Noble Dreams

Noble Dreams

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#1 Sat 26th Feb 2011 07:45 pm

Infantile Greenhorn
From: Bilbo's Hollow CA
Registered: Mon 17th Aug 2009

Useless Eaters

Useless Eaters

My compatriots and I, (Rick and Alex) we like mutating life patterns to suite the Olden Tymes, keeps the previous histories alive somehow.  There’s a simple procedure we follow; we leave town every few days or so and seek out the PastMaster, the strange duck, everyone’s guilty little treasure.  His name is PissPant Pete, at least, that’s what he calls himself.  The PastMaster is not particularly well promoted publicly; the Countyship fears him.  Secretly, they shroud him in awe.

Unlike the townsfolk, PissPant Pete likes living alone, likes scavenging, likes his custom-made shanty.  He’s not really up for tilling and tending Gaia either; he’d rather let it grow wild, take us over.  Despite his lack of cooperation, PissPant Pete does well for himself.  He’s known to the drinkers as the Moonshine Alchemist.  Those with fermented proclivities often seek him out and barter food in exchange for Pete’s coveted elixir.

My compatriots and I don’t really care about caustic potions; we are here for the Past, delirious stories and deleted histories.  PissPant Pete is quite unusual in this regard; he’s one of the few elders still around who remembers the names of NonExistence.  For the moment, we nestle down on the wood-rusted floor known as the PastPerson Junkyard (Pete’s hovel).  We say nothing.  Our eyes close; our ears open.


PastMaster is a ritualist.  Preceding every tale, he’ll wipe his skin with a sentimental kerchief and remove any perspiration that has taken bud.  He then proceeds to swallow his poisonous brew; Pete calls this process The Cleansing.   After a moment or two, PissPant clears his throat and regurgitates a modified yarn we’ve all heard before.  It doesn’t matter; it’s corpse-bred history; it’s esoteric, meandering and never mundane:

“A little paranoia goes a long way, can keep you kinda safe.  You get passively slothy and you’re likely to get your ass kicked at some juncture.  I mean Jana and her fellow NeoHumes were good at that.  Awe that silly, beautiful wishy-wash ice water girl, those NanoBuds in her ears.  She liked humming on the buzz, you know.  Yeah, she read copiously; no doubt she was neuronically equipped with a speedy information processor.  I used to envy that shit, the torque-reading, the easy and well substantiated nomenclatures, that molecularly cranked-up photographic memory.

Fruits of eugenics my friends.  Whoa, and  did you know there used to be peeps with special DNA sequences that got them fucking peeps with the same anatomical sweet spots?  That’s what the WhiteCoats said they found.  The System weeded the codes out, of course, or pretended to; scared everybody shitless.  Man, all the magic we coulda had…gone.

Now I say I used to envy Jana’s Emo-free abilities.  But, you know, shit happens; it hits the fan.  Yeah; long, long ago there used to be this paranoid writer that wrote about linguistic parasites and the extended robotic organs of humankind; it was the closest thing to a prophet I had ever known.  I haven’t found its teachings anywhere since.  Most of them were likely burned or drowned. 

So anyway, I got hit with shit and Jana, she did but didn’t acknowledge it or didn’t give a shit.  She was pretty distracted in those days (cough).  Yeah, she had that problem where the chatter just rolled off her back.  Couldn’t see, couldn’t feel it.  I mean, I could taste it; it was completely tangible to me, like steel-tight saran wrap wrapped around the head!  Yeah; saran wrap, before your time.  So she was sharp, but not the right kind of sharp, had some kind of acknowledgement-filter raping her common sensibility substrates.  I mean, so obvious in hindsight, no?

Whatever; what happens is once you finally give into the truth of your own paranoia things almost feel better, get lucid.  Sure, I mean you see the world’s Fuckeupness but you don’t really care anymore ‘cause you know it’s supposed to be Fuckedup and it couldn’t be any other way.  Doesn’t mean you should be passive; everything’s got its function, so you gotta learn to make your junk work and work it!

Jana, she’d just tune out and tune into the NetroGrid and fondle-- whatever she did.  I never really understood the NetroGrid personally. The default internet on the other hand, by damn that was useful!  It was our last bastion of relevant gnosis.  Yeah, there was bullshit, but trial and error, you know.  You learned to navigate the Order in the Chaos.  It’s called applied nonlinear dynamics, kiddies. Kinda dynamo-gonzo though, might as well not exist, that is, if it ever did or does, it doesn’t much matter anymore.

(Cough) NeoHumes like Jana were sorta dime a dozen, like foam that naturally rises to the top.  The System always had a way of selecting the most phenotypically symmetrical conduits.  Once genes were ineffectively perfected the rest of us weirdos kinda just floated around.  We were worthless eaters, easy pickings with impotent functions.  Peeps get angry that way, start lashing out, get frenzied and send out all the buzz saw energy waves, feeds the fucking MothFreeks.  Remember the HyperFrequency MothFreeks?  Eh, probably not, you were all so young and amnesia’d, I bet.  No clue why they were deemed MothFreeks.  I mean, they don’t look like any fucking moths I’ve ever seen; I’ll tell you that much!  Yeah, they hardly come out now.  Sometimes I see one gliding against the night, sometimes they’ll talk to me through the ground.  Most of them are up in their 4th dimensional ivory towers, laughing, tinkering and doing their soul matrix manipulations.

Fuck kids; you should’ve seen the harvest!  It was huge!  It was epic!  People, tons of people just disappeared and never reappeared!  Pah, and the sickest joke of all; the MothFreeks raptured-up all the good stuff, left us to ponder our paper and words.  Back to the Goddamn land; making us start over with archaic books; lots of worthless fucking books!  Now listen here.  You kids, you gotta do whatever you gotta do and do it.  And re-remember how to be paranoid; it’ll save your skins one day.”


We have left the PastMaster all to his lonesome.  He has earned his dues; he has earned his right to black out on pickled battery acid (Pete’s expression).  Neither of us knows how much of what’s sloshing around his scrambled brain actually happened the way it did.  In any case, it happened and it happened hard and it happened fast.  There’s not much evidence left save written texts from the Past, and Pete and a few other previous epoch veterans, these mystical creatures who somehow managed to escape getting memory wiped. And now the 2nd generation descendents are left picking up the slack, trying to figure out what comes after.

The Occurrence took everything: the human-made mountains of rock and glass, the picture boxes, the insecto-cams, the wheeler contraptions, the machina-flyers, all the pleasurable apparatuses; any inanimate organism that had what PissPant Pete calls circuits and wires, these veins that ran on the blood of lightning. 

Strange.  Everything left in a genteel flash. No fire; no rubble, just a simple and clean extraction.  As for me, my recollections of the Olden Tymes are filled with black holes and the sporadic fuzzy blur, something about whirling suns and chilly metal tables.  Rick wasn’t even born yet, and Alex; well she was one of the few younglings that retained some semi-semblance of the Olden Tymes.  Alex doesn’t divulge her Past, thinks it was an insubstantial reality.

Her exact words:  “No longer contingent”. 

Alex’s monotone reminds me of the mythical robots PissPant Pete likes to talk about.  Her family tells me she’s perpetually depressed.  Me, I’m not so sure.  If she ever was or is depressed, she’s never given any heart-to-heart indication. 

I specifically recall an occasion when the two of us sat under what layman taxonomy calls a weeping willow.  With her usual lack of enthusiasm Alex told me:

“We should be thankful.”

“Why is that,” I asked.

Alex shut her eyes; sometimes she likes to be blind when she talks:  “The WiseWoman Shen; she says we have fallen on ShangriLa.  All the stains went away, all the PsychoProwlers. Now we can do as we are supposed to do.”

“And what is it we are supposed to do exactly?”

She shrugged her shoulders; she’s good at that:  “The Countyship.”

What Alex meant by ‘Countyship’ was farming and eating and building, replacing all the Olden Tyme palaces with our cabins and tents.  What she meant was duty, the continuation of what our families were doing: reading only texts about nature and gathering and harvesting, sheering wool, collaboration, multi-tiered communal living, the occasional harvest festival; something PissPant Pete calls IgnoranceIsBliss ThanksGivingishness.

The three of us linger at creek-side, gaze into the horizon of the never ending garden.  Rick likes this spot.  He wants what lies beyond the wooden marker.  The crimson painted blight was erected some five years ago, color coded notation that basically screams: “DO NOT PROCEDE PAST THIS POINT OR YOU ARE DOOMED AND DAMNED TO THE OPAQUE BOWELS OF THE PRIMORDIAL SOUP’S DEMIURGIC NONBEING” (again, some arcane PissPant phrase). 

Now and again, Rick mentions venturing into what the Countyship calls the Fringe.  It’s not like nobody knows about the Fringe.  Sometimes county folk amble out there to barter with its eclectic inhabitants; the SuperBookers, my deceased dad used to call them.  Mostly, they are 2nd generation memory wipes; they read a lot, fancy themselves entrepreneurs.  A few are attempting to piece together the not-so-distant Olden Tymes.  Others are trying to hunt down the invisible Freeks who stole away our mechanized extensions.  As of yet, they have not been successful. 

Rick has chosen to speak, and he rarely speaks.  Something about the crimson marker always ignites his barely broken-in vocal cords: “A barter lass told me she’s met a large band of Fringe people, claims they have been driven mad by the incantations inscribed into the TechnoTexts, things about biology and engineering.”  He looks to me, seeks confirmation.

I shake my head.  “I don’t know; I have doubts.  It can’t all be evil, can it?”

My question is directed toward Alex.  She is her usual stoic self.  Apparently, she doesn’t much care one way or the other.

“I gotta go,” blurts Rick suddenly.

For whatever reason, I am thoroughly surprised.  “What; why; Today; right now?”

“I’ve had enough.” 

There is a nary restrained frustration in him I have never witnessed before.  “I didn’t know you were hurting.  How long have you been suffering like this?”

“I’ve met one,” he says.

“You’ve met a Fringer.”

Silence.  Alex clarifies.  “He means he has met one of the creatures.”

I am no longer comfortable. “You already knew about this?”

She half-smiles, Alex’s version of a laugh.  “I have known for some time.  I first intuited the shift two weeks ago.  He is changed, but not in the way I was.”

“What do you mean,” I ask.  “What change?”

She is serene: a river without taint.  “I have told you before; I do not talk of those days.  I leave that to the PastMaster.”

I turn to Rick.  “Tell me what happened.”

His eyes are locked on the crimson marker.  “This great winged mass shaped me, showed me things.  Visions of back then and what might be ahead, what I might do.”

“Wait a second; you’re sounding like Pete.  You’re not friends with this Freek are you?”  Paranoia shrouds my being.  Yes, somewhere.  Somewhere the creature must be lurking.

“No.   It’s oriented elsewhere, toward the Grand Blankness.  Me, I just know I don’t belong here.  Like Pete said, we all have a function.  The Countyship is Alex’s and the Fringe is mine.”  Rick looks at me questioningly.  “What about you; what is your function?”

I start to sweat.  I think about PissPant Pete and how he sweats.  I think about The Cleansing.  “What, no.  I’m just….  Look, I’m a listener Rick not a doer.  It’s great pondering all that stuff; it’s fun entertainment but really…. Maybe my place is somewhere not here and somewhere not out there.  It’s, I don’t know, not anywhere.”

Rick puts his back to me and starts walking toward the marker.  “You’ll find your space; you’ll create it.  Oh, and by the way, Pete was wrong.  Fuckedupness, it’s completely permeable.”

And he leaves.  No water, no supplies, nothing; just Rick and his clothes and his boots.  He’s gone.  It’s as simple as that.

I look now to the marker and for the first time wonder if guards should be placed there.  I also think about burning it to the ground.  Then I see Alex. 

“What should I do?”

She touches my shoulder.  The touch is unexpectedly tender.

“We dine.  Food is something we all must do.”
Note: Two dichotomized utopias. Rebuilding what has already been rebuilt countless times over. Extremes lacking approximations to balance.  Without love one will find little of anything.

Last edited by CrowClaw13 (Mon 28th Feb 2011 07:57 pm)

"I don't think outside the box...I just find a bigger one"     - some retired sorcerer

Be outwardly courteous to all without distinction, whether they be rich or poor, friends or enemies, power-possessors or slaves, and to whatever religion they may belong, but inwardly remain free and never put much trust in anyone or anything     -a lost bard's commandment



#2 Sun 27th Feb 2011 09:27 am

From: Nova Scotia
Registered: Fri 25th Jan 2008

Re: Useless Eaters

That's great!

Is this a book you are writing? If so carry on, it's very entertaining.

Pisspants Pete rolls off the tongue a little better though.

___________________________________________________________________ God put me here to accomplish certain things.
I am so far behind I will never die.



#3 Sun 27th Feb 2011 05:37 pm

Registered: Sun 27th Jan 2008

Re: Useless Eaters

Hi CrowClaw13...Wishing You Well!

I wanna meet You and PissPant Pete and Friends in real-live-color-in-person!!! smile

"Let Your Spirit Soar!"



#4 Sun 27th Feb 2011 08:18 pm

Eternally Evolving
From: here, now.
Registered: Mon 2nd Nov 2009

Re: Useless Eaters

This is some beautiful work.  Totally engrossed into this strange world that has its own rules, reminds me of a Miyazaki film or Philip K. Dick book.  Keep us updated!



#5 Mon 28th Feb 2011 07:52 pm

Infantile Greenhorn
From: Bilbo's Hollow CA
Registered: Mon 17th Aug 2009

Re: Useless Eaters

Hello All

Alas, it will not be a book, sadly.  Was a short story I wrote a couple years ago for a women's studies course in science fiction.  Rediscovered it a week ago and went wow, that has more meaning to me now then it did when it was originally written.  Narrator is left in a perplexed position; a choice of two worlds.  Maybe it's up to him to create his own perspective and find the middleground.

Thank you all for reading this piece. 

Funnily enough a year and half after I wrote that I met a fellow, an instructor of a poetry class who reminded me of good 'ol Pisspant Pete.  Sarcastic, wily and a bit off kilter.

Next up:

PissPant(s) foray into HDTV in 3D + Technicolor 2.0

Then: Pete's Dystopic Surivival Guide

Followed by: PissPant Goes Clean and experiences Metaphysical DTs.

"I don't think outside the box...I just find a bigger one"     - some retired sorcerer

Be outwardly courteous to all without distinction, whether they be rich or poor, friends or enemies, power-possessors or slaves, and to whatever religion they may belong, but inwardly remain free and never put much trust in anyone or anything     -a lost bard's commandment



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