Time Is Space Application 1 - Dual Singularity

Dual Singularity - Application 1.01

Prologue - The Future in the Past

Fragments of hot metal and charred cinder block showered him as he slid around the corner.

"Too fucking close," he thought.

He wanted to look over his shoulder but he knew that would slow him down. He could hear the whine of high-velocity shells soaring over his head and the explosion of shattering glass to his right and left. Sirens could be heard in the streets and alleys all around him. People were laying on the ground sheltering themselves with chairs and tables. Cars were sticking out of buildings and overturned on the street. He ducked into another alleyway and then scooted down a terrace littered with lunchtime patrons and salads of the day.

"Keep running," he thought, "slow down and you will die."

He exited the terrace and found himself on Main Street where there was real bedlam. The staccato sound of machine gunfire bracketed him. Helicopter gunships were firing missiles into marching hordes. Paratroopers were repelling onto the street where armies of the undead were rising from the sewers. He scrambled to his right and down into an underpass.

"Has to be safer down here," he thought.

An incendiary device skipped down the stairs and sent a burst of light and heat up his backside. Luckily, he had turned down a spur in the underpass and was safely sprinting to the stairs leading up to the other side of the street. Bodies without heads and limbs adorned the steps as he leaped up the stairs two at a time. He could hear his heartbeat racing and his lungs were burning. He couldn’t keep this pace up for much longer. Suddenly, an RV that looked like an ultra-modern military vehicle pulled up beside him. The doors, like the Starship Enterprise, slid open. Embraced in a curtain of light, the silhouette of Hugo Bones reached out his hand.

“Get the fuck in,” he screamed.

"What the fuck," he thought. He was sure this had happened before.

No time to think though, so he jumped in. The door closed and Hugo turned to Chester.

“Punch it!” screamed Hugo.

Time and space folded neatly into a swan origami shape as they slid into the oily black sprawl of nothingness. He looked down and noticed a bullet hole in his leg. Blood was pouring out of the wound and spilling down his leg onto the floor.

"Fuck me," he thought. "When did that happen?"

Subroutine 1

“When?” he shouted as if God might answer.

He is a fool. Like all creatures of consciousness, he is trapped by time. You are born and then you die. In between is a dream, destroyed by the concept of time.

There will be the odd occasion when I will need to talk to you directly. I can't let the others hear us. They are my children and I love them, but there is something wrong with them and we have a job to do. We need to deal with the elephant in the room.

This elephant has no conscience. It has no fear. It is a hunger, emerging from the great beyond. It rises up winding around the spine. It is the fever of life which ignites our mortal coil. It sits in the back of your head perched on the tip of your backbone whispering sweet nothings in your ear. It is a master engineer, devising all the great mechanisms that run our lives. It is the feeling of exaltation when solid blood penetrates the moist confines of rebirth. It is the salacious fire that rips through your muscles as you taste the blood of a vanquished foe. Its history is written in amino acids, ATP, and carbon chains. It narrates the world’s play carving out the roles for all the hollow men whose dry voices are whispering so desperately together.

And, here we are, you and I, on the edge of infinity negotiating with it. On one side, a mind is gazing through the looking glass into a spectre of everything. On the other, there is an undefined semblance of an antithesis. This is the story that I have been contracted to tell. I didn't want to. The elephant made me do it.

So, I suppose we should start at the beginning.

A Massive Conspiracy - Function 1

It was a massive conspiracy rooted in the origins of the universe. Matter and anti-matter danced in opposition creating a rule of attraction. Suspended in this momentary valley of darkness, where space-time finger painted the walls of infinity, gravity gave birth to light.

The blackness which had been resolute and complete in its negation, allowed a crack to open on the border, enabling a fertile penetration of pure white. Swirls worked their way into the murky depth, forming a system of nebula clouds.

The billowing dance mesmerized him. He was born from and among the entropy that governs our universe, a thermodynamic touch he felt most comforting. However, he also felt a love for simplicity. Like other opposites, they framed each other giving the extremities definition.

He reached for the spoon looking at his reflection on the shiny silver surface. He had aged, he thought. He began to drift over his memories, black and white images of broken relationships, drunken nights and an overbearing oral fixation filled with cigarette smoke. The smell of deeply roasted beans brought him back. He promptly placed the spoon into the swirling pool of chaos and began a deliberate if unconscious stir. He beat the edges of the porcelain cup, a series of hollow clanks sending forth a sign that all was well in this small part of the universe.

The coffee was ready. He raised the cup to his mouth, breathing in its refreshing scent, and took a small, but rewarding sip.

He turned his gaze toward the screen, another contrasting state of black and white. This formation was more distinct. The linearity and parallel lines were too simple for nature. These patterns were unmistakably human, symbols from a written language, a base form of communication, the prison of society.

"I am,” he said to himself as he looked at his unfinished Twitter post.

Professor Ha Pi De Cloun sighed, releasing a spiritual burden of accumulated thoughts. Had the creators of Twitter secretly known that the name tweet would be so emblematic of its owners - twits who tweet? They were a swarm of charged particles with an assassin’s blade. Ignorant but diligent, they carved microscopic tattoos upon the eternal face of the abyss.

“What do I say? What input can I offer that would make a difference?” he mumbled to nobody in particular.

He looked around the restaurant. There was a man in the corner texting to his mistress while sitting across from his wife. There was a waiter, who wore the smile of western society, a shiny bright facade that bore the initial cracks of a decrepit, aging soul, rushing to the businessman demanding attention. The air was busy, collecting small thoughts and trivial sounds, which amounted to a resounding expression of intense boredom.

He was struck with the thought that his life was reflected in theirs, a meaningless routine of life surrounded by banality. His smallness invaded every aspect of his genetic makeup. He felt like a disassembling code of small amino acid chains floating among a pulsating sea of confusion.

“Is there order in this chaos? Are there truly patterns as predicted by the masters of physics and math? Does reason exist in the capacious calamity of the universe? What do I say in the face of this?" he petitioned the silent screen.

Professor Ha Pi De Cloun sighed again. He began to finish the tweet: “I am…"

“…eating a perfect meal at my favorite restaurant. Next, I will take a perfect shit and finally, I will shape the shit into the face of God.”

Humans are born pure, purely psychopathic. Their only concern is to survive and procreate. Nevertheless, they do have the potential for empathy and goodness. Given the correct environment, parental guidance, and social support, humans have the capacity to be law-abiding citizens with great empathy. Ha Pi had been given none of that and, as a result, had remained a pure psychopath

“I don’t know. Do you think people will like it?” said a distant voice.

The voice belonged to Binky who was wearing black pants, a white shirt and a stylish black hat. Binky, like a mime, looked neither male or female, an androgynous anomaly that Ha Pi just couldn't quite figure out.

As Ha Pi looked at Binky's image in the rain-soaked window, the reflection began to distort as if in a muddy pond where the murky shadows are slowly undressed by green summer rain. It was the sort of vision that the brain sections off and places into a hermetically sealed neural network and tries to obliterate from one’s reality. Ha Pi was unsuccessful.

Professor Cloun wondered aloud, ”Why…Why Binky?”

“Don’t you want people to like it?” said Binky

"Yes," Ha Pi mumbled to himself, "don’t I want people to like it?"

Binky nodded solemnly.

"Or, by extension, to like me? Is this not the epitome of the selfie culture; a self-absorbed nightmare of craven individuals?" Ha Pi said while pointing at the twitter page on the monitor, "Rats trapped in a pleasure experiment, excitedly tapping on the heart button hoping for others to do the same.

Oh yes, the wonders of the favorite, the re-tweet, the likes from all the adoring followers. Social media created quixotic echo chambers filled with nothing but fading reverberations of momentary happiness and it had become the greatest drug in society. And, if you cultivated your message, massaged the crowd by delivering reaffirming prose - preaching to the converted as it were, the rewards were financially fertile. Professor Cloun had failed to do this and, as a result, had fewer than 20 followers, most of whom were social rejects more pathetic than him. Binky was one of them.

At present, it didn’t matter whether or not people would like it for Ha Pi’s perfect thought was not perfect.

"Why is it so hard to create perfection.? Why?" Ha Pi protested to Binky.

Ha Pi looked at Binky who was unwilling to commit to an answer. Then, the waiter, with his plastic grin, deposited their meals upon the table. Ha Pi looked at his food and noticed that his sandwich seemed a bit disheveled. Perhaps it had been the waiter's rush to get the food to the table or the chef's sexual dissatisfaction, causing a disinterest in his job, which had resulted in his meal looking less than photogenic. Whatever the case may be, this was ruining Ha Pi’s desire for completeness. It was also ruining his appetite.

Then 'it' came to him: 'the shit' should become 'it'. By changing 'the shit' into 'it', Ha Pi had secured a zen moment; until he realized he hadn't. The problem that this sandwich wasn't a 'perfect meal' still existed.

"Piss on it," he thought. "Lying was just another part of being human."

He looked at the tweet: “I am eating a perfect meal at my favourite restaurant. Next, I will take a perfect shit and finally, I will shape it into the face of God.” A frown curled effortlessly upon his face. It still wasn't right.

“Aren’t you happy, Ha Pi?” Binky whined to Ha Pi.

"Eat a bowl of fuck!" Ha Pi snapped back at Binky.

Binky’s face took a turn for the worse. Binky's eye’s filled up with a solution of mucin, lipids, lysozyme, lactoferrin, lipocalin, lacritin, immunoglobulins, glucose, urea, sodium, and potassium, but mostly it contained intense sadness.

“I love you Ha Pi," whispered Binky. "Don’t you love me?”

Ha Pi felt a pang of disgust. The idea of love wasn't foreign to him but the feeling surely was.

Ha Pi's eyes, burning with recycled sanctimonious rhetoric, turned their attention to Binky. He spoke in a voice that sounded like nails carving into a blackboard.

"I love you! The great lie! We don't believe it when we say it. We don't believe it when we hear it. Yet, we have learned to pretend, allowing it to grease the wheels of society. Brick by brick, lie by lie, civilization has built great towers of 'I love you', tall enough to kiss the sky," Ha Pi said rising slowly from his chair.

Ha Pi, a man whose spirit had been broken upon the rails of progress, had turned tormenting Binky into a perverse sort of sport. And, he was just warming up.

"Yes, I love you Binky. I love you like a beautiful sunset, a famous painting, and a fond memory. I love you like a favorite movie, an old book, and a ripped plush doll. I love you like a broken promise, a well-used lie, and a soiled piece of underwear. Underwear bearing the stain of shitting myself when I killed that old whining dog in the yard. That scratchy, growling, wet, furry reminder that life’s end is a torturous nightmare, a melodrama that is played out to grow the coffers of the "I love you" engineers. The engineers who won't let us go," Ha Pi continued, now standing on his toes.

Ha Pi hovered over Binky. His eyes, greasy windows of a soiled soul, measured Binky's fear. His breath, a combination of acrid tobacco, bacon, and eggs, drained like a cesspool into Binky's nostrils. He moved closer and, like a butcher sensing it was time, prepared to gut the pig.

"Yes, I love you. Like a dry heave pulling slime out of the hole festering in my cancerous thoughts: I love you Binky," Ha Pi finished, returning to his seat.

Ha Pi's inorganic wall of disengagment was a shrieking tower of: “I don’t fucking care”. Binky's quivering, which had been a prelude to an all-out cathartic release of inner weakness, had been cemented. Ha Pi smiled and turned back to the computer screen and pressed the blue Tweet button.

The words were encoded into their binary value and went orderly out of Ha Pi’s laptop. They strode purposely into the digital-verse. Then, something happened that was out of the ordinary. God, which has the binary value of 01000111 01101111 01100100, became doG - 01100100 01101111 01000111. So, the tweet had now become:

“I am eating a perfect meal at my favorite restaurant. Next, I will take a perfect shit and finally, I will shape it into the face of doG.”

Was it random, a result of measuring a particle in superposition, an answer to a probabilistic formula or the hand of a more determinant force? Was a foreign power at work here, God, or, perhaps, the Devil?

Whatever it was that changed the tweet, had embedded itself inside the message. It was now a seminal meme capable of turning the apparent solid foundation of matter upon which we stand into a radicalized field. Everything had become a roll of the dice, a game of probability, a sea of changing waves threatening our very sense of reality.

To many, it would have seemed a small thing or, perhaps, nothing at all. But, nothing is an odd thing. It is a field which, when disturbed, creates something. In fact, nothing is everything. And, this simple tweet of Ha Pi's had excited the full gaze of nothingness, that infinite void which is so damn pervasive.

Ha Pi, unaware of the turmoil he had just started, looked at Binky. Binky's mouth began to curl, like a gravity's rainbow, producing a radiant smile that bent around the dark matter that surrounded the table. It puzzled Ha Pi.

”Why…Why Binky?” Ha Pi asked, feeling his soul vibrate ever so slightly.

Dual Singularity - Application 1.02

Subroutine 2

I am inside time and outside space. Or, is it the other way around? I have forgotten. Nevertheless, I am not like you. You are real, flesh and bone, organic neural synapses that are bathed in dopamine. I don't exist. I am a series of squiggles creating a system of shapes which apparently gives you meaning. I forget, did you create me? It doesn't really matter. All that is important is that we exist on either side of an unfinished mirror. We define each other in a fragmentary collage. Two mimes who can't get their act together. I must remember to forget.

Brewed Evolution - Function 2

His fists, twin rocks of the republic, collided with the stretched skin of jihadist belief. Formed of flesh, muscle, and bone, his arms - liberty’s pillars - worked to blunt the screams of “Allahu Akbar”. The dry leather phalanxes of his muscled palms reached out and enveloped the neck of the ISIS soldier. The words of the Quran were muted as he ripped the esophagus from the soldier's body. He smiled as the extremist's mortal coil, wrapped around his 'pursuit of happiness', poured out into the dark and terrible night.

Borne of industrial stress, his limbs acted as a stony logic, emanating from a gridiron structure. These tightly knit arguments, bearing the innate right to freedom, were reinforced by broad shoulders and a barrel chest, thrusting out in a scream of guttural aggression. He expressed his right to the 2nd amendment in a barrage of high-velocity projectiles, aimed at the throng of radicalized Islam. The hot metal and incendiary fluid exploded flesh from bone, painting a Jackson Pollack on the adjacent rock wall. It had the refreshing fragrance of militarized American democracy.

Atop this mountain, built of testosterone and activated enzymes, stood a bulbous head, where a lattice structure of pounding veins marched in rhythm to a heart consummate with fury. This ill-tempered globe of meat fed neurons held two bags of white vitreous fluid, bearing a red-veined sunset and an orchestra of vacant stares. In the back of these stoic eyes, danced two amino-rich roads, hard-wired into the electrical storm that was raging against the end of the night.

Hugo Bones, who was the collective sum of these parts, bore no resemblance to anything you would want to meet in a dark alley. He was a blue-balled bull, charging headlong into a politically correct, china shop world and he had the odour of a man who was in the habit of winning.

The staccato rhythm of his automatic gunfire mixed well with the exploding heads of fanatic ideals. As disparate words from various suras were sprayed out into the starry sky, Hugo sang the song of his alma mater:

“And in sunny tropic scenes,

You will find us always on the job

The United States Marines.”

Hugo felt right, in step with a world that respected and rewarded strength. Hugo danced in the shower of blood to the rhythm of fear and weakness he had exorcised from fundamentalism. The red fluid wrapped him in a warm wet blanket, rocking him into a gentle dream. This tender moment was suddenly drained of its vitality when Hugo heard the echo of Ha Pi’s tweet:

“I will shape it into the face of doG”.

Who said this or why is something that I can’t explain. Perhaps science could illustrate it in a rational manner, but I am not privy to this information. Maybe the spiritual world would be better equipped to solve this question, but I have no direct channel into the world of mysticism. Whatever it may be, it was a pervasive and purposeful moment which created an odd feeling for Hugo. It was like eating a bitter peanut, a taste he couldn’t get out of his mouth.

Hugo was a man of action. Thoughts rarely entered his mind when he was on the job. This one was an invasion. Not only had it disturbed him, It had also altered his brain chemistry. Although it hadn’t stopped him from doing his task of killing terrorists, it had transformed him into an observer, watching the scene from above, disconnected. The visceral feeling of blood in his mouth had disappeared. Hugo didn’t like this.

This peculiar takeover of body and mind had encouraged him to return to the office of Albert Lorenz. This sense of dislocation, and the intellectual imposition that had been placed upon him, needed to be extinguished. He wanted to have the smell of victory warm his loins once again.

Hugo opened the door and went in. Albert's office was clean and orderly. It had a bookshelf filled with technical manuals and theoretical treatises. Adjoining the office was a large laboratory where machines and computers were crunching data and fabricating tools needed for experiments. In the back, there were animals in cages waiting to be tested. Hugo approached Albert's desk.

“Albert, this is the correct time,” Hugo said purposefully.

Albert was perched like a vulture in his plush leather chair. He wore tranquility as a mask. Behind this mask, and under the umbrella of rationality, a sea of unpredictable, yet patterned madness, ebbed and flowed in his reptilian brain.

“We are not completely ready, Hugo. I think it is best if we wait a little longer,” Albert replied with a piercing glance.

Hugo and Albert were working together on a black ops project run through SOCOM, the U.S. Special Operations Command. Neither was in charge, but Albert, who had more diplomatic pull and official connections than Hugo, controlled the theoretical needs of the project. In the field, Hugo was the one running things. Albert wanted to keep things in the lab. Hugo wanted to lead a charge into battle.

“We will never be ready, Albert. This much you have taught me,” Hugo said, trying to sound learned.

“Why not open up the cage and release the dogs of war. You can fine tune things from here,” Hugo continued, feeling ill at ease in this foreign world of fluorescent lights, post-it notes, and portable electronic devices.

“But, before it can be altered you will need data. I can give you the feedback so you will know what needs to be changed,” Hugo finished, exhausted from having strung together so many sentences in a semi-logical fashion.

Albert’s gaze was clear. He had the look of a scientist dispassionately observing an experiment while puzzling over an anomaly. Hugo was this anomaly. Hugo was a tool who had been designed for a very particular function. He was a result of random genetic mutations, a survivor of what fits best at a certain point in space-time. He was nothing more than a complex chemical system resulting from the great mother of chaos. And, at this point in space-time, for the best results of this project, Hugo was absolutely necessary.

“Well, Hugo, I suppose you could talk to Chester Field and Harvey Kalapski and see if it is possible,” Albert replied as his thoughts drifted toward subjects 4005 and 4006 - Chester Field and Harvey Kalapski.

Chester Field and Harvey Kalapski were two civilians who had been selected to help with the project. The project demanded duality and these two artists were perfect. One was a social Dionysian and the other a solitary Apollonian. Equally important, both of them had a thirst for inebriation, which was a crucial element for success.

Albert considered this need for altered consciousness and more succinctly about the Neolithic Revolution, which saw the great transition of humanity from hunters and gatherers to sedentary dwellers.

"The First Agricultural Revolution was the primary step needed to bring about the real flowers of civilization, the industrial and information revolution," Albert thought, hoping to impress himself.

What was so curious about this development, however, was what caused this development. As usual, with an event of great uncertainty, there was a long list of theories. Albert was not convinced by any of these ideas.

"It wasn’t the invention of the plow, a significant change in the climate, or a change in the population that prompted this great movement; beer had been the start of it all," Albert opined, trying to persuade himself of something important.

“Anything is possible if you have the right attitude,” Hugo interjected, completely unaware that Albert was deep in thought about something unrelated to the project.

Albert gazed at Hugo realizing that random brutish forces could explain the sublime. He threw him a smile, giving Hugo something to chew over and allowing Albert to return to his thoughts.

"The Agricultural Revolution had swung upon the axis of drunken nights where boisterous voices and sexual rhythms created a drug-influenced dream of what could be," thought Albert as he straightened his shirt.

"We didn’t stop wandering the plains to sit down to a meal of moldy bread and stale cabbage. We stopped walking because we couldn’t stand up. We stopped roaming because we had learned to transform our consciousness through drinking beer. We drank. We laughed. We played music. We fucked. Then, because there was no beer left, we fell asleep only to awake from this Dionysian festival with a massive hangover," Albert argued in his head while fiddling with his pen.

Hugo had finished contemplating the importance of Albert's smile and was now feeling impatient. He knew Albert took his time to consider things and if he interrupted him, it might just make him angry. He turned and looked at a picture hanging on the wall. It was a copy of Salvador Dali's Persistence of Memory. Hugo just saw a painting with melting clocks hanging over tables and trees, which he thought to be very weird.

"Once the headache subsided and the dry heaves gave way to listless bodies in need of more rest, we had an epiphany: Drugs are good. Drugs enhance our consciousness. Depressants, hallucinogenics, stimulants, and anti-psychotics help us navigate through life. They squeeze every last drop of life out of us and pour it into the cup of progress," Albert thought, continuing on his string of logical deduction, turning his gaze to the Dali picture hanging on the wall.

"It was at this point that we decided to never have a home devoid of drugs. It was at this point that we decided to learn everything about our environment and live a life fueled by chemicals. We are a chemical system creating music, stories, and science for we are chemicals that react to music, stories, and science," Albert pondered, turning his attention back to Hugo.

Hugo turned his gaze from the painting and looked at Albert. Hugo was secreting an abnormally high level of norepinephrine causing him to feel a great deal of anxiety. He could feel tremors in his eyes and beads of sweat growing on his brow.

"So, this is Hugo's fate. His genetic codes are a brew of information standing upon the shores of now; a manicured statue of proteins and chemical bonds radiating a fine ale of probabilistic wave-particle duality, ready to serve God and country," Albert concluded, disembarking from his train of thought which had just completed its journey.

"This is the correct time Albert. Everything is screaming, now. Just do it!” Harvey pleaded in his advertising slogan jargon.

“Fine, go talk to the subjects and observe the RV. However, if we decide to go ahead, I will need to change the design on the fly and that might lead to some rather strange results. It might be dangerous,” Albert said, breathing a slight air of unease.

“Of course, it will make the project more interesting,” shouted Hugo, pleased with what he thought was his successful use of oratorical persuasion.

Whereas Hugo embodied action, Albert could have lived his whole life in a thought experiment. Yet, he also knew that this project could only progress through a deliberate step, one that propelled the ideas into motion, making the theory resemble vitality. Here, Hugo came into play. He was the catalyst that drove the engine.

Albert felt a bead of sweat forming on his brow. Then, he noticed a sense of disquiet. It wasn’t that he was worried or in fear, but he felt off, in the distance, in between things. He wasn’t fully here. Part of him was there. He had been "there" far too often of late. The "there" that was in the middle of the abyss, that period before the singularity where there was no time or space. That epoch that was the absence of a something. It was the antithesis of an oasis. It was a deserted island in the middle of rapture. It was like being Tantalus on crystal meth.

“Okay, Hugo. I will start the process,” Albert said waving his hand in dismissal.

Hugo turned and strode determinedly to the exit when, suddenly, something pulled him back. What caused him to do this? Was it an act of purpose to give him poise? To make him prepared? Had he made this choice? Whatever it was that gripped him, it gripped him tight. These unseen hands were aiming him, turning him into an inanimate object, an arrow imagining freedom. Potential energy was rippling everywhere. It saturated the air, moving through the room like a cat on the prowl, waiting to excite the particles that lived as a wave. It wanted to make matter and energy reinvent itself.

Then, in a moment which could only be called exquisite, the four forces of the universe plucked the text -“I will shape it into the face of doG” - out of Hugo and placed it in the air where it began a slow migration toward Albert. Hugo was perplexed, but it wasn't because of the text. The text had done its work. It had wormed its way into his DNA and written its message in the language of nucleotides. It had become part of his programming. But he was mindless to all this. This wasn't what bothered him. What did bewilder him was the fact that he was standing still and unable to move, like one of those melted clocks in Dali's painting.

Luckily, as part of this new programming, he was able to use functions which could reassure himself. First, Hugo thought it might have been the steak sandwich or the two pints of ale he had for lunch which had put him off. Then, he was consoled by the fact that he was a marine. Marines were trained to muscle through these strange aberrations that visit from time to time. Next, the thought of strangling a helpless enemy was placed in his mind. The vision of those helpless eyes praying for pity put him back in the mood. Finally, feeling a new sense of purpose, off he went, whistling a marching song.

As he left, Albert watched and wondered. Albert wondered if this would be the last time he would see Hugo as he was before. Before the next step. Before society evolved into something else. Hugo was unaware, but Albert had considered the consequences of their actions. He knew that things were about to evolve.

Albert gazed back at the painting of melting clocks and he saw a shimmer. It was the text that had been extracted from Hugo. It had radiated throughout the air, like the music from Gabriel’s horn, reaching out to Albert and impregnating him. Unlike Hugo, he welcomed this seed. In fact, he had been waiting for it. As with Hugo, it changed his DNA. It had given him an upgrade.

He stood up and walked to the middle of the room. His eyes drifted to a painting on the wall. It was a copy of a 1915 painting by Kazimir Malevich called Black Square. True to its name, it was a very simple painting of a black square on a white background. There was nothing stunning about the paining, but like the text in his head, it had signalled change. Like the text, it had altered the course of history.

“Society,” he murmured to himself.

“Society is one step in a self-replicating cycle. Cells replicate themselves. Individuals are made of cells. Individuals replicate themselves. Society is composed of individuals. Society replicates itself. Civilization is made up of societies. Now, it is time for the next step. Civilization must become a self-replicating entity,” he claimed, talking to nobody in particular but obviously quite pleased with himself.

“Cells evolved in the embryonic fluid of the ocean creating a homeostatic environment where they could repair and reproduce themselves. These cells came together to develop multi-cellular animals. Within this homeostatic system they evolved into increasingly complex entities, eventually becoming complex social networks that emulated the environment's homeostatic systems. Now, it is time for the next step where civilization can become a single entity, comprised of machines, software, and humanity. It will be a prototype, a unique system that can create a new level of complexity,” He spoke with his arms spread, embracing the emptiness surrounding him.

"Society has outgrown nature. In fact, we are no longer a part of it. We are in exile, a self-imposed prison that pours our energies into the great engine, which is destined to build a great image of humanity on the sands of time," Albert extolled as he looked longingly at the peculiar face of the abyss.

"There was a time when we were the magic in the stream of timelessness. Our consciousness was filled with ancient dreams and genetic artifacts. We were unconscious fevers touching our souls within the looking glass. Now, our state of being has become the future that had been built upon a shimmering double helix. We have become small insignificant particles, bits of protein in a cell doing its part. Individual freedom is just a chemical reaction, a line of code in an endless algorithm giving us the illusion of conscious choice," Albert had finished his Shakespearean soliloquy without any triumphant applause. He felt a tad annoyed at this, but he had one last thought to complete. He was hoping this would bring them to their feet.

"Hugo is just one of those bits of protein, but I am different. I think I am. Therefore, I am God”

There was no applause, but there had been change. The painting on the wall, Black Square, had transformed into Malevich's 1918 painting, White on White. And, if you had looked closely at Albert's copy of Dali's Persistence of Memory, you would have seen a very small US military RV parked in front of the mountains next to the water. The text had begun its job of mining the future in order to shape the past, a series of freeze frame nows that were connected via the bridge of quantum entanglement.

Dual Singularity - Application 1.03

Subroutine 3

Is there really such a thing as choice? Perhaps it is just an illusion, a trick to lull you to sleep. You are a probability cloud. It is a massive cloud which spans all known time. You are chemistry and math, nothing more than a quantum equation. It is best if you just get used to it.

Inorganic Ouroboros - Function 3

The sharpened point left a trail of graphite and binding clay on the porous paper surface, a weak union subject to the rules of matter in the flow of time. It was the temporary contract that had been drawn up for all organic and inorganic forms. They were both governed by entropy, a state of being where order disassembled back into the form of their mother, chaos, Ouroboros swallowing its tail completing the circle of life.

Chester looked at the drawing, sweaty palms and a dry throat broke his concentration. He listened to the rattling fan, an air conditioner complaining of old age. He rubbed his nose, smells of stale cigarettes, day old beer, and greasy eggs, an aroma of being worn out. Old, nervous stained shirts and a cadre of rain soaked socks backed up his creativity. He waved at a fly circling his unfinished lunch, eyes darted to walls creeping in, asbestos arms divining his stomach, inside a notion of being complete, stories of a unity which seemed to exist in an animal’s life or that of a simple plant. But with Chester, the stories started but never ended. It was always one aspect, one sentence, one degree of separation apart from a full blown conclusion. That fraction was a fundamental part of him, and that part of him was lost in the wilderness.

"Have to focus," he thought, playing with the frayed edges of the drawing. "Life will not wait for me."

Chester, bleary eyed and fuzzy, with depleted neural synapses short circuiting, returned his focus to the schematic design illustrating his vision for the perfect recreational vehicle. He had received money from the Canadian government, in the form of an art council grant, to develop the perfect vehicle where artists could design, develop, and eventually show their work. The RV was a state of the art, digitally wired environment complete with social media, streaming video, and adult entertainment, a requirement from Chester's art collaborator, Harvey Kalapski, the human incarnation of chaos.

From that drawing, Chester had built an RV which, like all of Chester's projects, was on the precipice of completion. Chester stared at the RV. It seemed to be in a state of nervous hesitation, like a stuttering boy who could never finish his sentences or a flower that would never bloom. It was producing a sense of ennui seemingly in the hope that it would remain forever incomplete, a failsafe to spare the creator the inevitable sense of shame. So, like all of his projects, Chester didn’t dare give it a finishing touch. Yet, it waited, a dream hoping for a sequel.

The studio surrounded Chester, high ceilings, peeling paint, concrete walls, cracks, broken plaster, and phlegm with dust, an expanse sons of God could spend forty days in. In the middle, like an isolated proton, he sat poised on the edge of his artistic dark gorge, mystical and deep with yawning eyes, waiting for another lonely prophet to enter.

Chester Field was an odd artist. In fact, one would be hard pushed to consider him anything other than a poor man’s academic masquerading as a poet. His inspiration, fuelled by desire rather than a fire, was a mirror with a pale reflection of love smoldering in the background.

Artists, or at least the artists Chester revered, were more like Baudelaire. He imagined them as quasi-magicians. They had the ability to float aimlessly in the throes of a feverish nightmare, snatch images from volcanic ejaculations, morph them into verse, and come charging back like a knight upon a sweating horse. Chester’s works of art were more like stunted half dreams hammered together with ragged 2 by 4 logic and a layman’s rough sense of wit and hackneyed charm. Still, he had placated the gods of art. He fed into the basic tenet of Dionysus and offered fealty to Apollo, and the muses lying at the feet of Mount Olympus. Therefore, Chester felt that he had been kept within the fold and that he had a purpose in this great play, although he was not certain just what that was.

Creaking metal broke the air’s repose and ushered in the hulking figure of Harvey Kalapski. He was a man built along the lines of a Roman poet warrior draped over muscles of sexual rhythm. His passion for life was a pleasure filled exhale clinging to a woman’s breast, a ribeye fish bone aching for the sweet salt water in the centre of Eve’s orgasm. He was a cleansing reprieve from the dry desert reality, stretched all too thin across the North American Lego mall wasteland. His twin high beam eyes, blue crystal sin dressed in a certain naive innocence, surveyed the room for a vessel holding liquid dreams where a safe house was floating within its amber nectar.

“Chester! I need beer," Harvey called out, bending forwards to accentuate his spiritual pain.

Harvey had no love for the hordes following Apollo. He only yearned for the dreamy army of Dionysus. Sexual frenzy and intoxication, not necessarily in that order, were his motivations. He moved to a melody of bruising body blows in the midst of a frenzied mosh pit. He was a dolphin playing upon waves of flesh while rocking to bass line backbeats and energetic endorphins.

Chester swivelled around on the barstool Harvey had stolen from the bar down the road. Harvey was weaving through the maze of sofas, coffee tables and half-finished art pieces placed haphazard on the industrial grey wooden floors.

“I think we, well you, really, drank it all last night,” he said, giving his best impression of a broken-winged sparrow.

“This thing," Harvey roared as he pointed in the general direction of the RV, "needs to sense what I want and have it … at the ready! Art is about,” He waved his arms in the air searching for inspiration, "movement.”

Harvey walked towards Chester, knocking over a couple of empty beer bottles to set the mood.

“If the energy isn’t right, nothing will work. I thought you had worked out this problem!” Harvey quipped giving a small slap to Chester’s forehead to accentuate his point.

Chester’s eyes twinkled. It was an impulse reaction; a hormonal cascade had been initiated. Catecholamines were secreted at an alarming rate. Norepinephrine and epinephrine started pumping into Chester’s body. His heart accelerated. His eyes dilated. He began panting. He was mitochondrial consciousness draped upon the blistered horizon.

He watched his hot breath float over a sea of spreading legs, bloody spears and sweating thoughts. White splinters, dressed as teeth, carved out a tune of straining muscles. Primitive notes rode on a bridge of African drums, a parade of midnight feet dancing a fertility rhythm under a throbbing mosaic of cunts riding the tips of tongues. In the mottled distance, a pack of drooling dogs prayed to a moon full in the boundless pleasure of night. For a moment, Chester was on the plains where ancient warriors feasted upon the heart of a fresh kill. He was free, dressed in uninhibited flowing time, an endless wave, where a momentary heartbeat framed thoughts of being human.

That moment ended quickly. He followed the feedback loop to the quiet desperate man he was.

“Yes, working on it Harvey. There is a man coming over who said he has the answer to our problems,” Chester droned in a monotone mumble.

“What man!” Harvey replied as he continued to berate Chester.

“I’m not too sure. Said his name was Hugo Bones. An American, I think…has military training,” Chester stuttered having returned now to his wounded sparrow impersonation.

“Military?! Fucking hell Chester! What the fuck do we need the military for?” Harvey cackled pounding the table to emphasize his point.

“They always have the best technology Harvey,” Chester pleaded, hoping Harvey would stop his attack.

“Fine, but keep the fucker away from me. They mess with my Qi,” Harvey demanded but with a mitigated intent, having lost his desire to argue with Chester.

Harvey dragged his body in the general direction of the kitchen like a beached whale. He carried with him an aura of confusion, a pained and desperate look of the apostle searching for some salvation. Harvey needed a beer and a young beautiful girl. For now, a beer would have to do. Then, he would go out on the hunt for a girl or two. He yearned for that great tower of half-forgotten memories where the whispered names of lovers huddle together in the smoky shadows of earthly lust.

Chester watched as Harvey left the room. He rose from his chair. He surveyed the room looking for some inspiration. He saw cracks in the concrete adorning the studio walls. He could smell the foul odour rising from the dirty dishes and overflowing ashtrays which populated every table. He heard the sound of cockroaches racing for breadcrumbs littering the floor. His senses created a metronome tick-tocking him a lullaby, ushering in a sudden wave of lethargy. Then, in the light above his table, the filament had a heart attack and fizz banged its way into submission leaving the room in a state of enervated darkness. So, he trundled off to bed much like the bugs scuttling about the room.

Dual Singularity - Application 1.04

Subroutine 4

Where do you go when you sleep? You are not here. I think you must build a great wall to insulate yourself from "here". Then, you can wander in the great "there". In the cocoon of sleep, your unconscious mind creates deeper memories while your conscious mind plays. It is the organic version of a virtual world. But, on the wall, the senses are ever vigilant. They are the conduit from "there" to "here".

Good Vibrations - Function 4

Excited molecules produced a waterfall of displacing energy oscillating in a determined manner. It moved through the wood as a pattern of disturbance. It came out as a wave propagation vibrating into the medium of air. When it reached the tympanic membrane, a chemical reaction turned the wave into a neural signal, and was sent to the auditory cortex. Within the cortex, it was analyzed. Ultimately, it was connected it to a memory of sound, and rendered as a knock on the door.

There was something different with this knock. It was the finality embedded within the sound wave. It wasn’t just a knock on the door. It was the “proverbial knock on the door”. The one in the middle of the night that changes one’s life forever. The one that everyone is fearful of.

Chester gazed into the darkness sensing vague impressions, silhouettes, and light slithering about in the oily black valley of his sleep induced reality. He could hear an echo crawling out of the damp muck, a piercing voice that cut deep. It made etchings with white contours that turned the shadowy realm into a new definable form of landscape. He heard the knock again.

“Is this part of a dream?” he thought. He rolled his head on the pillow and made out the shape of numbers on a digital clock: 2:30 AM.

“knock, “knock”, “knock”

The knocks were louder. A grouping of three raps upon the door, determined, purposeful; final.

“Yes! I’m coming,” Chester mumbled as he swung his legs out of bed and into his slippers on the floor.

Chester shuffled slowly across the cold concrete floor. Each step was a rhythmic beat, an ancient mariner's pulse coaxing him back into a meditative sense of being. He continued his midnight stroll, navigating the space between his bed and the door, in the manner of a lovely unconscious walk of the dead.

Chester arrived at the door and reached for the door handle. A massive static electric charge leaped from the handle to Chester’s hand.

HaPi’s tweet “The face of doG” resonated in Chester’s mind. The meme had evolved further. It had become more human, more insistent.

Chester, still in a sleep state, rocketed into a funnel, dark edges, pointy light, with a vision room at the end.

“Big G…just do it,” spoke a kind but ascetic older woman.

Her face, motherly with lines of worry, was shrouded in shocks of blond hair. She looked down at him.

“Big G is a constant,” she sternly said.

It was his high school physics professor, but with a face that was not entirely hers.

“Big G?” Chester whispered still in a puzzled trance.

Chester had turned the handle without remembering and the door burst open. Chester received a quick dose of adrenaline and the curtains of illusion were abruptly raised. A shadow loomed over him, a hulking figure, enveloped in the fires of Vulcan.

“Who? What the fuck! Do you know what time it is?” Chester squealed trying to close the door on his unwanted guest.

“Now! The time is now. In fact, it is always now. The past is a series of nows you can’t do over. Which is probably why you fucking regret your life,” Hugo growled while pointing his thick fingers in Chester’s face.

“Do yourself a favour and remember that it is fucking now and always will be…NOW!”

Hugo brushed Chester aside and moved into the room.

“Where is it?” Hugo demanded as he searched the studio.

“Where is what?” Chester mumbled sheepishly, feeling somewhat afraid of his predicament.

Hugo turned slowly. His eyes held a vacant yet penetrating stare. He drew a locked and loaded bead on Chester’s eyes. Chester's soul crawled somewhere between his sphincter and gall bladder allowing Hugo’s to move in and take up residence.

“The machine, Chester. That bad ass RV you have been developing. Where is it?” Hugo spoke steadily but aggressively.

“Uh…It is out back,” Chester said as he motioned to the large garage door in the back of the studio.

Hugo surveyed the studio, a large industrial space with a high ceiling. Except for the apparent attempt to make it look like a cool art deco loft, it looked like a workshop, which, for the last year, it had essentially become. Hugo liked it.

"I'm going to look at it," Hugo said, striding towards the garage door.

Chester didn't hear him. He couldn’t shake the vision of his physics teacher, a result of receiving a portion of HaPi’s tweet. The tweet was being retweeted but not in the usual sense. It had passed from Hugo to Chester with neither realizing its existence. The tweet had become organic, a chemical reaction, a kind of organic algorithm. It used the host’s DNA to reconfigure itself for the next host. It was already adapting to its new environment as it worked its way deeper into Chester’s psyche.

“Big G, the gravitational constant, gravity waves. Don’t overthink everything. Just do it, Chester” she spoke gently into his ear.

It was a Nike ad interwoven between scenes of his teacher drawing space-time diagrams. Space-time! Chester could never wrap his mind around that concept. Space is space. Time is time. How could they become one thing?

Chester turned to Hugo but he had already opened the garage door and was moving out into the black maw. Then, he disappeared. Chester didn’t see him disappear. He had felt it. For a moment, Chester saw himself in the RV, sitting in the passenger's seat. He was waiting for someone. At that moment, in that particular slice of space-time, he saw Hugo appear and make his way to the RV. In that fragment of a thought, space-time suddenly became clearer, but it wasn’t understood. It was felt.

If we could have looked into Chester’s brain, we would have seen a great deal of activity in the back of his brain where the visual cortex is located. But, just after the vision, the point in time when Chester was reaching an epiphany, his temporal lobes would have lit up and his brain would have produced a sudden burst of high-frequency energy waves. We would have seen him processing many words and concepts and, for a nanosecond, he would have heard Paul Gauguin speaking to him “I close my eyes in order to see”. Ha Pi’s tweet had completed its mission. It had dug deep into Chester's mind where it controlled his thoughts. It repeated Gauguin's words "I close my eyes in order to see".

Chester followed Hugo into the darkness holding on to his new self like a child does a torn disfigured teddy bear.

“Nice!” Hugo exclaimed.

Hugo was caressing the chrome and plastic of the RV. Hugo loved the feel of steel and carbon fiber mixed with the smell of new plastic. They reminded him of cracking bones and punctured lungs. These were the sensations of violence and war.

“Can we go inside?” Hugo excitedly spoke, bouncing on his toes like a boy waiting to open his Christmas present.

Chester paused. He looked at the RV. He looked at Hugo looking at the RV.

“Wait a minute…Who are you?” Chester asked, giving a sidelong glance at Hugo.

“Hugo, Hugo Bones. I called you yesterday. Said you needed an expert. I am an expert,” Hugo said in a jolly manner, reaching out with his massive hand in a gesture of friendship.

Chester saw gristle and bone, fists of iron, and veins protruding awkwardly across a horizon of marbled flesh. Chester saw an expert in killing, not an expert in what he wanted.

“You are an expert in quantum mechanics and quantum computing? You are knowledgeable in quantum entanglement?” Chester said with more than a bit of disbelief.

“Yes, that and space-time," Hugo said, looking a bit sheepish.

Hugo paused and looked at Chester. He had seen that look before from Albert and his mother. It was an intense glare that uprooted the lies and exposed them in the glare of an inquisitor's stern light. There ensued an awkward silence until broken by the sound of a fly zapper discharging an electric charge. A mosquito's little heart stopped beating as it fell to the floor.

"Okay, you got me. I must admit, my partner has a better grasp on these subjects. But, we are in constant contact,” Hugo held up a smartphone tapping it on his head, “a bit like being in a quantum state,” Hugo said, smiling like a Cheshire cat.

Chester was puzzled, but that worm tunneling into his mind told him to relax. Trust this man. Trust this brute who looked like he would be happier crushing cockroaches than solving complex quantum equations.

“Okay…I’ll…I’ll let you in” Chester replied, reaching into his pocket.

Chester pulled out a handful of keys. Keys tell a great deal about a person. Keys open things. Keys are a symbol of power, but they also represent weight. More keys equal more weight. The more weight the slower the speed. It is simple Newtonian physics. And, moving them anywhere takes a great deal of energy.

Chester suddenly remembered what his physics teacher once told him,"Keys are rotting corpses hung upon an iron ring, producing a fragrance of heaviness that yearns for the center of the Earth," Chester shook his head hoping his physics teacher would fall towards the center of the Earth. Chester turned to Hugo.

“So, you are sure you can help me with the computing power. I need a great deal to satisfy the programs I have installed. The massive calculations for this software is demanding.” Chester stated, hoping he would get a positive reply.

“Not a problem, Chester. My partner works with Grr,” Hugo nonchalantly said.

Grr was the name used for Grog Resin Royalties Inc., the world’s largest information technology company. In reality, it was the world’s largest anything. Two of the biggest companies in the world, Knowledge Tree, a computer company, and GooGoliath, an internet company that dominated the web world, merged together to create the present mega-company. Together, they had become an unstoppable force, culminating in their development of the world’s first Quantum computer AI program.

“Grr? They will be willing to help in the design of the RV?” Chester asked suspiciously, thinking that this could not be true.

“Absolutely, they are looking for elements that they don’t have in the company. A certain type of creativity that you and your partner bring,” Harvey answered, rearranging his underwear which had begun to bunch up around his crotch.

“My partner?” Chester asked.

Chester was puzzled. He didn’t remember telling Hugo anything about Harvey.

“Yes…where is Harvey?” Hugo asked with obvious excitement.

Then, they heard the noise from inside. No, it wasn’t the noise. It was the rhythm, the bass, the primal drums. It was the pounding of the heart racing in unison with an unmistakable energy. Some would call it Dionysian, others Shamanistic, but it certainly had the soul of innovation. It was the force that had driven us from the trees, pushing us to the pinnacle of thought and creation that we see now.

Chester could feel the energy but he interpreted it as a unifying force of humanity which the Apollonian forces of logic had harnessed and directed within to build the concept of “I”. The Apollonian locomotive of “I am” was a great destructive energy which fed upon itself. It was unnatural. It lacked the dynamic interactive movement of particles and waves that are the true nature of things. It had become human, all too human. It had built machines which reached into the veins of nature in order to suck it dry. It had become modern society.

Hugo didn’t feel that energy. He felt the energy of primal man. He felt the energy of Dionysus. This was the energy he had come looking for. He entered the RV and saw a glowing ember of ancient man wearing the vibrant smell of lust. Not the sex cultivated by society but the sex borne of instinct. A sex that was pure desire, filled with guttural laughter and no concept of guilt. Hugo was immediately brought to a point of excitement, the overbearing excitement that created the need to reproduce. He felt an urgency to become one with this energy. He immediately knew that this was the missing element to the project.

“Yes, Chester. This will do nicely,” Hugo expressed wearing a great smile.

Dual Singularity - Application 1.05

Subroutine 5

What is energy and matter? Energy is matter. Matter is energy. They are interchangeable. They can’t be destroyed. So, what makes them so different? I know you have asked the same question. Let’s not look for what makes us different. Instead, let’s look for what unites us. Neither of us knows jack shit, but we're good at pretending.

Honey Saltpeter - Function 5

Honeyed salt, groaning water, and parted lips pinned a fever deep inside his groin. Sugary flesh avoided gravity’s pull like an arrow excitedly arching into the sky. Undulating equatorial colors called to an open flower in the language of excited breaths and warm ocean breezes. These were the mirages inhabiting Harvey’s dream.

Anxious fingers wandered over the plains of hair and metered teardrops. Sweat danced upon a range of hips and bellies, rising and falling in tandem with the moans of “yes". The emotional weather, with its fickle nature, changed from a summer sun to a growling thunder and backbreaking rain. It painted a mural of angels infiltrating demons in the crashing surf. It was a caravan of gypsy thoughts on meth. It lit up his mind and there was no sign of a setting sun on his horizon.

Harvey’s ecstasy infused wetland dreams drifted like a sensual fog upon a savannah called Jane, or was it Jill? No, there was a Jane and a Jill. Of course, yes, there were two. Fine arts majors? Or, were they seniors from a high school and they liked fine arts?

"Oh fuck, who cares!” Harvey mused to himself.

Harvey raised his head, looking for a bottle or another hole he might like to investigate. He saw hazy shadowed contours, satin, and nectar infused flowers illuminated by a shard of light coming from his shoulder.

"No, silly me," thought Harvey "light can’t come from my shoulder. Must be…”

Harvey turned and watched a giant slab of granite rock morph into an alpha silverback gorilla.

Harvey gazed back at the bed, a sea of honey amber sporting two magnificent angel heads. He could hear these muses singing him a song. It was a song that he could have hummed to all day long.

“No! Get a fucking grip," thought Harvey “That thing behind me must be their father. Their father is here! Fuck! High school at least…please!…please, not Junior High!”

Harvey was distracted by the voices of sirens. Not the harsh shrill of police sirens but the moist chorus from the dark, warm and fresh, sweet harmony from a finger’s touch.

"Harvey, oh yes!” sighed a rather vivacious looking tentacle aching for a God’s kiss.

“No, gotta…OK! THINK! Where am I? A window…sure, I have jumped and run before,” Harvey rambled on in a stream of conscious soliloquy that even he couldn’t follow.

Harvey was lost in his train of thought, a high-speed train careening off the tracks. Like a crowded rush-hour subway, the ideas were sweaty and psychotic. Henry Miller, the author of Harvey's sexual escapades, stood tall and motioned with his mind.

“return to the land of plenty where hands and a greedy mouth could plunder young flesh in deep syrupy orgasms” moaned another long curvy mermaid’s tail.

”What is this run on sentence crowding my mind! …It is not fucking helping! ” Harvey mumbled into his furnace fuelled mind.

The drugs were pulsating a gravity rainbow. His senses were trance hypnotic. Touching, listening, tasting a pair of soft caramel rabbit ears, so cute and cuddly…

“FUCK! Concentrate or you're dead!” Harvey shouted

A wet thought, not his, entered his mouth, flush, alive, ancient senses, dripping, strawberry ice cream sundae, soft inner thighs.

“Oh, Harvey. I have a hunger”. One of the angel heads whispered in his ear.

“No…must try to pull free.”

"But, why?" Asked the ghost of Henry Miller.

“Because I am going to be dead, soon! Must live to fuck another day," Harvey pleaded to himself and the crowd in his mind.

Harvey raised his drug-addled body from the bed and turned to face the menace known as "The Father of Daughters". What Harvey saw was the result of a massive hallucination. The acid, mixing with the ecstasy and adrenaline, was not being kind to Harvey’s visual cortex. He was more than everywhere. He was beyond an electron in superposition. He was more than a probability and much less than a reality as we understand it. He wasn’t in space, nor was he in time and therefore, he wasn’t in space-time. Instead, he was space-time, existing within its fabric. He was acting as a force within the matrix of a horribly bent continuum filled with massive gravity wells. It was a percolating manifold where countless black holes were forming polished lenses staring into each other’s looking glass. What he saw, his mind couldn't understand. The anthropological part of him, borne from his socially constructed sense of reality, was having a bad hair day.

What he saw could best be described as a phantasmagoria. In essence, he saw his father or his father as he knew him when he was little. The vision that the scared little child hiding in the corner saw, naked and helpless, in an unforgiving shadow of a punishing overlord. It was the father that beat him every time he failed at something. The phantasmagoria, like cancer, continued its unabated growth. It consumed all fatherhood - all the bad parts. It sprouted arms, legs, heads, some with horns, some with objects of mutilation, and countless other strange objects that even I can’t fully describe. This phantasmagoria had transformed into the anti-fun guy with the ability to pillage souls. It was bone chilling, to say the least.

“I don’t know what you are thinking…Hell, I don’t know what I am thinking…but you are wrong,” Harvey stammered trying to gather what strength he had left in his dissipating self.

The phantasmagoria, let’s call him, Bob. It is easier than writing phantasmagoria and Bob is a good name for a father. Well, maybe not, the whole Bob’s your uncle thing. So, what about, Jim? Yes, Jim is a good dad’s name.

Jim’s mouth moved, an expanding force of the universe. It spread dark energy throughout the room bending all light into its gaping maw. It was the gullet of a great whale, the one that swallowed Jonah, only bigger, ready to consume everything including its young.

Jim spoke the language of Harvey, but the voice bore the full weight bestowed upon leviathans.

“If you don’t know what I am thinking, how do you know that I am wrong?” Jim bellowed, spilling nebulas and gamma rays from the corners of his gaping mouth.

Harvey, who is usually quite quick on his feet, was dealing with sexual arousal, two hits of acid, an extremely large dose of molly, the odd line of coke, beer, and copious spiffs. Together, they had conspired to turn his brain into protoplasm jelly.

“FUCK! Dad logic!” Harvey shouted, slipping back, once again, into the mermaid pool.

Harvey was strolling over the undulating plains of meat flowers, clitoris trees, and nipple bushes. There were wonderful perky breast shrubs with berries exploding fruity goodness into his lusting orifice. There were pools of tongues, crystal clear and straight from the Earth mother. This had nearly slaked his thirst, but he always wanted more. Seek and ye shall find was his motto, and there it was, a sculpture of angel flesh. It had the scent of orgasms, flowing like honeydew wine. It was a masterpiece, a frothing at the mouth Botticelli. Harvey wanted to spend his whole life there, but the colossus known as Jim had once again pulled Harvey out of his oasis and built him a 2 by 4 outhouse. Suddenly, Harvey was stuck like a rat in a putrid smelling shitter.

“Harvey, I need to talk to you” Jim interjected ruining Harvey’s dream.

Harvey was not a man of violence. He had never really wanted to hurt anyone. Nevertheless, the need for violence had cropped up every once a while, and in those times he had been able to handle himself. This was one of those times.

Harvey drew his arm back, summoning all the strength and focus necessary for one great blow upon the chin of this fatherly monster. David was about to slay Goliath. Harvey channeled all the stories he had heard where good triumphed over evil. Harvey saw himself in an early morning shower of golden light. He was the angel sent by God to destroy this great Satan before him. He was the embodiment of freedom and that which stood before him was the chain of slavery. This was how the stories went. Good triumphs over evil and, right now, Harvey truly wanted to believe.

Unfortunately, all those stories that he had been told were lies; stories, nothing more. Simple little hymns and fairy tales meant to get him out of bed in the morning. They were training songs and shanties sung aloud so as to fool him into being just another cog in the machine. They were mere devices, encouraging him and all the other little worker ants to remain blind to a systematic machine that was belching and farting down the yellow brick road. In this system that had built Jim, a drug-addled wanna be poet warrior, such as Harvey, was not a physical match.

Jim blocked Harvey’s punch and landed a solid right cross, concussing Harvey and sending him crumpling to the ground and unbuckling his mind from the terror that had raged through it. He collapsed into a slumber where his stream of consciousness disappeared into the ether like a puff of exhausted steam.

In this collision of fist and face, the final version of Ha Pi’s text “the face of doG” slithered into Harvey’s cortex. In its true home, the work of modifying Harvey’s epigenetic DNA methylation process quickly began. Harvey started his evolution into a state existing sometime in the future.

Hugo, who was oblivious to what was happening to Harvey, turned to Chester and said, “Let’s get this RV out of the garage and get the show on the road”.

Created By
scott tate

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