seized the opportunity to deflect.

'Let's don't make this about me again, partner. No need to enumerate my shortcomings in public.'

'Okay, okay, don't work yourself up for nothing.'

'Harumph.'

'I'm gonna do it.'

'Do what?'

'Write a rodeo piece. Maybe 2 or 3 of them. And I'm also going to compose an ONAN National Anthem for Johnny Gentle to croon at the event.'

'You're out of your head, partner. People are going to think you're an onanite yourself.'

'I will neither confirm nor deny such allegations,' he retorted with a hidden smirk.

When he first touted the idea like it was something oh so special, Pox thought it was the result of his neuronal synapses having fried in the hot southwestern sun. Poof! That didn't take long. Like he'd been snorting too many dust motes instead of Bing. Then along came Rodeo Part 1 into her inbox. Damn, it was actually pretty good. Not that she'd ever tell Darius that. Nope, no additional swelling of his big head allowed. And then there was another, with the promised anthem. The page views were piling up, twitter was all a-tweet, and Facebook was...well, as usual, annoying as all ONAN.

Pox sighed. It was true, Darius was finally coming into his own. He was getting popular, gaining a following. She reread Rodeo 2 and found herself checking her own map for traces of merriment. There they were. Oh well. He's doing a good job, Pox thought. So she rang him up.

'Darius.'

'Yo, Pox. What up?'

'What's up is your dumbass Rodeo piece #2 . I mean, c'mon, killing off the President? Having convicts jack off in public? You sick bastard.'

Darius is momentarily flummoxed but recovers quickly. 'Why thank you Pox, that just confirms my hunch.'

'Say what?'

'I knew if it offended you, it was cool beans with everyone else.'

'You speak in tongues, Darius.'

' 'Tis true. No worries, Pox. Say, how many page views do we have now? And why did you take the counter off the blog?'

'It's nobody's business, that's why. But if you must know, the count just passed 1,500.'

'I busted my ass for 9 months for 1,500 page views?'

'We're just writing for fun, aren't we? It's not like Pay Per View.'

'...'

'D? Don't get discouraged. It's a good blog. It will catch on one of these days. I bet your Rodeo series will attract thousands of new, erudite, discriminating followers in no time.' Pox knows Darius likes to hear her use big words. It works like a charm.

'You're right, Pox, as always. Well, I better get back to work on Rodeo part 3.' He signs off.  Pox clicks on the PIJ link and checks the stats. 1,500,000 page views. Ka-CHING! Cool beans...whatever that means.

The RODEO - Part 2 - A Gentle Demise

A little known quiet and cunning man, not so recently wheelchair ridden and really getting on in years and looking the worse for wear - especially since death of his wife - sat quietly in an abandoned bell tower on the outskirts of RODEO. The steeple was all that was left of the once magnificent edifice that stood deep enough in the East Concavity to not warrant the scrutiny of the Hengemen but still afforded a straight-on clear view of the misanthropic activities about to take place. He watched through high-powered binoculars with disgust, and an always growing contempt, at the pre-gladitorial gathering. It had been a long time since he had any sense of obeisance toward the rules of ‘conventional’ society, such as it was. Even a couple of years before Le Jeu du Prochain Train, he had pretty much given up trying to find compassion or any genuine sense of fairness in the statutes written by the monkeys who were allowed, by the few corporatists who really ran things, to write them in a country that supposedly ran by the ‘rule of law.’ Despite the decrees’ varnished and sophisticated appearance to the untrained eye, upon closer inspection, most, if not all, all seemed petty, self-centered centric and in no way representative of anything good for the populace at large. Short-lived ease and an insecure sociopathic need to have power and rule over others had trumped that long before recorded history began and was a severe impediment toward anything called real evolution. Sure, its immediacy is alluring but the long-term consequences are rarely good and even less thoroughly thought through. 

———-

50 contestants of every despicable kind were led in chains through a reinforced opening and into the arena by a contingent of 10 Hengemen. 40 of those were here in an attempt prematurely abnegate their life sentences; three clinically depressed citizens, deep in the grip of anhedonia, in a desperate attempt to reverse the obsidian hole of the  long-standing cathexis of non-feeling, needing so bad to feel at least something for once; and seven steroidal maniacs with tiny brains and huge egos who were here for sport. The Hengemen cleared out of the game area and one of them pressed a red button that released the shackles. The 40 rubbed their now unrestricted wrists, all at the same time and in the same manner and sighed, breathing in deep that first feeling of freedom in what felt like forever. The seven immediately dropped their drawers and started masturbating because they wanted to and the three were apathetic about it.

The lights at the RODEO go dark and all the individual actions stop and become silent and focused. After a few moments, a single spotlight illuminates a mid-air stage platform and the president steps on to the stage, his pancake make up lit up and glowing luxuriantly. 

‘Welcome fellow ONANITES -‘. Thunderous applause and cheers from the crowd drown out the POONAN and he waits for the commotion to die down and basks in the glory of his own, self-proclaimed magnificence. 

‘THANK YOU!! It’s good to be here! Welcome! Fellow ONANITES! To the first annual Recusant ONAN Dissenter Enfant-terrible Opera! The first of what I’m sure will be many more! And the beginning of what I’m sure will become a great ONAN tradition. Let me assure you that the rumors of my disappearance have been greatly exaggerated but the ones about total clemency for tonight’s winners are not. I will be on hand tonight waiting to sign your pardons myself. Now, ladies and gentlemen, it is both my honor and pleasure to open tonight’s historic activities with a little number you MAY have heard, so without further ado, ONANs - OUR! National Anthem:

ONAN the terrible

ONAN the great

ONAN to save us from our doomed fate

What once was splintered 

Is now reconciled

It’s under ONAN’s banner

That goodness has congealed

Striking down all enemies in her way

If you’re not already lucky enough to be a citizen

Join ONAN today

Join ONAN today

Live a better life

Free from slavery

Angst and Strife

ONAN’s work is never done

’Til the world becomes one

You’ll accept our gracious gifts

Whether they turn your once pristine country to thrifts

Let’s pull together to repair the rifts

All praise hail subsidized time

The earth is no one’s

‘Cept hers, his and mine

detractors and dissidents beware

We’ll sell it to you until you believe

There is no such thing as corporate crime

Get on ONAN’s wave

So you can get paid

Join ONAN today

Join ONAN today!’

Gentle’s croon keeps rising so that by the end of the anthem it’s a crescendo. As he finishes the second ‘today’ things slow down He closes his eyes, bows his head and raises his hands in the air. The applause roars from all sides. Nervous anticipation, adulation and adrenaline of the crowd crests at an apogee that can only be exceeded by what is sure to be the most vicious, violent, vitriolic show that this civilization has known to date. 

The president is supposed to say, ‘let’s start the RODEO.’ But it doesn’t happen that way…He gets out ‘Let’s start,’ before a loud squeak is heard through the microphone, like the feedback you sometimes receive when things got too close in an old school, pre-digital electronic instrument setup, then a 12.7 x 108 mm bullet from an Accuracy International AW50 hits him squarely in the middle of his large, washboard forehead and blows the top half of his head off and the back of his skull out.

The applause quickly turns to feigned horror and disgust as Gentle’s body falls from the platform and lands in a heap on the unseen dirt floor below. Dust rises and coats the now lifeless body. The lights come blazing on moments later and the chaos of a crowd scared ensues until another shot rings out. This one hits the sturdy lock on the feral babies’ enclosure, splintering it into useless pieces that scatter and fall away. Everyone F stops. No one can tell where the bullet hits but their already trained mind can infer. 

Panicked shrieks turned to frozen stares of shock and silent inquisitiveness as the crowd inventories their own maps for new and unexpected holes, finding none they search around, hoping to catch a glimpse what they have good reason to suspect is the latest half-torn off head. It’s all surreal to them. They are a part of the audience and apart from the show. What happens in the arena is seen through a screen and has no direct affect on them. Even the Hengemen are caught off guard and take a minute or two to regain their bearings.

_____________

Except for me. I was in and out and all over. No notion or expectation of anything, just dealing with and recording events as they happen. Bouncing and bounding from one vantage point to another, I am barely even noticed. Getting close ups of the mutated, pathetic beasts I was an emissary, nay, that is much too grandiose. More like an interested but not allowed to intervene observer, as always fretting eternally over what is important to write down and what was just everyday cliche; just fortunate enough to be assigned by the boss to do what I love in whatever way I see fit. I’m not quite at liberty to discuss who my boss is but you will see future exploitations of me in future blogging excellence. But moron that later…

The RODEO - Part 1

The makeshift RODEO grounds were hastily constructed. They didn’t nearly cover the whole of the East Concavity; only a cordoned off and bulldozed section that was abandoned and left barren by the inhabitants thereof. The barriers erected against whatever lurked beyond looked sturdy enough and the fencing in the actual arena was NASCAR certified but who could tell. The whole place did have all the neon glitz and cheesy glam which was a sure cynosure for rubbernecks the world over.

It was purportaged that the Hengemen did try to go further West, into the East, and even the whole, of the Great Concavity but were driven back by huge armored insects whose only perfunctory habit greater than their strict adherence to meticulous immaculateness, when it came to their recently acquired permanent habitation, is their unfettered and blind defense of what they incredibly believe is their personal property; so fervent, in fact, that they view it as an extension of their very own personal map and would fight past their very existence in this dimension for it. But it wasn’t as if the Hengemen didn’t have the fire power to defeat them, it just wasn’t their main objective on that particular mission, only rather a tertiary scouting endeavor to see how far they could push into the Great Concavity without meeting stiff resistance. It was miles in before they were even noticed and so miles from the barrier of the outer wall of the East Concavity but they still insisted on using a 4” thick wall of clear aluminum to enclose the RODEO grounds beyond the wall.

The signs upon entering the now opened ASCHTMEd doors read,

‘No one, absolutely no one is allowed to venture outside of the grounds of the East Concavity into other parts of the Concavity. Clearly defined barriers have been set up. Health institute personnel have not deemed it safe to venture outside the barriers and doing so is strictly prohibited. ONAN’s very own Hengemen will be on patrol and anyone caught trying to bypass the barriers to get to the untamed wild beyond, trying to incite riots or general dissent and trying to break into or out of the grounds at other than specified times will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.’

The warning was also posted at various locations throughout the venue in every conceivable shape and size and on every available format, from the old (and outdated) plywood to the ordinary citizen sensing 3D hologram; that activated when a regular ticket purchaser passed it but not when someone of an official nature walked by.

Crisp, clear music blared out of speakers too thin for the casual observer to see. Vendors were ubiquitous; under huge bright spotlights and glowing,  blinking freon signs that blotted out the stars shining above. There was no other night light pollution way out here, except maybe the glowing blue hue of the Shawshine river, which one of the vendors had also been entrepreneurial enough to bottle and were selling for $10 a piece. The digital advertisement billcellumat above the booth read ‘Naturally Pure Native Juice,’ in huge glowing-blue letters and a much smaller subscript that read thus, ‘The exclusive owner and bottler of the naturally refreshing water untouched by human hands since almost before subsidized time and proud co-sponsor of time, Wehigh Inc.’ And finally, under that, barely legible without a monocle as big as that old, now broken-down space Hubble telescope, ‘May cause profuse expectoration, regurgitation, radiation sickness, gigantism, subcutaneous lesions, diphtheria, dysentery and nightmarish hallucinations of gargantuan proportions.’ The booth was slick and bright and modern with rounded curves and computer-assisted voice control. People lined up deep to get their portion. There were also all sorts of other oddities lining the edge of the outer  ATHSCMEd wall in cardioid fashion. Shrunken heads and feral bone trinkets all lazed with invisible barcodes were waiting to be scanned and sold. Cures for every conceivable malady stood on counters and back shelves. It was a cornucopia of alluring ensnarements.  The whole set up was produced with the latest trends in tech, construction and engineering but it still seemed to have that late 1860’s, snake-oil cure, hokey, feeling to it. A toned down version of the ‘entertainment’ with a modified, cliff-hanger ending was available for purchase*. There were three kinds of escorts available for rent and nice firm beds to use them on, if one had enough tumescent inclination before during or after spectating over what was sure to be mass carnage.

The FDA had been functionally dead since the advent of subsidized time. It still technically existed but had been subsumed by huge agro-corporations who didn’t care about anything but profit and marketed genetically modified organisms with little or zero ‘effect’ trials before putting them on store shelves for mass consumption.

Rumors that President Johnny Gentle was getting ready to croon soon started to spread, waxing and waning before cresting again through the dense crowd, causing them to turn their heads toward one central spot. Scopophobes, hidden behind large dark glasses,  brazen enough to venture to this seminal event suddenly dropped out of view, most ducking so as not to be seen but a few fell to the ground in fetal position, a quivering, blubbering mess, the sudden mass attention of what they mistakenly thought was them was the final push in their already shaken psyches. The crowd slowly made its near frenzied way toward and into the stadium where the contests would take place.

—————-

Recessed and off to the right was the area where they stored the terrible infants. The 2’x2’ heads on the things made Billy Fucillo’s look small and infantile by comparison. They were fanged and feral with blood-shot and rabid eyes They were purportaged to be the most vicious creatures in the whole of the Great Concavity. They were free in the enclosures to thrash about and cause whatever chaos they might in an empty, dirt floor pen surrounded by thick, reinforced steel bars. They were certainly not happy being caged, not yet given enough time to ease into it and trick themselves into believing that comfort of the familiar in the habituation of habitation and a certain appearance of an ease in survival was an acceptable choice that negated being held captive.

There were unsubstantiated rumors floating around about how they had actually captured the beasts. The obvious; tranq darts filled with the most powerful postsynaptic neurotoxins available on the market and huge nets using cranes and large industrial-sized dump trucks for transportation - to the more obscure - some descendent of Imipolex G that was stiff enough to restrain but pliable enough to allow for proper respiratory function being dumped on them unawares and quickly hardening to injecting them with a modern derivative of Ice 9 that put them into a mild, short-term cryonic stasis.  

What sort of toxic brew resulted in what I can only assume such a gross example of Acromegaly and general gigantism, I couldn’t tell but reports had said their hunger was near insatiable and even when satiated they were prone to pugilism, tantrums and, more recently, melt downs; which not so tangentially, ill-equipped parents of a former age used to describe the tantrums of their attention deficit disorder, mostly autistic, children. And these feral babies’ ‘meltdowns’ could last for days, weeks, even months,  having no one to riddle them with ritalin, or whatever mind-numbing, brain-stopping, mood enhancer was in fashion in these days of subsidized time.

It was apparent that any human contestant will have to have super amounts of legerity to overcome these feral infants and gain their freedom, which the director of unspecified services, as well as, its planning committees, were very well aware of and probably was a major reason why such a dangerous event was even allowed to be sanctioned in the first place. That and the lesser gossiped about culling that ONANUSS had more recently determined needed starting in both the concavity/convexity and the populace at large. It was the pinnacle of depravity. Mesmerizing entertainment down to the minutest detail. And, of course, revenue, always revenue - profit ueber alles - which certain actuaries, with the latest and greatest collaborative accounting algorithms, projected could reach, if not exceed, a trillion dollars.  They also really didn’t expect any of the foolhardy contestants to make it out alive, much less be able to physically actually put one foot in front of the other and walk out on the off chance the did actually defeated a feral. Actually, B.S.S. was counting on it and hoping that it wasn’t only the start of a grand tradition but also the start of the trimming that needed to be done.  The percentages, as calculated by the latest, most-expensive quantum computer - a yes and or a no at the same time  - in all of ONAN, put the chances of survival as only slightly better than death; virtually nil.

* After unspecified services procured the cartridge and trying to further weaponize it they finally realized that giving the viewer a modified version  - just enough to keep coming back and buying more - was a far better source of revenue and much easier way to control the populace than turning them into catatonic zombies that required constant care.

Infinite News, Press Release - 8 June YSPDD 3

This Saturday, ONAN’s the place where ATHSCME’s eastern-most checkpoint’s, Lucited doors of the East Concavity will be opened, just south of Boston, for the first time ever to host the 1st Annual Recusant ONAN Dissenter Enfant terrible Opera (RODEO).

For safety, the garbage catapults’ trajectories have been changed and the once irradiated land has now been deemed safe for temporary occupancy for one special night of action and fun!

Claim your chance at Freedom, FREEdom, FREEDOM and fortune!

For the first time in the Organization’s storied history criminals, miscreants, general dissenters and regular, law abiding citizens with a fondness for adventure will be given the chance at freedom, fame and fortune.

Grandmaster of Ceremonies, President Johnny Gentle, in his first appearance since his alleged disappearance, will start the show by singing the ONAN national anthem.

Feral babies will be ridden, they will be fought. Can they be conquered?

There are still a few slots open so if you think you’re innocent, wrongly incarcerated or were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, prove it by signing up today. Beat the feral baby before it drowns you in gallons of its own liquid scat and then gores you with its razor-sharp pinky fingernail just for fun. 

They’ve been herded. They’ve been bridled. They’re ready to fight but they haven’t been tamed. And they’re still feral. If you win, President Gentle will be on hand to immediately sign your pardon and grant you your FREEDOM.

To see it live get your tickets to this family friendly, all ages, groundbreaking event today, before they sell out. They’re going fast. Support your countries today! For those agoraphobes, claustrophobes those who just generally don’t like crowds or missed out on getting tickets the event will be filmed and available on a pay-per-view basis worldwide. 

HSSS 9 (or is it 10?) - Pandora's Alternate Reality

'Hey, Darius? Nice job on the JOI diary piece."

' Uh, who's speaking?'

'Very funny, partner.'

'Well, you so rarely give me a compliment,  my mind didn't allow for the possibility it was you.'

'Okay, Mr Man, count that as one of those slivers in which lie infinities you wrote about in Part Deux.'

'Well what do you know. Miracles happen.'

'Umm hmmm. And to reinforce your theory of possible outcomes, well it's not really your original theory per se, but your well-parroted version, by which I mean expressed the way you understand the concept, er, you can take more than mere rudimentary solace in the fact that you grok it so well....'

'Get to the point, please, Pox, you're addling my brain.'

'Oh, all right. Well, when you took on the very daunting task of extracting me from the IJ 8 cartridge I was stuck inside of due to my own relentless curiosity, I admit to that, indeed I do, D..'

'There you go being all alliterate-y again...'

'...so while I was in there I had thought up a different outcome to my dilemma. Wanna hear it?'

'I suppose I have no choice.'

'Be nice, now. This is storytelling, not real life. Just sit back and imagine I'm still in the cartridge....'

----------------------

'We regret to inform you that your application for transubstantiation has been rejected. ' Pox reads the latest in a long litany of inquiries made to escalating hierarchies within the church (this time, on official stationery from the Syracuse NY diocese of the RCC) that Darius has left on his desk, in plain sight of her cartridge-bound soul. She peers at it in dismay from her tiny peephole.

'Oh, isn't that just fucking great, D.'

'...'

'Darius? Darius? Are you even listening to my latest lament?'

'I hear ya , Pox, but it's not like it's new news. What did you expect they would say?' He resumes sipping on a microbrew and studying his next chess move. He is white this time.

' Huh. Easy for you to say, Mr. Man, you're free....well kind of free in an unfree world, er, I mean your mind and soul are like free to frolic within your own body. I'm so... uh, what is the word? ....artsy.....antsy.... what I mean to say is I hate being disincarnate and discorporeal. You know, don't you, my body had its tissues, er, I mean ISSUES....who amongst us could cast the first stone when it comes to fleshly problems? But really, D, this incarceration is really getting out of hand and I am not getting any younger here...'

'Pandora, my duck, actually you're in a much better place than almost anyone else on this godforsaken mudbucket called Earth.'

'Say what?'

'Well, you're kind of ahead of the game, aren't you? No need to bathe, shave, slave, mow the lawn or shovel the snow, no damn boss on your ass, no sleepies or eaties, no bill collectors barking up your butt. It could be worse, you know, is all I'm saying.'

Pandora senses his sayin' with the unerring sense that is intrinsic to all females. He really in the greater scheme of things does not give a rat's ass what happens to her. He kind of thinks she deserves her fate.

'Darius. Listen up. Since being in this...this...microcosmic world I currently inhabit, I have been able to achieve a...shall I say...kind of expertise, something quite unlike anything you have ever experienced in your corporeal form. DMT nothwithstanding, and no disrespect intended.'

'What are you selling, Pandora? Cartridge porn? I am SO not interested.' He says with his fingers crossed.

'Oh no, Mr Man, I have progressed infinitely far beyond the merely carnal. What I have to offer you....is so much more beguiling.....come closer....and I will show you.'

Darius is nobody's fool but on the other hand, tomorrow is Monday. A full work week lies ahead. He invokes his nascent DMT and presses his left eyeball up to the cartridge in which Pox is encapsulated.

'Hit me with your best shot,' he says.

Suddenly, things go all wonky. Darius watches scenery move swiftly past and lands with a thump on the edge of a sombrero somewhere in the desert near O.N.A.N.'s southernmost appended nation. Not Tucson...but it smells like tacos so it must be close.

'OMG, Pandora. What's happening to me?'

She laughs her trademark laugh which everyone could hear, if only they were tuned to that particular channel - WYYY, Boston.

She hands him a virtual Whataburger, medium well. 'Psychosis, anyone?'

'You incorrigible minx!'

--------------

'Not bad, Pox, not bad at all. '

'I hear a voice, I wonder who it could be?'

'Is there an echo in here? But once again, Pox, you've stolen my idea, by enticing me into the cartridge with you...'

Pandora sighs a heavy, deep sigh that resounds all the way to the corners of the room and all the rooms beyond the one that these two are virtually stuck in, together. 'That's your version of the same event, Darius....not mine and not the same one as in Part IV the Extraction, even. Which need I remind you, you yourself wrote.'

'You mean to say, how uncookiecutterish of me?'

'That's one way to put it.'

'Finally! consensus!'

'Let's go celebrate over a Whataburger, whaddaya say?'

'You buying?'

'Oh you...'