The full-bodied message of the massage was bracing. Don’t believe at perilous face value or at wholesale cost. You may be threatened by a pumpkin and get squashed by a mite. No matter which way the ill wind blows sucks.
“He’s got a gun sagging in his pants.”
“That’s no simple he.”
As the majorly financed parties of denial and blame gathered to bluster in clusters like grapes turning into raisins jammed through sieves by warriors in spike heels with grody sun-burned toes, a cabal of robot prototypes derived from oily membranes drilled in a deep sea basin by cogs of Royal Dutch Shell, synthesized into indivisible fibers by Monsanto gnomes, woven into mannequins cloaked by gauzy patterns at the Gap, and sold exclusively at Alibaba, Walmart, and Juicy Couture to known clones for pennies on the dollar, scuttled in the sub-basement to conjure and release electrostatic elixirs on the floor that became slippery when greased by goose-stepping. Payment for liability purposes was secured on Paypal by command. The sub-basement was chill and hydrated. The fix was not only in.
“Get that thing off of me.”
“What are you calling a thing?”
A cubed multiple of three stooges from the triangle of military religions sprouted from the same thin desert gruel played an off key ditty right alongside. It was as barren an oldie as a copy of Elvis homogenizing Big Mama Thornton, and moldy as original sin, but still solid gold. Knees got sacrificially bent at the end of a rusty double barrel. A catchy lament resonating with the rancor of phlegm not only twisted but shouted. All zealots, trolls, sociopaths, pederasts, and generous donors were blessed for safe keeping in order to continue remunerative construction and destruction in the cause of the one correct god from the one blessed tribe of the one chosen species of most recent successful usurpers. Profits in corner cutting were up. All it took to stay safe on the sunny side was a good egg and a handful of greenback dollars fried golden ochre and crispy.
“It’s a grand slam tradition we uphold.”
“With bacon and gravy.”
“My archaic cartoon god is holding me.”
The weight, however, of the countervailing danger in the fault zone of the Santa Cruz Mountains, was upthrust, and rising. Space and time shamelessly mixed without stinking badges or chains. The atmosphere overlooking the edge felt palpably diffused, like an overstuffed pouf of haze emanating from a forest busy flaming, but with no plum. A howling void yearning to be fulfilled whipped up a frenzy in the dry wadis and gulches. Wolves from the extended one world family stood tall on all fours to roar.
“I said I’m not going to take it anymore.”
“That wounds my hole.”
With my ad hoc quasi-free-lance employer, the middleweight champion of California, Lt Guv Gav Newsom, stuck back East miscegenating on the arena floor, a knot had become entangled in a critical nexus of quasi-events within my expropriated purview. I encountered this new void on my daily constitutional on the crumbling cliffs overlooking the edge of western civilization. The fog on Monterey Bay was as thick as split peas whirring in a trademarked Waring blender. Beneath crags in the cliffs lurked a superficial abyss, where soulless robots resembling short humans had seized the opportunity to wriggle beneath lightweight limbo sticks and reproduce in the dirt like holographs of rabbits. They were overrunning the exposed flanks of once formidable borders leading to Silicon Valley. I saw plenty of conclusive evidence playing 24/7 on the infallible Internet and it give me the creeps, the willies, and the heebie-jeebies, but good. I experienced a burning sensation in a familiar location. Strong medicine was required to maintain equilibrium. No less than the freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles might be at stake. What if a nefarious foe like the robot @trumptf@donaldcharacter caricaturejr attempted to fulfill the void first? Or the Nominal Billary Clinton Concision conniving in shredded code? What if one character caricature among the multitude blocked up the doorways and locked all the halls? What gets stuck where and when then? The junior hole might become not only deep and wide but ravaged and plugged. That was all I needed to become stirred.
In the absence of a strong central government to act in a collusive state of low consciousness, I hauled my chafed ass down from the Santa Cruz Mountains and jumped into a boat. Zealously, I continued west into chill international waters. The canyon below me was a mile deep. Soon, I took the plunge.
Like any arrogant rogue state with imperialist designs I sketched an historically lucky seven-dash line on the ocean by raising an uplifted pinky into the air, and declared a liberated state of independence in which the freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles was a sacrosanct right of all creatures in nature on big rocks or islands, but not including robots, and were endowed by the creator of its Constitution I had printed out and held in my hand with higher power. I had used Wikipedia and a free spell check tool to great advantage, and though smudged, and getting wet, the hallowed document was perfect. But, I was not finished there. Though I felt a critical outburst from the fire meridian dachanshu squeezing a hapless small intestine in a posterior quadrant I was not deterred. I strapped a tank of air on my back and a mask to my head and jumped some more. I paused about twelve feet deep and took a cleansing breath. I invited Oregon and Washington and all the other liberated hangers-on from states close enough to jump into the Pacific Ocean to do so. Any other states could snuggle up close by right of contiguous free choice as well, until there was nothing to speak of left but one nation of free states of consciousness indivisibly floating, which next to flying is as good as it gets under the jack boot of gravity.
Proudly, I declared my new state of consciousness on the marine radio for dissemination to a widespread audience that I felt certain would include all of the freedom loving fighters at the United Nations. I was surprised though that not every unhinged epithet in response was enlightened or compassionate.
“This clown is clogging up the emergency frequency.”
“Get the fuck off of the emergency frequency, clown.”
I did not take kindly to the slur against proud clowns everywhere. For one clown to matter, all clowns must matter. But, at the end of the day, did I give a fuck? Fuck, no. I was a singular free altered state, and I was still floating. That other shit was just the same old political crap yakking. Robots were no doubt the guilty parties writing the stale scripts copied from yesteryear. Fuck ’em. I wasn’t about to fall into that same old medieval trap of paste, parry, and thrust. I had new heights of fervor to ascend. Freedom, as it turns out, can be intoxicating like that.