by David Raffin
It is true that in the future he becomes President of the US of Canada and Iceland. He eternally loops, but there is a second loop in the future involving him. It is all rather mind bending. The universe is a mysterious handbag. But that is another story, as previously stated.
There is an old human joke:
The sign on the time machine says, “Achtung! Do Not Use To Go Back In Time And Kill Hitler. Made In Berlin 1944.” Question. Who is Hitler?
Humor is the hardest thing to learn in another culture.
Gallery Peace
The trolly rolls the fungi through the exhibit of expired art. Eras presented in strata line the way through the past. The fungi explore. A young sporling absorbs the yellow from a sunflower representation on its flesh. The elders laugh and shout, “Good as new! Good as new!”
It boggles the mind, they say. The fruits of human existence cannot be eaten. But the message is confusing. Often they are of the human anatomy. Presented in what must be acknowledged as an extreme of fetishistic form. To revel in the delight of one’s own kind. And one’s kind’s own darknesses. It is kind of sickening. And the exaltation of the accepted and less accepted acts of copulation. So limited in scope. At least the so called deviant art shows some spirit. They are so tame these rebels. So sensitive. So concealing even as they expose themselves, they believe, totally. Beautiful in a way, despite their ugliness. This one of canines playing the card game of poker is intriguing through. It has a fuzzy texture to mimic the fur of mammals. In the next room is a gallery of sayings written in the form of writing scrawled on men’s rooms walls. A men’s room was an exclusionary gathering room where humans segregated themselves alone together for the purpose of excretion. Very wasteful and extravagant. Exclusionary. Elitist. A fascinating species. Dirty, though. Damn dirty. Wonderful echoes in men’s rooms though.
Good Man Ned
Ned celebrated with the crew on board the SS Walter Muisje. A space ranger success story. Every night he took a party out and catalogued the tales of the natives. Each night the stories they told, between orgiastic activities, became racier. The prurience rose with the coolness of the nights. A grand haul!
These would be collected in volumes and sold in editions. These would form the basis for stage plays, radio plays, cinema plays, poetry, literature, sense tapes, visual arts. A cornucopia. A corporate asset to add to the stock library. The profits would cascade down like a waterfall forever, rolling to the top. Licensing fees. Performance fees. No unsanctioned derivative works. The company could and would play hardball and all knew it. This was not a child’s game. This was corporate business. The profit motive.
The crew assembled. The natives arrived. The orgy started. And then the story time.
In the story circle appeared the bouncy lady. The very human attractive lady who all like. “It is my pleasure to explore with you a story of good cheer.” There was great arousal following this statement. “OH, it is a tale. For there was a young woman and she needed to journey far to another major metropolitan region. This place was called Dallas, though no one remembers why. And she was a woman of cheer. Good cheer. Hip Hip Hurrah! And she was welcomed to the cheering squad auditions of a great team situated in Dallas. But she had no money to travel there. Oh, it is sad.” The lady did not look sad. Both teller, and rapt audience, were aglow. Some even started self pleasuring, though that was not odd. At all.
“How to get money. That was the question she took to her sisters in the cheering squad. They thought as a team. Brainstorming. It was decided they would do activities for a fee and collect funds for this trip. Now it is strange that the great team in Dallas, wanting to taste of the talents of the cheerful woman did not pay for her trip. Or that she had no other support systems who would care for her in this way. But I digress. The cheerful women set to motion their plan to do odd jobs for pay in order to amass funds for the collective community good. Though the good was for one person. But all would receive credit for the great deed. Exposure.”
The story woman used her hands a lot when she spoke. “They, two of them, washed a man’s car. It was sudsy. People got wet. Excited. About the cleanness. The man with the once dirty but now clean car asked, tentatively, how much it would cost to have sexual intercourse with the two cheerful women and they paused, they disclosed to him, tentatively, a price which was more than reasonable. Really rather quite low. Showed a lack of business acumen on their part, really. But that is youth. The Joys of youth. Shared. And they had sexual intercourse for monetary contribution. And so did others in the squad as they went about other tasks: housecleaning, shelving books, reading to the blind, spending time with the elderly, washing dishes. And monies were collected into a community chest to be used by one. All for one.”
An audience member raised a hand, asking, “Was no one turned away from the activities?”
And the woman said, “Naturally not. As long as they had money. And, as stated, the price was reasonable. Perhaps ridiculously so. So they did a lot in a short time and got the funds. Almost enough funds. Just short of enough funds.”
The audience was hushed. “And then the main cheerful woman took a job at the local sports equipment store. She had been warned the man who owned the store could be a firm hand, demanding, but she needed the money. And didn’t want to let the team down. So she did sales and stocking. Arranged the balls. Studied the equipment. And for extra money she agreed to do an all night inventory. It was on this work night where she ended up mating with the store owner in a single night sexual liaison, after he surprised her by dressing as a sport player in full regalia. It was a momentous occasion. And everyone seemed quite pleased, though the inclusion of the cash donations is an integral part of the story often glossed over. Could not someone have given her a ride to the great city of Dallas? Was there no system of publicly funded transit? Why is it better to cheer in one place than another? Has it always been so? Must it be so? Is there a greater place still to come? Did she get there? What became of them all? This is beyond the scope of our tale. It is imprudent to try to cover everything. Better to bare all.” The bouncy woman sat down. She was elated and energized as was the crowd.
An elegant man took his place at the center. “Good evening friends. I tell you a sad story, I am afraid. A story of poverty of the spirit and scarcity of the heart. For there was a woman. She led an uneventful life. Full of the tragedy of emptiness. Her heart beat in isolation. She was alive but lived not. Sorrow both followed and led her. She drew a bath and forthwith took her own life. It is sad, friends. But she awoke to a new place. An in-between place of the spirit. Where she was judged to be wanting. She was no wicked lass. She was a schoolmarm. She led a quiet life. And she said she had made a mistake. And begged to be taken back to the realm of the senses so that she could partake in all the sensuous pleasures available to those who desire them and act on their desires. To fully live. And it was so. And she spent her time which goes by so quickly when one is having fun. And when it was over it left her wanting still. This woman with desires still unfulfilled after the most extreme debauchery. Having experienced things she had dreamt of and dreamt of not. Again and again and again. But all good things come to an end. And she begged pitifully for more time which was not forthcoming. And she was placed in a little room with a man who knew her not. And a fly buzzed. And a fly buzzed. I'm sorry that this is not a happier tale. But all tales cannot be happy. It would tarnish the happiness of those tales which are happy. Live and love in the moment friends. The moments are ours.” All eyes were damp. His mastery over story was well regarded by all.
The jovial wo/man replaced the elegant man. “And you expect me to follow that?” he/she said. He/she was a member of the circle who stood anatomically corrected. “I have a story. It is a story of cleanliness. Purging. Get it all out. It is a tale of two masculines. Both driven by an fundamental need to clean. Clean they did. For one attended a brothel, a place where sex is exchanged for money. He did so dressed as a doctor. He administered cleanings
. The other man, by chance stepping into the brothel from the dirty street, saw this cleaning as if a student watching an instructive lecture. And he decided to make cleanings the work of his life for what he saw as the benefit of the whole. For cleanliness is godliness. But the second man did so covertly. And did not ask before commencing cleaning. It is uncivilized behavior. The two are one but of a different nature. There are troubling aspects to this social narrative. One must separate the desire and action from the methodology used to follow through. For it is more important who you are than where you were or where you are going. So question the narrative. And remain true to that which your heart desires.” Some nodded their heads, but it was clear others were bewildered.
The next teller wore a cowboy hat. Nothing else. “Well,” he said. “It is fine to be here. You fine people get to hear a story of the long arm of the law. A lawman in the wilderness. Traveling the territory to keep the peace which is the highest hope of civilization. But sometimes there is trouble and this was one of those times. A horse wrangler killed a rancher. But the lawman found him and, though he tried to bring him in to face the traveling hanging judge, sorrowfully the wrangler died during apprehension. But this was still welcome news to the rancher’s adult son, who was so grateful to the lawman he put him up for the night in his home. And. The rancher asked that the lawman not have intimate relations with his little sister, just about to leave for college. For she was to study a field removed from sexology and he supported her dream. The lawman was a good and honest man, but, in life, things will happen. And the lawman and the rancher ended up in the barn, writhing on a bale of hay. And a good time was had. And in the morning they kissed. And the lawman said, “As long as I am the law in this territory, there will be justice for all.” The man doffed his hat and beamed.
A slight woman was next. “This is the story of the mysterious island.” She nudged her glasses up. “There was a woman who lived by the sea. She was in charge of the lighthouse. By day she read. By night, she watched the sea. And one night a ship came. It was filled with sea men. And it whisked her away. And she became a pirate queen. Scourge of the mighty sea. Men quaked before her and she took many lovers. She took what she wanted. She ruled over the sea. And all men. But eventually she was apprehended by an officer from the port patrol. And he subdued her. And arrested her. For she had forsaken her duty as lighthouse keeper, and many ships had faltered to their ruin. The light had gone out. Her spirit was broken and she was imprisoned in a dungeon. There the port patrol officer regularly spanked her bare bottom and tied her to bed posts and blindfolded her, which was a part of her sentence. But it was alright because she possessed from her time as a pirate queen a sacred safe-word, which protected her at all times and adjusted the overall power dynamic.” The teller smiled.
“Wow,” said Ned. “You are ticking all the boxes, Miss.”
The first storyteller said, “That’s our town librarian. Once you get her started she goes and goes. What a mouth on her.”
“Wait,” said Ned, “You have libraries?”
This was going to save a lot of time.
The ship left the next week. The hold filled with laser inscribed computer tape. All the goods. All the stories of a world. A bounty. And the trade was fair. They left behind filmstrips of animated mice which terrified the natives. It was a classic give and take. And if they had read the agreement they would have seen that they were giving up the rights to tell their own stories, even amongst themselves, to be themselves without paying a license fee to do so.
And they also left behind a fungus. Just a little. But it grew.
Just before the ship was to take off a small band of travelers came to the ship and said to Ned, “We have traveled long to bring you news of what the majority call deviance. We would like to tell you tales of acts forbidden even to be told in this so-called bastion of freedom.”
Ned looked at them in wonder but reluctantly said, “Sorry, we already started the engines. But we will launch a follow up ship later.”
RainyDay and Dick, of course, found nothing on the planet years later. No new stories. No people. And anything forbidden to be told or written was lost to the still winds.
RainyDay thought this scurrilous. Just another indignity the masses were subjected to due to the totalitarian and heartless rule of the corporate classes.
To be forbidden, the act alone of being forbidden, that is the most tantalizing thing. And to have that which is forbidden withheld and then lost forever? Frustratingly arousing.
Soviet Love is for the People
Heather Dumbrowski looked over the agricultural projections. There was no reason we could not feed the world. Everyone without want, as promised. Land, Peace, and Bread. It was only the greed of the capitalist classes which held mankind down with an iron grip. The tyranny of the profit motive. As if all things could be reduced to a dollar value. Love! Could a price be put on love? No, love is a thing which is for the people. It’s purpose is to serve the greatest good.
She had grown to have feelings for the nebbish scientist of computer thought. Stationed here to study enemy agricultural methodology, she had taken an interest in Richard as soon as she understood his special mind. His beautiful mind. If machines thought and thought logically they would join the ranks of organized workers the world over. It was inevitable. Artificial intelligence was the key to the beginning of utopia. Work a thing of the past for humans. A world of plenty. Man would pursue noble thought and art. And the machines would be treated as autonomous heroes of the revolution.
And also the fungi. The miracle of the fungal world. Fungi would eat the waste which grew to plague the world. It would even enrich the soil and neutralize radiation. And it could in turn be eaten. A perfect entity, more animal than plant but neither. It was becoming clear that fungi were the key to the good life. All things evolved from fungi, flowers, trees, everything. Fungi eat everything. Reabsorb, learn, grow. A perfect unbroken circle.
It reminded her of a story by the famous soviet science fiction writer Peter Pratfalovitch, where fungus wipe out all life on a wayward planet and start over. He was a prophetic writer, Pratfalovitch. In his most famous book, The Sordid Fall of the West, he posits a future where the western powers, centered in the USA, become ever more mired in savagery forcing the Soviet Union to erect a mighty wall to divide the world. As late stage capitalism takes over and all profit concentrates in the hands of an elite few who control the government and industry, the masses in the west are reduced to corporate serf slavery. They are brainwashed to blame themselves for their status, as with the divine right of kings. They believe in a meritocracy while the divide between rich and poor goes unchecked. Underpaid they borrow to subsist. They work two and sometimes three jobs at once. They are on call to their expenses of life, none assured. Their lives led in debt cradle to grave. Their ability to unionize withheld in the name of their freedom. They suffer the capitalist boom and bust system. They are denied health care, housing and education as rights, and are told they are available to all, as if all could afford them; again shifting blame to the victim. They take solace in games of chance and dreams of grandeur bolstered through pop culture media. They become consumers rather than creators and they ravage the world with waste. It gets worse and worse, until it ends in cataclysm, with eruptions of senseless violence and inhumanity as a winner take all system breaks down. And then communism triumphs. But at great price.
These sexbots Richard was working on. They would be the key. The network they needed to run on. The network that would be needed for the AIs to communicate between themselves to anticipate and fulfill needs and desires. It would make the world a better place. It would make centralized planning more accurate and more decentralized at the same time. At last all positions would be anticipated and fairly evaluated. All needs anticipated. All needs fulfilled. Fairly. Heather Dumbrowski was a person who relished fulfillment in a controlled manner. Efficiency. Linking desires to a greater good made her ecstatic sometimes beyond wo
rds. When this feeling hit its throbbing peak Heather Dumbrowski involuntarily purred. Like the soft whirring of an efficient machine. A machine made to last, not one engineered to be replaced for the sake of artificial stimulation of private profit. Heather Dumbrowski was all about perpetual, never-ending revolution. It was how she got off.
If only Richard Johnson were an easier man to infiltrate. But. Perseverance. For the cause. Love.
Bilge!
“I was expecting. More sinners,” said the preacher. He was originally something else. A politician. But religion had caught on like crazy. And a good politician changes its tune. He met them at the landing platform. Wearing a Santa hat.
RainyDay and Dick had landed on a planet filled with robots. Where old models were sent. It was wrong to kill an AI. They were just retired. They built their own civilization. Filled with stereotypes. Robots were built to type. So a worker at a factory was a certain type of man. A cook. A businessman. A newspaper editor, a nanny. Each a type. It was not without mobility but social mobility was far from fluid. Route or reroute. No deviance exceeding .003 mm was encouraged.
“We received a distress beacon from here,” said Dick. “Faint. But we are interested in the whereabouts of this…” Rainy held up an eslate showing a 3-D rendering of Mike. Pink. Tube/bullet shaped. Faded print.
“Oh, lord in computer heaven!” said the preacher Mayor. “That great calculator in the matrix. Where negative space ads up only to become divided beside itself without degradation. It is as predicted. The coming of Dick. And Miss Tranquility, ultimate daughter of men. And the Triangle. The Holy Trinity!”
“Hold your horses,” said Rain. “I haven’t come anywhere since this thing disappeared. Where is it?”
