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+in the beginning 
+there was the word	
+
+
+Sil Hawkard always wanted to be rich, filthy fucking rich, because rich people lie around in opium filled rooms and snap there fingers for food and sex and drugs and what else is there in life really?  Fortunately for Sil he is filthy fucking rich and lying around in his own little palace in Mandalay exploring the outer perimeters of sanity by the ingestion of galvanized petroleum vapors.  He is an oil man, though he didn’t start that way.  He sucks on the thin plastic tube, lighting the huca with a bic lighter bearing the insignia of a crucified christ with crown of thorns.  Sil Hawkard notes the christ's crown and thinks to himself  -this was not an oil man.  Fucking Arabs have the greatest drug on the earth and they won't share it.  So Sil had applied what was now called the Kellinger method in the industry; that poor fucker Kellinger had no idea...  
+	Halfway around the world  and twenty years before the phone rings; your ears implode at the sound and you look up to the wall where a phone hangs; reaching up with a tendril-like arm and tentatively snaking its receiver to the ear, a voice from far away says "Dr. Kellinger?" Speaking.  "I have found the glitch in your prototype Eater and fixed it.  It to be an invaluable help in our trade and I have decided that since I have modified it to an extent which you did not anticipate, that it is by all rights my idea.  Do you hear that scratching at your door?  By altering the genetic coding of the beast I realized that many different applications become available to the user, the one on your door step is called  Kellingereater prototype number 1.  Goodbye." 
+	The door blows apart into fragments of wood sticking in your wrist and ankles, but this is no more than a passing sensation for the ferocious nature of the Kellingereater is that they have twenty three stomachs each of which must be constantly fed.  It rips into you like a butcher chopping meat, systematically picking out vital organs and stuffing them into organized pouches attached to its stomach as its masters had trained it.  It sucks the remaining scraps of quivering flesh into its mouth, rises on its hind legs and runs homeward...
+	Sil lapses back onto a burgandy velvet couch, people would do anything to avoid being fed to the eaters.  Anything.  Like work until they died of natural causes, sell their daughter for prices way below the market value,  sacrifice themselves for their children; Sil takes another deep inhalation of petroleum smoke and contemplates the difference between luck and organized coincidence.  For instance he really knew nothing about and had no hand in creating eaters and yet they were essentially his key to wealth.  Getting rich is easy in the underworld, staying rich is hard, but if your enemies don't know you exist then there is no one to harm you.  hence the end that befell Kellinger who by all rights if his luck had been better, should be sitting on this red velvet couch.  Petroleum it was generally believed was made into smokable drug, first by the arabs looking for some potential use for the waste products given off in the refinement process, but this was not strictly true.  In fact petroleum was a rather inacurrate name for what Sil and a good percentage of the world was smoking these days.
+	Sil hits the huca again and feels his face going numb his head slumps down until his chin is nearly on his chest he snaps his fingers twice.  Two Arab boys appear and began to dance crooked, spinning patterns devised over centuries of hypnotic oppression which the cockroaches of skid row motels had only recently begun to learn.  Oppression is a drug, it acts equally, though differently, on the oppressed and the oppressor alike.  All things must remain at equilibrium or fall into decay, this is a law of physics, and it is true of all systems mathematical --however if one considers spiritual and emotional systems one must take into account negative entropy
+	The crooked dance is hypnotic to watch and all consuming to perform.  In India they teach it to snakes, and in the sewers of America cockroaches feasting on the radioactive waste have begun to learn it on their own.  Like terrible creatures from a Kafkian nightmare they sit quitely underground, as we go about our lives, learning the dance passing it on to their children and teaching them how to use it as an evolutionary tool --for all systems are also trying to succeed one another.  One day a properly evolved cockroach will crawl out of a sewer drain just as the head of state is stepping to the podium to address the nation.   He will devour the president raw as the live camera crews feed man's downfall to a nation of viewers even as it happens.  The blood soaked 
+cameramen will never stop filming and the cockroach will scurry to the podium, strain himself to an upright position and address the nation...Behold I am.  He will dance and spin and all will be entranced.   Women will castrate men and men will bludgeon themselves to death with pickaxes until they are suitable for cockroach consumption and life will continue on much as it always has. The system is independent of its elements, humans are not necessary, cockroaches would uphold the system just as well.  Sil Hawkard’s mind is racing, horrible conspiracies are leaping at him from the walls like ostriches gone mad, heads palpating and seeking some soft cerebellum to penetrate.  The initial paranoia of the petroleum smoke is fading away and Sil falls into a profound haze of self absorption.   The boys continued to dance trance-like as the numbers explode at the edges of his vision.
+	Sil's story is a rather long and convoluted one and subject to enhancement on his own part, but this much is true:  At the age of twenty one Sil Hawkard discovered that while he vaguely enjoyed torturing the professors at Columbia university, most people in the United State are squares, and Sil, already an avowed anarchist was wearymaterialists whom he felt lacked the imagination and understand to really get it so to speak.  So he dropped out for a semester and bummed his way around the united states.  In the middle of the Utah desert one night in July he ingested a rather large quanity of psilosilum in the form of mushrooms.  His facination with with mind manipulation did not began with drugs though, it began much earlier in a high school biology class where he realized the simple truth that the brain is a continuously changing chemical reaction.  Thus if one wanted to escape the pattern of chemical reactions typical of human thought, one ought to change the chemistry of the brain itself.  Sil's mushroom experience was typical of innerspace voyages except for one thing, he bcame convince that ostriches held the secret to the universe and it was this discovery that led him to Africa.	                             
+		*		*		*		*		*
+	Discipline is an agent's greatest virtue, thinks Agent Tucker to himself as he draws a long and satisfying hit off the oxygen tube.  Behind him Doris Day and her Waxing Loquacious Lesbians play a sultry 60's motown number on a dimly lit stage, and the general atmosphere of 
+The Knight takes on a surreal quality.  A good bar is one where the possibilities remain endless regardless of the irrefutable realities.  Agent Tucker is well aware of the realities, but his mind is only now beginning to sense the infinite set of possibilities that comes with every new reality.  For instance when considering the overall picture of life and its universal quotient of suffering it is hard to feel pity for one’s own self.  There is not nearly enough pity in Tucker to cover even his immediate family.  He has no self pity, he considers self pity to be a symptom mental illness because it requires the ego to be divided into pitier and pitied.  He likes his ego together as one in harmony he is quite proud of this justification and it helps to ease his innate sense of self pity and focus his mind on work.  His work is the great work as a the masters would have called it.  He is a Agent of the State.  The State is not to be confused with the government as many of you would assume.  On the contrary the government is but an instrument of the State, the State is a separate entity whose ultimate identity is unknown even to Tucker; he is but an agent of it charged with ceasing the petroleum trade.  He has for months now been stalking the elusive Sil Hawkard, a man whose identity is also unknown to him, he realizes that Hawkard could well be in this very room right now planning Tucker's demise, the thought sends a cold shiver of fear down his spine and he cringes thinking again like a manta: discipline is an agent’s greatest virtue.  Agent Tucker takes another hit of the oxygen and notices the numbers exploding at the edges of his vision.  Exploding numbers are the smoker's worst fear.  Suddenly seized by the idea that Hawkard may be present, Agent Tucker nervously fingers his pistol and glances furtively around the bar.  He notes, but passes over one Sil Hawkard quietly sitting at the other end of the bar with a soda water in front of him.  Sil is also caressing his own gun and contemplating the effectiveness of the copeater he has tied in a van outside.  He watches as Agent Tucker gets up and moves toward the door Sil can see the fear in his eyes he knows that weakness has set into Tucker’s mind.  Sil reaches into his pocket and pushes the intercom button on a two way radio, he is thinking about a Keat's poem he hasn't seen since high school.  
+	So old the place was, I remember none
+	The like upon the earth: what I had seen
+	Of grey cathedrals, buttressed walls, rent towers,
+	The superannuations of sunk realms,
+	Or nature's rocks toiled hard in waves and winds,
+	Seemed but the faulture of decrepit things 
+	To that eternal doomed monument.
+	Outside in the back of the van, one of the Arab boys unchains the copeater and lets it out the back door.  Agent Tucker is opening the door to his own car with a sense of relief when he feels hot breath on his neck and a dull ache at the base of his spine, but this is fleeting and an instant later the copeater is sucking the remnants of flesh from a spinal chord, being careful not to damage the raw nerves as his masters taught him.
+	Hawkard is still inside the bar sipping quitely on his soda water, his phone rings, he pulls it out of his jacket and puts it to his ear...
+	"The Agent Tucker problem has been solved and the shipment will go through as planned."
+	"Thank you William, your services are invaluable to me, and I will wire the money first thing in the morning." Sil is smiling to himself visualizing the final horror as death met Agent Tucker.  Sil replaces the phone on its receiver and lights a cigarette.  
+	Sil hates cops....I fucking hate 'em.  I hate 'em. I hate 'em. I hate 'em.  I want to kill them all in a violent sea of time-released explosive donuts that when eaten mix with the stomach acids and explode in violent blueberrystrawberrylemon filled death.  Die pig die.  Imagine it, a million sworn upholders of THE LAW dead in an instant.  Think of the society we could have.  Think of the freedom, think of the beauty.  The sweet satisfaction of tearing down all the rotting pig gut filled doughnut shops in the nation.  No more sweaty palms.  "License and registration please."  Fuck you, never again.  Never again.  kill every cop you see --a populist revolt.  We don't need all these damn laws, the people are okay --we know how to look after ourselves.  The laws are the ones that fucked everything up the first place.  And who hurts the most people in this here little world?  The State.   A cattle car streaming over the tracks of life, slick with the blood of the people.  The train can't go up the hill because the tracks are too slippery with my guts your guts our guts.  
+Cut off by THE LAW, our heads impaled on the ends of the its tentacle-like arms as they strangling the last hold outs of resistance into pacified stupidity.  
+	The anger subsides as his mind rationalizes that at least one more is dead.  Sil picks up the phone again and dials a number the other end never rings instead a voice says: "hello?"
+	"May I speak to Captain Clark please?"
+	"I'm sorry he's not in.  May I take a message?"
+	"No. No message."  Sil hangs up the phone.  He walks to the back of the bar and flops his body onto the luxurious red velvet couch and is swept by an overwhelming sensation of peace; his mind begin to expand, and he feels the desire for more petroleum benzoates creep over his body.  It is his only weakness, the last and greatest of drugs.  The weakness of any great mind is that it is constantly aware of its greatness.  Consciousness is the death of us all, Sil thinks idly to himself as he lights a pipe under the table and discreetly sucks in a deep inhalation of petroleum benzoate.  The sticky sweet smoke that fills his lungs never fails to remind him of his first time and the decision it had forced upon him.  Anarchy is the only answer to all questions which begin with why?  whY?  wHY? WHY?  Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.  In distant memory filtering strands of DNA locked deep in Sil's cerebral cortex a vibration begins, infinitely small at first but building slowly into his medulla and finally spring forth into the part of the brain referred to as consciousness.  The cameras rolled even as the lights were dimming.
+"BRING THE PRISONER FORWARD"
+	Unrolling a weighty and sterile looking scroll of antiseptically white paper a voice whose origin is masked by the size of the paper itself reads:
+	After making reviews of the past actions, thoughts, and attributed sentiments, it is the judgement of this committee, and therefore the judgment of the government it represents, that due to a general lack of ability to perceive the options open to the work potential of the drone in question in simple terms of an x or not-x negativism which would be most helpful in these situations and would consequently decrease expenditures and lower taxes for other individuals living in said dualism and therefore we hereby decree that all metaprogramming undertaken by the 
+individual without the consent and simultaneous approval of this committee and the government it represents to be criminal in intent, hostile in action, and punishable by prison and/or death upon conception.  Thank you.  You may go.
+	Sil Hawkard is dragged from the tribunal, hands tied in front of him and legs trailing uselessly behind.  His guards use his head to open the heavy wooden door and then they dump him unceremoniously onto the filthy street where a group of children are playing.  A monkey runs by, tugging its penis with one hand and slapping its bright red ass with the other .
+
+
+
+the doctor will
+see you now
+	Teletype for corsica the agent sent in for returns,  Home office denied request for reinforcements, all communication to be ceased henceforth.  Piss in the riddle thought the old man wheeling his chair back out to the porch, he picked up a mason jar of corn whiskey and laid the shotgun across his lap.
+	The languid afternoon floated in and up the beach from the Atlantic bringing photomantages of Mandalay and the Dutch East Indies spice trade boats, far off places he had heard of only as words and imagined smells.  Up the beach from the house were the beginnings of the rocky South Carolina shoreline teeming with crabs, sponges, sea anemones, and circle swooping gulls feeding on sand crabs exposed in the fluxuating waves.  It was low tide, in fact it was always low tide or at least it seemed that way to the old man.  He was partly right, the tide was lower than it had been a year before when a man by the name of Dr. Waiben began overseeing construction of a nuclear power plant burried two miles under ground to hide its heat signature for pesky government satelites. The plant whose only enterance was from the sea, was Sil Hawkard's 
+Eastern Atlantic Trans-genetic Eectro Radiation facility and it pumped sea water in like a vacuum cleaner to cool the core of the nuclear reactor.  Officially neither Waiben nor Sil's names were attached to the plant, and its proported purpose was the rather benign cause of recycling facility.  
+	The old man stood up on the porch and paced back and forth waiting...you understand the seriousness of the matter... obviously we would not expect an ordinary agent to do such a thing...your expertise in these fields...well frankly it's unparalleled..there is no other...These orders are coming straight from the top...your cooperation is non-negotiable...
+	
+	Sil had contracted with a building company to construct the domed facility under the rather vague heading of "recycling" which provided the guise to obtain the the necessary building permits and then after it was done, he had brought in his own oil drilling teams to dig down, but it was Waiben who had set up the nuclear capabilities.  Of course one can not build a nuclear reactor without some authority noticing but that was where the eaters had come in handy. 
+	Sil decided that nuclear research was of the utmost importance and that scientists and the new scientific inquisition were making it nearly impossible for the work to be accomplished.  Naturally Sil himself did not possess the scientific background necessary for research in these fields so he brought in the Doctor.
+	Two years earlier: Dr. Waiben, pathologist of the state, surveys a long horrifically clean hallway whose smoothness is interrupted only occasionally by the presence of polished sliver knobs indicating doorways.  There are no observation windows or any other windows within the rooms.  This is the housing quarter for the derelicts of society: prostitutes, schizophrenics, lobotomy patients, drug pushers, anarchists, communists, AIDS victims, the aberrations that society never needed nor found a use for, end up here, under the care of Dr. Waiben, pathologist of the state.  The good doctor has, for twenty odd years, been the caretaker of the derelicts, charged with restoring to them a level of functionality deemed necessary by society.  He is a man who puts the cogs back into the wheel.    
+	Waiben is an expert in mind manipulation through the use of psychoactive chemicals like the Ayahuasca mushroom which he has recently fed to one whore whom the stae had deemed a "revolutionary" for her accidental particpation in an protest against the siezure of private property. Her constant screaming had disturbed the other doctors, but Waiben found them soothing in the 
+same erotic kind of way that a soft candle lit room made him desperately want to masturbate.  Regardless, he hated departmental friction so he was treating her with his standard dosage of twenty ripe Ayahuasca caps blended into a protein shake.  The girl was a fighter and she knew she didn't want the shake; he had been forced to strap her down on a table and put a low voltage cattle prod in her cunt, and even then she had held out for eighteen seconds -it was a record for the floor.
+	He watched her on a TV monitor from the station at the end of the hall.  She alternated between foaming a bloody spit out of her mouth while her eyes bulged menacingly, to sitting apparently quite peacefully on the edge of the toilet seat.  Her vital stats were typical for the dosage he had given her.  He watched with the detached apathy of those who have seen the degradation of life for twenty odd years and never thought to bat an eye toward suffering.  He panned the room camera around and noted blood and little clumps of flesh lying on the floor near the bed, he zoomed in and momentary renewed his interests as he realized that she had been picking the burnt flesh out of her cunt.  His stomach turned, not at the idea of her suffering, but at the idea that she would leave it lying about on the floor like a common animal wallowing in its own shit.  He sighed and picked up a bic lighter with a picture of Uncle Sam on it, the typical picture was warped due to the surface curvature of the lighter giving Old Sam a peculiar evil bent that Waiben admired; he lit it and held it at the base of the petroleum pipe, taking a deep and satisfying drag.  
+	Petroleum was a recent habit for Waiben, he typically avoided addictive substances out of the repulsion he felt toward people who were dependant on anything.  But with petroleum he found a peaceful state of mind that he felt might make a person more susceptible to mind control.  However, in experimenting with the drug he had accidentally developed a habit.  But since it was basically harmless -as long as he stayed away from open flames- he made no effort to quit.    	
+
+	Doctor Waiben's petroleum habit did not go unnoticed by others in his department however, and as he was already unpopular for his rather unconventional methods and ideas, it wasn't long before a doctor by the name of Kellinger reported him to the state.  In the tumultous time that was the present the good doctor was asked to resign, but did not instead he called a press 
+conference which was sadly rather ill attended, he proceeded to get up infront off the local new cameras and lauch into an anti-government rant.  he was proply arrested for "divulging state secrets and brought to trial before a hastely put together tribunal of senators and judges.
+	One person who did happen to catch the broadcast was Sil Hawkard who by this time was already not a U.S, citizen but moved through the country in underground netwroks wike the weathermen that had been around for centuries and were activated whenever enough people felt they were needed.  Sil was in a New Orlean's safe house when he heard a voice from on the televison drift up to his room...the united states government is by its own legal deffinitions, insane and therefor incapable of being held accountable for its decisions....
+	Sil bolted upright in his bed and ran down stares in time to catch the name Waiben before the camera cut out.  Two days later Sil was arrested and thrown in prison in the cell next to Waiben.  Because Sil was not a United States citizen he was merely given a lecture and thrown bodily out of the building, but he made a deal with Waiben --research these subjects and I will get you out....
+	Doctor Waiben was something of an anomaly among scientists, he enjoyed being proved wrong because it saved him the trouble of having to prove anything right.  Waiben was one of the unique individuals of this century that understood that when you open one door its real value is not what is behind it but whether or not there are any more doors that revel themselves to the researcher.  He did not suffer from what Robert Wilson calls the New Inquisition.  This term is a catch phrase for those that try to make a belief system stand up with scientific legs, when in fact science is a tool or method of research, it is amoral.  Science does not believe anything because it is not a thing, it is a language.  I quote from Wilhelm Reich in Hell: There is also argument by Logic.  This can sometimes be combined with scientific experiments and if the two mesh we have a "fit" of theory with fact and scientists are delighted.  Pure Argument by Logic, however does not require this experimental back up and only demands that the conclusions by reached by the game-rules of an abstract symbol system. In our hypothetical case, some witness might inform congress: 
+All mome raths need to be distimmed; 
+All frammisgoshes are mome raths; therefore;
+all frammisgoshes need to be distimmed 
+	This so-called transitive property has led scientists into the same dead end alley of faith that religion finds itself in, I have faith in science the mad man rants on silver screens... Waiben, like Sil, did not have the semantic virus that infects the mass of mankind and Sil thought he might be just the man to cure the bug in the rest of the population.  He had built for Waiben four research facilities one in Mandalay which was devoted to semantic research and verbal anomalies, the biologic research facility in Las Vegas devoted to inter-organism research, a non-local mind-body facility in Buenos Aries, and the one in North Carolina for inter atomic structure research.  Sil had cured himself  with a rather haphazard method of self-experimentation with chemical, wavelength and various energy manipulation technics; Waiben on the other hand seemed to have never had the virus in the first place which was why Sil respected and fear him.  Sil had learned to step back --transmission deemed irrelevant given overwhelming incoming signal that sweeps across all frequencies, visual, audio, chemical, and physical.  There are five senses, sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell, and only four signal sources; both smell and taste are chemical reactions with tissue that are then turned into different chemical reactions in the brain.  Thus the chemical input takes on a greater role suggesting perhaps that additional chemical experimentation is warranted.  Perhaps? perhaps not.  Quien Sabe?
+	
+
+
+
+	Sil however realized that until such time as the doors are open one might as well input positive frequencies which is why he found himself sitting on a porch in Mandalay, scotch whiskey and cocaine laid out like an offering before him, Chloe and maya were having sex on a couch behind him and he heard them orgasming as he sniffed a long line of coke and stood up to refill his glass....
+	
+The good doctor spent the better part of the day in an oxygen pure environment subjecting himself the recuperative acupuncture therapy his muscles were stimulated one by one with needle pricks while an orgone generated hummed steadily in the corners.  The pre-programmed alpha waves stimulated his bodies brain functions that were healing in nature and as the experiment went on electro graphs of brain activity mapped the centers stimulated and was compared with the frequency emitted until each frequency had its effects defined and clearly mapped.
+	Needless to say this was not effective in the field so the theory then presented itself how can you produce those effects through chemical instead of electrical stimuli.  Mapping the effects of chemical stimuli was naturally Waiben’s favorite part of the job.  Which is why he and Sil were such good friends --because chemical stimulation of the brain acts at different frequencies then orgone --ones that drove people insane in self destruction.  No one said the doors to the chapel perilous wouldn't be guarded.  addiction is the first to rear its ugly head the word is obliterated by the need.  need is driven by re action, the brain is taught to feel a certain sensation and because evolution was some effective the brain learns to cope and adjust to fit the new reality.  Thus it reacts to the stimuli by negating its effects and like the man in the floppy hat said it never got weird enough for me.
+	avoiding addiction is no easy task --you're up against over ten thousand years of terrestrial survival instincts that are no longer needed.  But shedding them is the damnedest thing like the Kimono dragons continually picking at the dead flesh that refuses to leave the beast that it was once a part of.     
+	Sil taps out cocaine on Chloe's nipples and drags his tongue in circles around sweeping powder and nipple into his mouth maya nose glides a velvet straw along the line on Chloe's stomach...
+
+
+
+         *                     *                  *                      *
+
+
+	"Pterodactyl winged birds flew overhead and the ground was squirming the way heat waves shimmer the horizon.  The Fort at San Juan rose distinctly to my left as if my subconscious were unabashed stealing its imagery from Salvador Dali.  I licked my fingers and and found them to be an interesting Teriyaki-lemon flavor quite unlike anything I had ever tasted before.  I looked at my shoes and realized I was standing on a giant skeleton key which I somehow knew was to the old Fort at San Juan.  I tried to pick it up and carry it to the door but it was much to heavy for one man.  In the distance I could see a bus approaching and felt as though I had been waiting for it the whole time.  It pulled up next to me and all my college friends were gesturing for me to come aboard.  The door opened."
+
+		Two years before on the west coast Maya Stevens is also hating the public, in her case however it is due to overexposure.  She is beginning to think that perhaps Skinner was right maybe there only are eight different kinds of people in the world.  She is sitting at a table chain smoking and waiting for William.  He told her to write whatever she saw if he was late, well fuck him, writing it down was too much effort it took all she had not to kill them all in some kind of horrifically violent frenzy of sexual energy.  Sex and violence, she smiled that's what these people need --sex and violence.  She feels the rage building.  Writing is therapeutic, that must be what William meant when he said write he meant get out the anger, get out the seething molten rage without going to jail.  Maya picks up the pen she had stolen from the bookstore and begins to record the people as they pass her on the street...Dr Waiben's plane is touching down two years away....
+	And the Galaxy girl walks down the street, boyfriend in tow, brown stomach seductively bare, midriff shirt.  They're meeting friends later at the gate hanging ten feet high down town.  She and her shirt with GALAXY GIRL written in glittering silver, would like to get drunk, high on little golden yellow pills, and float in the ecstasy of swirling music.  Who wouldn't?  Maya thinks 
+about Chloe and candles and wine and glittering golden sheets and the smell of incense and opium smoke floating across the room.   She raised her head and saw Chloe seated on silvery blue satin pillows.   Maya's arms shook slightly as her hand nervously ran up Chloe's stomach and circled her nipples.  Maya grabbed the chain that held Chloe's nipples and tugged causing her to gasped and press her breasts against her own.  She felt Chloe's hard nipples rubbing against her chest sending tremors down her spine and an aching contraction gripped her pussy.  Maya's pussy contracts in realtime and seers her back to the chair the table the extent of our known reality.  
+	She looks up as three marines drive smiling and pointed in a squarish red truck (marines de reguir) desperately hoping for some sweet young girl to cross the street coming back from the beach.  Stoplights are a woman’s worst nightmare.  Catcalls. Warbles, like sex crazed crows float up the street.  Victim.  Hoping for a smile of a acknowledgement to insincere flattery.  Them squirming in their truck.  Hey baby... Marines cruising for cunt.  Any cunt will do Maya thinks disgustedly.  If you want to jack off in something warm and wet why not just use the shower?  Why involve women at all?
+	And they keep walking by as she begins to wander if maybe William isn't going to show at all, but there is the aging club girl with bright cherry lips painted extra red by the contrast in her black leather jacket eyeing her.  Maya stares blankly back at her picturing the memories in her mind.  The girl sits slouched in a chair as if resigned that she will never make it back to New York.  CBGB’s.  Those were the good days.  Now its just slouched days in slouched chairs cigarette aimed skyward dreaming of darkness and the wild seductive wails of guitar (what was that blonde guys name?) the rhythmic pounding of the beat forcing its way into your chest, the throb, the guttural appeal of all things taboo and enticing.  Maya giggles at the stupidity of attributing anything so noble as nostalgia to someone who probably doesn't even know what CBGB’s was.  	The surfer and his girl stroll by, her breasts spilling out of the too small top, losing its Herculean battle to save the world from nudity.  They wander into the cafe for snacks, drinks, to gorge the thirst induced by the haughtless sun now carving the end of its tyrannical arc.  They order designer water and leave.
+	The tired shopkeeper is out smoking her obscenely thin cigarettes again (excuse me is there any tobacco in those?).  She smokes constantly pausing only to give a tired answer to the same tourists she has to stare at day after day.  An endless reminder that they, not her, are the ones enjoying life.  Too many of them day after day year after year look look looking never buying.  The Leather Connection doesn’t do a lot of business on hot spring days.  Nor is it the kinky sort of fetish shop you might hope for.  Not even any leather in the windows.  She moves her lips mumbling incoherences intelligible only to herself.   She lights another cigarette.  Get some thicker smokes, they’ll last longer Maya wants to shout.  But she can tell the woman's not the type to take unsolicited advise.  Besides Maya is shifting into first person and writing without pause now:
+	The sharp eyed Asian hawk sitting behind me closes her purse, pen safely secured inside.  She licks stamps and affixes them to postcards.  Notes for those at home.  “Jenny: LA is great -warm sunny.  I’m having a great time.  Remind me to tell you about this guy Bill I met the other day.  Take care of yourself.  Say hi to Tom for me.  Love....”
+	Families wander by looking for a nice place to eat.  The neon signs offer Mexican Italian Greek food, “but we need a children's menu.”  “Tommy’s only nine, he can’t eat a whole meal himself.”   “Do you think they could split a dinner, I’m not very hungry myself?” “You brought the credit card right?” “No, but I’ve still got some cash left over from breakfast this morning.  “Wasn’t that a charming little place?” “What was it called?”  “Lets go there again before we leave.”
+	The locals, the non-travelers, the doomed-forever-to-live-in-one-placers stream by in shinny cars coming home from work in THE BIG CITY.  Their flimsy soda can Japanese cars that look as if a good size bird could, with decent aim, crush the plastic colored roofs.   The locals drive with windows up and frowns turned down.  “Did I remember to e-mail that memo to Tony at the office in Chicago?  I wonder what sort of crap Diane cooked for dinner tonight?  She is the worst cook.  What happened to that tri-tip on Friday?  I wouldn’t have known what is was if I hadn’t bought it myself.   Dave and Linda smiled and said it was delicious the lying bastards. don’t encourage her she might actually believe she can cook.  Dave probably just wants to sleep with her.  That whore.  I wonder if she’s fooling around behind my back?  She never wants to have sex 
+anymore.  Its always the same routine.  Me still dripping from a shower her reading some book I crawl onto of her . ‘Not tonight honey I’m to tired.’  I wait till she’s fast a sleep and sneak down to the kitchen reach behind the fridge and pull out the nudie magazines and --off quietly to the bathroom.  I wonder what Diane would look like in tight leather, probably fat. She still hasn’t lost all the wait from the pregnancy.  God its been what like eighteen months Justin’s starting to walk for christsakes.  The light is green, fucking traffic.”  The typical suburbian woes.
+	Fog is settling in from the hills meeting up with banks rolling in from the sea, threatening the star’s view, tiny windows of the gods peeping in watching our silly games in continued amusement.  (“they keep doing it every night”)   Reminding me of San Francisco, the golden gate after sundown glowing like it were Apollos chariot itself.  Proudly beckoning the traveler with tale of endless wanderlust -out here the final frontier come swim discover secrets hidden from mankind...Come the sharks are hungry.  The mashing of teeth and bone the tearing of flesh.  	A bitter couple take a seat behind me. “out here in the great outdoors the largest smoking section in America.”  Amen brother.  Places out of reach of the spreading TYRANTS OF HEALTH.  Would you like extra grease on that steak?  Why, yes please.  Breakfast in Memphis, eggs pancakes toast slices of orange parsley, juice and a happy go lucky waiter offering free Sprite?  Why, yes please and keep it coming.  William could I borrow your lighter? Certainly.  Cigarettes coffee and more open road that's what I need.   Bad coffee, bad roads full of chuckholes and entire lanes wiped out in flood, and of course really good cigarettes, that's what I really need -enough of this damn city.
+	The eastern couple hesitates on the steps below he Indian she Asian.  Such a wonderfully raceless baby they could have.  We need a worldwide orgy to end racial differences.  End racism, fuck a foreigner!  And of course end culture, diversity and everything interesting about people.
+	I would not fuck you in Thailand/ I would not fuck you in a plane over Japan.  One of Dr. Suess’ lesser known couplets.  
+	Maya puts down her pen and lights another cigarette.  She contemplates that effectiveness of writing as a release of anger, it doesn't work, she is thinking --now I just know why I want to 
+kill them.  She leaves the table and jumps on the bus headed into the city.  I'll call Chloe she thinks.  The sun is setting and several miles out at sea a trident Nuclear submarine is preforming manoeuvres in preparation for a war that most people don't believe will really happen.  Maya knows nothing about the submarine, nothing about the eaters, nothing about petroleum, nothing about dancing cockroaches, and nothing about a man who goes by the name of Dr. Waiben.
+
+		*		*		*		*		*
+	
+	"I find myself surrounded on all sides.  Everyone these days is completely obsessed with The Bizarre.  So much so that nothing really is The Bizarre anymore.  Yuppies ride Harleys and frequent bondage parlors on the weekends while pulling in double incomes of 150K during the week scurrying from house to latte to work to the onceaweekmatrimonialassfucking.  This is not bizarre this is vaudevillian comedy gone real life.
+	You need bizarre, truly bizarre.  You need circus freaks castrating themselves on the street corners and pimps shooting heroin in there balls while screaming whores accost their long dead mothers in hotel rooms cockroach won’t set foot in while lawyers sit on the roof television antenna protruding from there limbs as policemen ritualistically torture themselves gouging out there own eyeballs to avoid the scene below them.
+	<<<We the people who govern you the people we rule do with heavy hearts sanctimoniously declare...>>>>
+	Sil Hawkard is lighting the petroleum filled huca once again he thinks of the pastpresentfuture as a continually unfolding singularity which can be viewed from points within time or from Nuit outside of the system.  He lifts the phone to his ear and dials William to see about the numbers...
+	William's phone is ringing half way around the world in a slum neighbor hood in Los Angeles California, but Maya is too tired to get it and Sil leaves a voice mail message thus missing his first contact with the Queen of Numbers.
+	"The bus stopped and I got on board the driver was a stick figure that I had drawn in the fourth grade with his head between his legs and his balls on top of his spine.  We took off across a dry lake bed leaving the fort at Old San Juan in the haze of desert road dust.  It was going fast for bus so fast I remember becoming alarmed and thinking that we were in danger of bending the SpaceTime perhaps more sharply than I was accustomed to.  True to my fears or perhaps as a result of them a balloon in the shape of Einstein's head became to approach from the distance until it gently floated through the window and attached itself to the head of a seagull and began squacking about approach velocities or viscosities and other nonsense I didn't understand, but the kid next to me started feeding it alka seltzers and William Tell began to chase it around screaming seagulls! seagulls!  Einstein appeared quite disturbed by the process and began to vomit out great multicolored spears of glass that formed a giant 3-D Kaleidoscope that drifted in midair like a mobile.  Seek beauty Seek BEAUTY!  Einstein squacked and then the driver blasted the head off with a shotgun and Einstein disintegrated into multicolored bits.  It was quite beautiful like the fourth of July.  Do you understand what I'm getting at here?"
+
+	"I’m sorry I’m late,”  William opens the door out of breath
+	“I wrote you a poem, and the phone rang but I didn't get it .  Do you think that I'm going out on a limb by saying that an ancient skeleton remains from a Tunisian oil field seem to show trace elements of Psilocybin in the molecular structure of the bone."
+	"Slow down woman one thing at a time.  I like the poem,” he says glancing at a three line couplet of Suessian origins.  “Let me check the message....Psilocybin in a fossil bone...Is it human?”
+	"Of course its human who cares if rats have that shit in 'em I want to know if we ever did."
+	"Have you been reading McKenna again?  William yells from the bedroom over the distant sound of Sil Hawkard’s voice encoded message.
+	"No, but the one time I did made a lot of sense.  Do you think Pete could get me Ayahuasca?
+	"Pete can get you just about anything but my friend Sil called so I've got to go to a remote phone and call him back what time do you think it is in Tunisia?
+	"I don't know.  Wait you didn't answer my question what about the skeletons?
+	"Are you making this shit up or has it been found by anthropologists?"
+	"As if that lends it some sort of credibility?  Their PhD's mean they can't possibly be lying right?"
+	"Are you that paranoid?"
+	"That's not paranoia, that's  the language of power."
+	Maya is lying on the couch rainydayranting in the sun about the link between Psilocybin and human seratonin, it is her theory that the mushrooms that now contain Psilocybin were once a fungus whose primary host was the human skin.  The peculiar flesh disease was in fact our link to nirvana, and as it evolved it found us unnecessary for its survival so it evolved into the more independent form it takes today --the mushroom.  She doesn't necessarily believe it, but she has fun tormenting William's mind with the possibility. 
+	"The thing is, is that for any set of equations there is an infinite possibility of solutions I'm not trying to say this is the right solution, I'm just trying to point out that it is one of the possibilities and I can't understand why someone like you would dismiss it solely on the basis that it does not fit your model of reality. Does this mean that you've come to have beliefs?"
+	"Belief is the death of thought'"
+	"That's great, you're well read, but you're not living what you know to be true so what's the fucking point of knowing?"
+	"That is the point of knowing, if you know that you can't know anything then you ought to equally realize that you can't know that you don't know anything."
+	"What the fuck are you trying to say?"
+	"I'm trying to say that we're all waiting for Godot to get back, and I think that there is no us, there is no waiting, and there certainly is no Godot.  The facts are events happening at a point in time and they can only be observed from the point at which they occur, all attempts to 
+reconstruct them after the point are futile and doomed to failure, you can not escape the fact that you are bounded by time, you are doomed to exist in the present.  You can recall the past or think and plan for the future but you will never be there."
+	"Thank you Einstein, but you're defeating your own argument which was that Ayahuasca was never part of the human metabolism because its outside of your sphere of observation, but that doesn't mean that as an event it never happened."
+	"Right. It just means I wasn't there to observe it."
+	"So would you like to try it to see if maybe observing it first hand gives you a better point from which to observe the facts of the event?  I think you may find that time is not so rigid of a boundary as you might think.  Time is inside you, not around you and you can program the human mind just like you can program any other computer."
+	"If you're really interested in meta-programing and mind control you should go down to Fahrenheit tonight and hear this guy Dr. Waiben lecture.  He's an expert on that shit.  He's that official pathologist of the state and according to Sil, head of the psychotropic/biological warfare and mind control division out in Nevada."
+	"When?"
+	"I don't know I gotta go the flyers on the nightstand I think...." he shuts the door behind him.
+	
+		*		*		*		*		*
+
+	     Television was Waiben's idea and he was quite proud of it. The emission of a steadily pulsing signal from a transmitter within the individuals' home was low-grade mind control  --quite passively making them think less or not at all.  But it had an unexpected and quite satisfying side effect --low level blue wavelength energy has a draining and hypnotic effect of the cerebral cortex of the average human brain.  Waiben used to drive the suburbs around nine o'clock just watching the eerie blue glow coming from the hundreds of thousands of houses he had infected.  
+He like to think of television as a virus because in many respects it was; like virus it was benign until the right electrical connection from the host triggered its disease.  Like virus it was passed from one generation to the next, and like a virus its spread was exponential.  The greatest fallout for television though was quite unintended by Waiben, it had radically reoriented the global mindset from isolated consumption into total slavery to fashion and consumption, the the fastest and most effect way of controlling a large population was to make it genuinely believe that it own enslavers were in fact its heros, thus eliminating or at the very least coopting resistors and making them use the channels of oppression as their only outlet for resistance.  Much like controlling any signal, resistors insurrectionists and radicals were diverted by capacitors (“the media”)  and squelched by resistors (“the police”)  Thus the people remained happy and content with their oppression and no one was able to convince them to give up the convenience of slavery for the freedom of hardship.  Wouldn’t you?
+	It wasn't enough though; true mind control would leave the victim unable to disobey the signal or ideally, unaware that he or she were even being controlled --like Christ reborn, Waiben thinks of the old con artist sitting laughing from con artist heaven. 
+	Sub-audio messages are below the threshold of human hearing, but not that of comprehension.  It is the noise of someone thinking.  Listening in is just a matter of having the right receptors, psychics and clairvoyants had been doing it as circus tricks for centuries.  With practice Waiben had taught himself to receive some peoples signals, but what he needed to figure out was  how to create a sub-audio language whose broadcast could actually be controlled and directed like an ordinary radio signal.  Telepathy is an interpersonal form of radio, and using the general theories of chaos, what is true for one system should be relatively the same in another if only the signal amplitude is being changed, the problem was that even subtle changes in input can cause radical oscillations in output...somewhere a butterfly is beating its wings and changing world history.  
+	The granddaddy of all his research would be that day when he could say definitively that he had a method for true and total mind control.  It was this quest that had led him back to his 
+lab in Las Vegas where tonight he is planning to induce mind alteration and manipulation with the legendary Ayahuasca which contains a harmine that some believe bonds directly with human DNA.  In the good doctor's mind that meant opening up a channel directly into the cellular level, allowing for deep meta-programming and possibly a key for using nanotechnology --but that's to complicated right now.  Think of it as inter-cellular radio he told his colleagues who mostly ignored his fanatical rantings.
+	Stupid fucking scientists he is thinking. I hate 'em I hate 'em I hate 'em I fucking hate 'em.  They spend there whole goddamn lives studying the brilliant thoughts culled from centuries of genius's without ever stopping to think that maybe genius lurks in there own minds.  Ingrates. Ought to have been stamped out with the rest of the conservative christian movements, they have no understanding of novelty.   If it hasn't been done a hundred times before they won't even talk about it let alone attempt to experiment with it.
+	Paging Dr. Waiben. Dr. Waiben please come to Lab 203. Dr. Waiben  Lab 203.
+	What the fuck have those morons done now?  Probably killed one of themselves by mistake.  Lab 203 was of course the antidote lab for the biological warfare experiments he had been conducting back east.	
+	
+	Nine hundred miles east Sil Hawkard boards a jet bound for his Tunisian oil fields in the cargo hold of the private plane is a capsule containing the genetic coding of a man who went by the name of Agent Tucker, whom Chase is planning to update into Agent Fucker a man of many talents.
+	"We should figure out how to make his neck come out of his ass so he shits out his mouth."
+		"I don't know if now is the right time for you to be doing this it can bond to your DNA it can open up your mind in ways I don't think your able to envision yet,  it'll blow your life apart and turn it inside out and once you're there you can never came back."
+	"Just give me the stuff, I've done LSD, and mushrooms and lots of shit."
+	"Alright but let me tell you something so that later when your trying to make sense out of it all you can think about this:  there is no more firmament."
+	"There is no more Firmament?  Okay."
+	Maya takes the vial of Ayahuasca tea and leaves Pete's apartment she wants to share it with William but is afraid that he will send her on a bad trip.   She heads to Old Cary Downs house and he opens the door wearing nothing...
+	"I was just...you can come in but take off your clothes first I'm having a naked party."  Maya enters and sees no one.  Cary sits down in front of a tape machine he hits play and the walls disappear.  
+<<<<<<<<<begin transmission ghf8672y101003:41:04 PM03⌘		03	0323xZDFß∂ƒ©˙¥®´∑¨^øøπππ“π“∫∫~∫∫Ω≈ç√∫~µ≤≥÷⌘12430315	0315
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+03:41:04 PM1023
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+åß∂ƒ©˙∆˚¬…æ
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+æΩ≈ç≈√∫~µ≤≥÷-Oct 03, 2015«« `	¡™£¢∞§¶•ªº–≠123235⌘031515	10 10
+230323tyiyiu
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+ƒ¥†∆†^˙˚∆^¥¥†∆˙ƒ˙©©∆˙˙˙˙ƒƒƒ©©©©©©©©∞§§¶•ª•ªª§∞§∞¢£¢£∞¶§¶∞¶§∞¶§∞¶§§¥†ƒ©∆˙©ƒ∆¥ƒ∂˙©√µ∆~√©ƒ≈߃∂≈Ω˙©∆˙熃∂ߥ®ƒ√˚∆©¨¥†ƒ∂	\03:41:04 PM
+1515
+151515	©ƒ†ƒ˙©¥¥©¨ƒ∆ÁËÂËÁÊÌÁÔÓÔÓÌÁËÁÁÊË„ÎÏ◊ıÙÇ ÓÔ‰ÊÏÁËÈض§•ª–º–≠§Ê¶Á•ÔÈØ
+2403
+,
+24/,68487654321>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
+
+	"I slept fitfully under a moonless sky dreaming of a stale, smoky bar's liquor-stained floors and a headless horsemen riding like Icarius out of the fiery sun-gilded gates of hell.  The headless horseman swerved and bore down on the I that is me with menacing intent, jolting me out 
+of my dream and into a sleepnonsleep trance on the isthmus of reality.  The horseman dismounted and knocked metaphorically on the nylon tent door.  I was bewildered and in my heavy-lidded gaze saw a man with no head standing outside the mesh doorway.  Closer inspection revealed a pair of blinking eyes peering at me from where the neck tie should have been; without the neck they seemed appropriate in a way that only Jules Verne could have understood.  A hand slipped out from the waist and motioned for me to rise. I climbed clumsily out of my sleeping bag kicking it to the bottom of the tent and crouching down under the low ceiling, I unzipped the door and carefully stepped over my pillow and out onto the the red Utah sand.   The headless horseman motioned for me to sit on a log and pulled out a long stick of cinnamon, he lit it and inhaled through a button hole in his chest.  I sat down on a log opposite him and staring eye-level at the cinnamonette and I began to appreciate the sheer size of the horseman and realized that even without his head, the horseman was taller than me..."
+	In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh by a cacophonous blast out of heaven's pearly cum-stained ass creating the father, the son, and the holy spigot which lies  in a secluded garden on the cliffs overlooking the Sargasso sea.  The spigot is buried in a volcano designed by Czech ostriches in the eleventh hour of creation to drain all human excrement off the continent of Europe and into the Sargasso sea all lumpy with turd so thick Jesus "conny" Christ in drag is walking along to the amazement of the gullible, floating gently from turd to turd.  The piss blood of a million cunts and cocks line the shores giving the whole place a radioactive iridescent red glow not to mention a awful stench.  Mr. Rogers and Captain Kangaroo are standing on the bluffs watching the spectacle and scanning with hawk eyes for sweet tight asses in which they can stab their hungry cocks.  The father caught the son sitting in the middle of the garden sucking on an apple and he became enraged and hog tied the boy and penetrated every orifice in his body with a peeled and sculpted cucumber cock; the boy was left a whimpering quivering lump of fleshy jello from which spawned humankind.
+	The piss gut rotting flesh smell, air taunt necked and jerking at the nose, the captain's eyes role back into his head as is guts are blasted out his ass by a giggling man headed tape worm 
+of extraordinary wit who was prone to quoting Joyce and Bugs Bunny in the same sentence in a way that reminded listeners of Buster Keaton in some strange drugstore hurricane kind of a way.  The skatolic odor was rich and the worm refused to bath.  Owing to the peculiar nature of its origin the soldiers did not disturb the worm preferring instead to watch the captain writhe in agony pulling his legs back behind his ear to attempt to lick the matted blood soaked pubic hair over the the torn orangish flesh that hung in ribbons over a large hole that had once been a simple anus.  The upshot of it all was that the worm ate less rations than the captain so the men were basically satisfied with the arrangement and they followed the worm wiggling through the jungle as it did impersonations of Fred Astaire...
+	Blasted rot gut con-artist with ten huge molars running across the front of his mouth in a clump owing to his mother's industrial accident with the cunt acid from the chink's hyperdrill.  Drilled right on through back to china, the asshole couldn't even close the damn thing and the lower mandible just kind of hung there like a tire swing.  Maya spits in his face in disgust and revulsion you don't have enough money for me to kiss you there isn't enough money on the planet...
+	The giggling Hyenas are dressed in black and high on amphetamines looking to turn you inside out.
+	Tongue-tied porn queens scream obscenities at passersby "I'll suck your dick until your eyeballs pop out your ass..."
+	Blown newspapers and advert scrapes cover the bottom three feet of a brick wall like sardines neatly packed in a kipper snack tin from a 1983 supermarket shelf and William is lighting a petroleum pipe behind a school yard where two children shot each other in the asshole with dart guns until the weaker one screamed "uncle!"
+	<<<<<<<<<<end transmission>>>>>>>>>>
+	An old man with a sickly grey beard and a ridiculous suit was sitting where the horseman had been.  His hand was out of sight down his pants and the other wagged a long finger at me and he began to jerk his cock screaming i want you i want YOU i WANT YOU!  Eventually I 
+slouched over against a tree and slept the rest of the night soundly.  I awoke with a start, sweating profusely in the glare of the midday Utah sun.  Struggling to my feet and I stretched my arms overhead as if to grasp the immensity of the deep, almost purple, sky.  I remembered the arrival of the headless horseman and the sense of telepathic communication it had given me.  The campsite was covered with horse tracks and it appeared the headless horseman had left in the same direction he came from.  There was no sign of how the bearded man had arrived or departed there was only a gooey clump of sand where he had come on the ground."
+	Outside the streets are cluttered with wind-junk blown in fifty odd miles from the desert and clinging to the stuccoed buildings like piles.  Whores prance at the street corner; occasionally a car swoops in a carnivorous vulture to a road kill, sucking up the promise vacuum cleaner style in a way Hoover himself never have dared dream possible.
+	One is in a shop window tugging idly at her clit and occasionally spreading her fleshy lips at passersby, she shifts on her pillow and evidence of past customers dribbles timelike out of her ass.  Pete watches in idle fascination.  Disturbance up the street; an old woman is battering a man with her false teeth stuck on the end on a cane... The teeth leave jagged cuts and tears on the man's face threatening to turn it pock scarred like Jared Towers' whose father once chased him a around the house with a meat cleaver when the boy was caught masturbating to a picture of the Virgin Mary.  Pete recalls Jared telling him that he could hold back from climaxing by thinking about meat cleavers and consequently in trying to discourage him from having sex, his father had created a sexual machine capable of satisfying women for hours on end.  Jared was a legend among the whores, most of whom would have slept with him for free, but of course professionalism required them to charge.  Jared was rumored to have a twelve inch cock, thick as a flashlight, Pete winces as he considers him own cock shriveled down to two inches by the biting cold of the public restroom.  
+	A whore from up the street walks in to wash the cum off her face in the sink.  I never seen so much cum and outta such a small dick!  She looks squarely at Pete, screws up her face and says you want one too?  Twenty five to swallow, thirty on the face.  For fifty I'll spit it back in 
+your mouth.  No?  Well I have this one guy who loves it and most people don't know about that option so I like to offer it up front.  Pete smiles and leaves.
+
+		It is here with in these four walls that American realize their final manifest destiny.  It is here that we have struggle so hard to get.  The twentieth century Horatio Alger is the Maytag man and a used car dealer rolled into one.
+	Horatio Alger's sodomizing menage-a-toi with the Maytag Man and Uncle Sam has led us to train station on the SpaceTime line where freedom is an irrelevant inconvenience of language that is slowly being fazed out of history.  Language is a virus. The i that is You speaks, I speak and the vibrations of air we create controls our every move.  Science gives rise to Magic in the form of powerful papers that tell who what why and how you are to be.  You can't march down to city hall to protest without a permit filed ahead of time with the city clerk.  You can't drive an automobile without the Proper Papers.  You can't leave the country without PAPERS, you can't perform honest labor without PAPERS.  You can't buy or grow certain pharmaceuticals at all, nor can you pursue the happiness of your choice unless it falls into one category.  Consumption.  We are all free to consume, which when you think about it, is the only freedom we really need in a CONSUMER SOCIETY.  Televisions, radios, automobiles, washing machines, drying machines, refrigerators, freezers, ovens, microwave ovens,  convection ovens, alarm clocks, computers, headphones, home furnishings, bicycles, video games, tennis shoes, laser disc players, DVD players, record players, compact disc players, cordless telephones, wireless phones, digital phones, cellular phones, two way radios, short wave radios, car stereos, home stereos, and every accessory you can conceive of and millions more you couldn't.  We have all the entertainment and modern conveniences in the world in our home each assessable at our fingertips when ever you chose.  Which is a good thing because the minute you step out of your house some OFFICAL OF THE STATE is going to want to see some goddamn-papers-on-the-double-what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here-cough-up-the-fee-place-your-hands-behind-your-head-you-have-the-right-to-remain-silent-lie-down-and-spread-your-legs-and-shut-the-fuck-up-right-fucking-now sir!
+	Uncle Sam came on the ground and left without a trace.  Horatio and Maytag were emotionally tormented for years until there eventual deaths through ritualistic dismemberment.
+	And I don't have any papers standing on a cement sidewalk slab starring at the FREEDOM OF AMERICA locked inside a now closed appliance store.  The Ace Appliance Store to be precise.  I feel suddenly nervous like they know what I am thinking.  They know that I am thinking.  
+	-He's not smiling. Oh no, not yet, we're working on it though.-
+	We the people we govern you the other people have decided for reasons which are beyond the scope of this broadcast and may well be beyond the scope of your comprehension entirely that all freedoms which you previously thought you had but never in reality did possess are summarily denied from this point forward.  Please report to the nearest biomedical programing center by the fourth of May where a new human program biounity 3.6 will be installed into your seratonin and allow for future dopemine programing without the need for physical intervention please go about your lives as you always have all those not present for the reprogramming procedures by the fourth of May will be consider fugitives of the state and will be dealt with in the harshest manner allowed by law and endorsed by the entertainment loving public...
+		Textbook introduction to Linguistics as  Maya heard at the lecture  in the slum district of Berkeley California.  The sixties were molded to create confusion and remind the people of the comfort the felt they had once felt in the peaceful emptiness of the 1950's.  Stupidity is a drug and I am on it thought Maya.  She sipped more of her  tea and watched the speaker's DNA evolve into something more Avian in appearance .  Suddenly he raised his wings like the hooded sirius hawk of Uri Gellars nightmares and turned his head to the side as if to receive some kind of outside signal
+	<<<Extinguish all rational thought>>>"
+	He's parroting William Burroughs, she laughed to herself and then the voice narrowed its frequency range and began to become two separate voices at the same time.  Oh shit thought Maya he knows about tongues, she looked again at the flyer that William had given her, it read: 
+Speaking on the subjugation of minority races by mind control speaker Dr. Waiben 2:45 rain or shine.
+	Fragments of ash are falling falling falling......
+	Elsewhere a frog hiccups and the premier of Angola nervously fingers his new found nuclear release button dug up by archaeologists looking for the queens underwear we find pig tails and decapitated cats arranged in ceremonial fashion the smoke is unbearable like Milan Kundera's ashes filtered through a sieve and mixed with two cups of cold chicken stock to form surrealist soup.
+	Circus freaks are castrating themselves on the street corners pimps shooting heroin in their balls while screaming whores accost their long dead mothers in hotel rooms cockroachs wouldn't set foot in while lawyers sit on the roof television antennae protruding from there limbs as policemen ritualistically torture themselves gouging out there own eyeballs to avoid the scene below them.
+	"The world’s end was at my doorstep.  A white hot light had flashed civilization out.  Cities ran as great metalglassconcrete rivers of deathdisfiguremanglement.  Citizen’s charred limbs protruded like rocks that were floating with the stream.  The searing smell of burning flesh darted through the hazy yellow air.  A great clock tower was dripping time from its hands and Maya saw herself arms severed and lying by her side.  Her face had been burned off and eyes dissolved.  Her head was upturned and its jaw hung down swinging stupidly in the yellow flesh burning air.  Time was pooling in her mouth and dribbling done her chin like come."
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+Chapter Two
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+
+
+	The plane touched down with Sil clutching the seat, it wasn’t that he feared flying it was that he feared commercial airline pilots.  Too many pill do not make for steady hands.  He always breathed easier on his own jet but when landing on US territory that was not an option.  Sil generally did not come into the the united police state he had other people run these errands for him, but Waiben himself had called this meeting and insisted that it be at the Knight and that the transfer of technology must be done in the flesh.  Waiben had promised to give him something pertinent to your line of work he had said in a heavily encrypted email two days before.  Sil had been in Bangkok recruiting mercenaries and whores he enjoyed the company of whores even when he wasn’t horny, they like him had no pretensions of honesty or goodness, they were whores and he was a sultan or so he fancied it as he stepped off the plane and into the east Texas night.  The McAllen airport still sported the old ladder exits, no air-conditioned luxuries.  He was greeted by a government car which whisked him off toward New Orleans.  Sil never flew into major commercial airports, far to risky to many hero cop types hell bent of memorizing the pictures of every “bad guy”  that came of the wire and while Sil was pretty sure that no one was looking for him it just wasn’t worth the risk.
+	“Mind if i smoke a little petroleum”
+	“No sir the Dr. gave me some to give, you he figured you would want it.”
+	Sil shuddered mentally.  “How long will it be before New Orleans?”
+	“probably get there by sunrise”
+	Seven hours, perfect for a puff or two and some dream time.
+	
+	*		*		*		*		*
+
+	<My god sir Mercuries in retrograde and Saturns looking a bit piqued looks like heranus is the place to be.  Johnson this is serious business no time for puns! good god man what the hell is wrong with you?! Now getback in there and pull Sirius back so mercury levels off or were going to have worldwide epidemic of assfucking>>>>>This is Ted Kopel...Millions of women world wide can not sit down to day do to a near hysterical episode of ass fucking that in inexplicably broke out around eight EST last night reporting live from Bangkok heres Richard Gere....Thank you Ted <sound effects of screaming and grunts pigs> as you can see behind me the assfucking still hasn't let up oooohhh that's gotta hurt <closeup handheld camera shot of a man being fucked in the ass by a horse> lets see if we can get a word in <moves up to man> sir how does it feel to get fucked in the ass by a horse?  We'll i tell ya Richard it takes some getting used to but everybody's gotta make a buck somehow! You mean you're getting paid? Ehy yes of course this is my job I am THE MAN WHO TAKES IT IN THE ASS FROM HORSES.  I have a cable show starting next month on the Family Channel, followed hopefully by a live show on Leno the month after but that's still in the planning stages........
+	Was I saying something reverent <<<<excuse me sir but this is Ted Turner and you sir are interrupting my broadcast>>>> go to hell I'm writing here and I say there is no Ted Turner so THERE IS NO TED TURNER.  What are piles anyway?
+	Time like most thing is best when foolishly squandered on meaningless pursuits.  Useless Stuff.
+	A ford Econoline blasts headlight beams through a cold Kentucky mist.  Clouded sky obscured like Man Ray.  Inside Maya is sucking oxygen and sipping Ayahuasca tea, one hand 
+steadies the wheel --this is it, back to the big sky's, the west ,the desert the last places to hide.  Enough of this goddamn smooshed together states claustrophobic monosyllabic citizenry.  Ignore the people they're only a temporary inconvenience of sanity. Count Korbinsky fueds with demonologists in the back of her mind.  Signing off with lalala she smiles.
+	Well Well Well cigarette time don't go no where kids and remember crack is good because...<chorus of children chanting> ...it raises money for the CIA to conduct covert operations against foreign nationals that would otherwise lead meaningless and happy lives...that's right now sit tight whilst Mr. Robertson gets a fix.....Kentucky is a beautiful state -if you take the right drugs.  The drugs obscure the frightening backward racist mentality that the New South’s propaganda claims is gone.  A thing of the past.    Earl’s miracle potion wears off and Maya stops for gas in Jasper.  
+	She wires herself into the payphone at the back of the station and quickly sends a message it William on the west coast.....all is well in high spirits. will see you two days hense. will be last transmission.  in Jasper.
+	
+
+	
+	*		*		*		*		*
+
+	It was the Spring of nineteen ninety three when I first stated to write this down in journal form, I was struck by a deep seeded biological need to write, the only problem was I had no story to tell. I was a college sophomore attending the University of Redlands in the smog filled pestilence of Southern California’s Inland Empire.  Exactly whose Empire it was remains an uninteresting question.  I had know aprticular interest in school, it just seemed better than getting a job and thanks to a small inheritance it was a possibility, so I went with it, but like I said i needed a story not a lesson in how to tell it.  I learned to useful things in college, the first is that marajuana will keep moist and fluffy even in the dryest of climes if you keep it in a jar with a small slice of 
+carrot.  The second thing i learned is that to alter the human brain’s tranditional pattern of processing information by the injestion of any chemical is to expand the minds pontential to process the information in an origional way.  This processing change is deemed bad by society at large and especially by the middle class, can[t quite afford the countryclub set that my parents belong to.   My name is May Steven’s I am twenty one years old and my only loves are the word virus, mind alteration, and my dog named ATW (Al the Wonder Dog).  My only hobby is masturbation.
+
+	Maya’s journal was the thing that prompted her to make that fateful decision to turn her back on all that was good and easy and comfortable and drop out of school to find a story worth telling.  Journals that said....today i hung out with my friends smoked pot, went to class and then played on the computer until i passed out, do not sell.  And Maya above all things realized that in this society money is synonymous with freedom and she wanted freedom more than anything.  
+	
+	And i don’t mean freedom in the abstract american idealism sort of a way, i mean an Anarchy of the senses, the obliteration of logic and “common” sense, there’s enough of that garbage around that's why its common, what we need what i need is uncommon sense.  Anarchy of sense.  Most people when they hear the term anarchy associate it with the popular mythology of a chaos-like state with no government where murderers run naked through the street fucking helpless women and doing blizzards of drugs.  This apocalyptic vision is childish at best.  I do not propose to herein give a true or accurate version of anarchy or how it would work in the current sociological setting.  Indeed the central message I hope to convey is that political anarchy is the least of my concerns.  I only know what is in my head.  If yours is different then you are wrong.  At least from my point of view.
+	Anarchy, like life itself is infinitely more complicated than simple political gaming, left wing right wing, the whole concept of a binary system is illogical.  The problem with the west in general is that it makes dichotomies out of what is really just a grey cloudy lump of shit, so to 
+speak.  What i mean by that statement is that nothing is reducible to being either/or, belief itself is multi-dimensional.  That is to say that to hold a belief is to filter information through an infinitely complex system and into the brain where the information is organized further and through electro-chemical responses, an opinion is formed.  In light of something that is infinitely complex many philosophers, politicians and other freaks of nature have chosen to assume a starting point from which it can be safely assumed that everyone is at least in agreement of basic "facts."  But as cutting edge physics and chaos mathematics show, these facts are subjective at best and nonexistent for all practical purposes.  Everything is in our heads, everything that occurs around us occurs in our grey matter which is to say that everything is an internal experience of the individual rather than an external event happening to the individual and as poet Bernard Wolfe called the brain.  That is to say that everything is constantly in question and it is here that I encourage the reader to remember the words of Robert Anton Wilson who wrote in the preface to Cosmic Trigger: "belief is the death of intelligence."  He went on to elaborate saying that once a belief has been decided upon the questioning of the issue ceases.  Everything is to be doubted.
+	Thus the anarchists starting point is simultaneously everywhere and nowhere much like the timespace experience itself.  
+
+	Maya’s journal became her life, her drug, the thing that took over.  Everyone has a thing that takes over completely --Children, jobs, heroin, art, photographs, anything that feels like genius.  Maya’s genius was her journal.  Kind of sad that at the time only us ostriches recognized her genius, but you humans did take about ten thousand years to figure out away to dispose of your own feces so I guess that we shouldn’t expect any more.
+	Maya met William three years ago at a party in Rhode Island --a naked party.  Maya dropped out of Redlands at the end of nineteen ninety three, well technically and much to the horror of her parents, she taken an indefinite leave of absence.  Her only requirement of life is that it please dear god prove interesting so she piled her belongings in the back of a ford Econline van (suitably painted barf green), and set up a laptop computer with remote internet access in the space 
+between the seats.  Together she and ATW had cut wide random swaths of road across the United States in a vain attempt to write or explore or get lost or take drugs or be or some such nonsense.  After the Georgia affair (later) She headed up the East Coast with a vague notion of seeing Boston.  She had friends in Rhode Island at Brown University and got slightly side-tracked by brown liquor and green marijuana.  Her friend John had a friend who had a friend.... that had invited her to the annual naked party.  The naked party was a nationally know event held in an enormous old Victorian house three stories high that had been converted into some sort of hippesque domicile for supposedly poor college students who, mysteriously, were able to afford tuition, but unable to provide a sufficient amount of alcohol, a terribly depressing reality to stumble into when you are also low on cash.  It was here she met Yukon Jack, and with a bottle under each arm, he made everything okay.  
+	She met William and his sometime girlfriend Chloe at the naked party. As you might imagine they were all naked, actually everyone was naked, and as you might expect they were all severely inebriated.  
+	Maya stumbled toward the bathroom to rid her body of its pollutants and of course make room for more.  She opened the door too drunk to care if it was occupied and burst in to catch William, a slight man of about twenty five with a thin but muscular body,  gently fucking a girl doggy style.  Chloe’s world was beginning to become less and less vertical, but she caught the girls beautiful face in the mirror, perfectly framed by long angelic golden ringlets of hair that Maya’s eyes followed down to her sweat glistened nipples and heaving breasts.  William was leaning toward the sink to do a line of cocaine, at that instant Maya was too drunk to be taken aback, she simply squeezed in and closed the door behind her and sat down to pee. The world was refusing to hold itself up and the toilet seat leapt up to meet her resulting in a fairly loud noise that made the girl turn her head and shimmy slightly “you look like you could use a pick up, give her some coke William.”  William pulled out of the girl and turned around confronting Maya with his hard cock which accidentally slapped her cheek.
+	“Oh my god I’m sorry! oh wow did that just happen?”  It was by far the most immediate and personal introduction to anyone she had ever had.  
+	“Usually I date someone for a while before I let them slap my face with their dick.” She stumbled over her words trying to remain sarcastic in the midst of insanity.
+	 The girl laughed, she bent down and licked Maya’s cheek, “Just getting my cum off your face,” she whispered in Maya’s ear.  Maya did a line and then another and then the girl grabbed her by the hand and led her out of the bathroom and down the hall into a room that was empty and smelled of the delightfully sweet aroma of Opium.
+	“You have Opium,” she murmured as the girl pulled her into bed.
+	“Yes I do.  My name is Chloe and that was William, okay that's enough talk,” she lit and huca and passed passed the hose to Maya...	
+	The events that transpired the rest of the night remained a vague and blurry collage of images for all three of them --good times tend to be remembered that way when one is ingesting large quantities of drugs.  Maya was short on money and needed a place to crash and work for a little while, so William and Chloe adopted her and took her back to their studio loft in Boston.  For four days they took Maya on an opium holiday and had sex and just when Maya was beginning to think that they never worked or in fact did anything at all other than fuck, William received a phone call in the middle of having sex with Maya and inexplicably left without saying a word.
+	“Where did he go...?” Maya heard her voice before she was aware that she had even spoken.
+	“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you” Chloe climbed on top of her and began sucking her nipples.  Maya felt her body relax and could smell the familiar mingling of incense and opium smoke floating across the room she raised her head and saw Chloe’s hard nipples rub against her own sending tremors down her spine and an aching contraction gripped her pussy.  The cream ran down her slit and trickled over her ass onto the pillow.  She drew up the Chloe’s leg until it was rubbing against her pussy, smearing herself on her thigh.  Maya pulled Chloe’s mouth onto her own and kissed her hard, pushing her tongue into her warm sweet mouth, licking her lips and 
+nibbling at her tongue. Chloe rolled over and dragged Maya on top of her pushing Maya’s head down between her legs.  Maya ran her hands across Chloe’s pussy and down her thighs, pulling her legs apart.  Drawing Chloe’s ass into her hands and lifting the pussy onto her tongue, Maya lapped at her creaming pussy, stabbing her tongue between Chloe’s glistening smooth and moist lips, dragging it up over her clit slowly to tease her at first, but Chloe grabbed Maya’s hair and forced her tongue between her lips and ground hard onto her tongue.  Cum soaked Maya’s face and she began to lick as hard and fast as she could.	
+	
+
+	Exhausted, and for the first time in her life thoroughly sick of having sex, Maya dragged Chloe out to have coffee at a twenty four hour coffee shop in Harvard Square.
+	“So what is it you two do?” Maya said trying to make conversation with someone she realized suddenly --she had had sex with, done large quantities of petroleum, cocaine and opium, and yet had never really talked to.  Maya thought of the joke about the couple that was getting divorced just out of college.  One of their friends says ‘what happened?’  ‘Well,’ says that man ‘we met and got married in college; I didn’t know we couldn’t get along when we were sober.’  But Chloe was to smart to be just a junky.
+	“So now you think that because we’ve had sex and shared drugs that I should tell you about myself?”  Chloe asked smiling.
+	“No right now i just want to know about you and what you do,” said Maya meeting her smile.
+	“Well, I paint and write and practice Crowleyian sex magic rituals, how’s that for soundbite length personal history?”
+	“okay.  So William pays your rent huh?” Maya asked a little jealously.
+	“We have a business together, we sell.”
+	“Ah” said Maya finally putting the pieces together even as the last of the drugs cleared out of her brain.
+	“Maybe you could make some money...talk to William see if he needs anything done....”
+	I don’t know, it was hear that Maya hesitate if only for an instant because she knew that the descent into the world these two were part of was not a simple employment proposition.  there are people who work and lead nice lives and are happy and then there are the people who do things, change things and generally control the lives of the other ninety nine percent whether directly and consciously or indirect accidents of “fate.” Maya suddenly realized that the proverbial apple was being thrust in her direction and she was really fucking hungry. 
+	“You want to get something more substantial to eat?” Chloe looked cold.
+	Sure, you know this town better than I do,” Maya stood, “you lead the way.”
+
+	*		*		*		*		*	           *
+
+	Three years before and one ocean east William was sitting in the Heathrow airport scribbling a journal note about the fat woman selling British flags at a souvenir stand.  He had no ticket and was forced for monetary reasons to fly standby, consequently he had been sitting in Heathrow for the better part of forty-eight hours trying to get on a flight bound for New York.  At this point however he would have settled for a flight anywhere in the America’s --hitchhiking, while dangerous at the end of the century, was at least more interesting then sitting around an airport selling sketches of tourists to buy cigarettes and donuts.
+	Sil Hawkard was at this time still funding himself with the international campaign to end petroleum addiction and his recent key note speech in front of the Queen of England while totally meaningless in terms of raising money nevertheless filled him with an ironic sense of power.  He struggled throughout the speech not to burst in to hysterics light up a petroleum filled huca and run around the room giggling and blowing petroleum smoke up the snatches of wealthy old British ladies, maybe even goosing the queen for the hell of it.  But he had contained himself until now.  He slid into the airport restroom, locked the stall behind him and bent down to check for any arrant pairs of trousers that might denote the presence of an Englishman.  The only thing worse than the 
+English are the French.  White people victims of a tragic and ancient nuclear accident which had mutated the melatonin cells giving them a sickly white appearance and penchant for dwelling in caves.
+	He lit the pipe and took a deep hit, coughing profusely at the end of it.  
+	William, being a smoker of many substances heard the coughing in the bathroom and headed for the door to see if it be a sharer or not.  See slipped noiselessly in and crept into a stall being careful not to close the door or make a noise, he stood up on the toilet and peered over the edge.  He was confronted with a man that looked to be of medium height and muscular build with a hair that all but obscured his head.  Shit thought William, a white boy smokin’ petroleum in the airport, gotta be a junky, he cleared his throat.
+	Sil heard the noise and snapped his head up for and instant, saw William's face peering down at him and then Sil rolled onto the floor and fell into convolutions.
+	“Shit!” William leapt over the stall falling on the toilet and soaking his foot and pantleg, “Fucking christ, don’t OD here you stupid fuck!”  He turned Sil over and slapped his face --a petroleum OD was not uncommon back in the early days, new drugs require test subjects to overdose a few times before the parameters of ingestion are known to the users at large.  Sil was crumpled in a ball unconscious, William pulled out his passport and sat down on the toilet, he noticed a piece of paper hanging out of Sil’s coat pocket and pulled out the speaking guide to the symposium on addictive narcotics at the Royal Palace in Buckingham England, he also noticed that the keynote speaker was the same man now crumpled before him.
+	“Holy heads of lettuce, he whispered to himself.  He glanced at Sil’s face recognizing now the most outspoken proponent of banning petroleum.  “This is the oldest con i’ve ever heard of you bastard, he kicked Sil in the chest and felt something metallic and hard hit his tow, he bent down to pull the gun out when Sil’s hand flashed across his peripheral vision and pulled the gun first.
+	“Oh shit man, I’m trying to help you for christ sakes!” said William raising his hands.
+	Sil was dimly aware, given his state of mind that shooting someone in an airport bathroom was a bad idea.  He stared at the twentish black face for moment and said “Help me to my plane and I’ll give you a lift to South America.  William had never been poor, but most people he knew didn’t have access to their own planes, he hesitated suspiciously “you have a plane, like your own plane?” 
+	“Technically no, but its available for my use at my convenience, and since I have gun pointed at you, just help me or I’ll shoot you and run for it.”
+	Okay, fair enough.”  William helped him to his feet and they headed out of the bathroom turned into an unmarked door that Sil gestured to, and were soon aboard the government jet of one Dr. Waiben, headed for Buenos Arias.
+
+ 
+	William was out of his mind, or what the nonprofessional drug user refers to as wasted, sound was obliterated as a form on communication, Sil  and the other guy were not speaking but William began to hear words forming in the air, like an LSD trip might be , but these words were free of the vibrated source that had created them or rather they had not been created they just were, like turning on a radio and just picking up whatever station it was tuned to.m   Bloody words sharp words that hung in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker and if every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience?////??//::”::”::”::”::”:”:” <<<<curious words hung about the room William saw them in the air or at least thought he saw them and them the edges of his vision started to dim turning first deep red and then black until the natural light filled his vision and his lost consciousness.  He awoke with out having remembered passing out at all.
+	Sil was still seated next to him and Waiben had brought his chair up in front of him and was leering close to his face shining a red light in his eyes.  “Take this,” he handed William a small round pill.”
+	No thanks man that was heavy enough shit,” he shook his head.
+	“That's why you need to take this, we haven’t quite perfected this shit yet and it tends to give you glaucoma like symptoms for a few days if you don’t take one of these.”
+	William took the pill and sat up a little bit “man i been travelling all over Europe and the orient and i’ve smoked a lot of shit, but I’ve never had anything like that.  Who the fuck are you guys and where do you get that shit?”
+	“That as you know is Sil, his last name is Hawkard, and I,” William could sense the pride in his voice, “am Doctor Waiben, pathologist of the state.”
+
+	Chloe and Maya are in Boston nineteen ninety six eating dinner to fill the aching acid burned stomachs after to much caffeine at the coffee house.  Now slightly drunk and feeling quite floaty Maya is thinking about sex again.  She’s thinking about sex with William though, not Chloe.  “When will William be getting back?” she asks
+	“Probably not ‘til tomorrow or the next day, why you getting tired of my tongue?”
+	Maya turned red and stammered “no, i mean i was just asking...would it bother you at all if i wanted to fuck him?”
+	“No only if you wanted to take him away from me...”
+	“Well I was thinking that since I have a van maybe I could help him with deliveries or whatever it is that he does...” her voice trailed off.
+	Chloe stared at her coldly for a moment before speaking then spoke slowly and deliberately, “Look Maya I like you and you’re a tremendously good fuck, but you have no idea where William’s past comes from and no idea what it is exactly that he does, the people he works for can...”
+	“What, kill me?” Maya interrupted her.
+	Chloe laughed, “if they’re generous.  If not they can do things that are a lot worse than death, and they do it to people on a daily basis.  They’re not criminals, they’re not interested in any end objective, they just want to push the human experience as far as they can, ‘because it might 
+prove interesting’ is what Sil always says.  Do you understand that you’re way and I mean way, way, out of your league?”
+	Maya sat in silence for a moment contemplating a life of crime potentially running from people who would torture her or worse with no ultimate objective.  She ran it over again and weight it against the thought of eventually returning to college and meeting some guy and getting married and pregnant, and fat.  “Please Chloe, get me out of the boredom of my life, physical torture is no worse then psychological torture and I’ve got enough of that already.”
+	“Alright lets go home, I’ll call William and see if he needs anything.”
+
+
+
+	 he wondered feeling the full force of the drug take him over.  Spanish man selling chicletts say no good no bueno, pictures worth not even half a thousand words.  Wouldn’ give you ten words, worthless gringo words don’t mean shit. no good no bueno, not worth the blood their written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your shoes, by god keep your slave labor camps a closed-mouthed secret.   Gotta keep that in house, dis-credit all new agencies by routinely feeding them false information.  News doesn’t happen events happen, and the department of television information broadcasting inc. a subdivision of indoctrination inc. decides what gets out and what remains forever sealed in baby pissshitguts.  No that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, the preceding has been since proved to be untrue, cut to shots of smart bombs. Couldn’t get fifty words for those now gringo -over exposure- nobody buying.   Same old stinking shit.  No Good. No Bueno.
+	Gringo go home in thousand languages in a million words, why don’t you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass?  Lead me to the holy spigot and we’ll show you the bidet of death, constructed by gringos, for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors.  Can’t close them all --we have our technicians as well and they’re getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in --even 
+offered you the picture words but you don’t want them. No Good.   Can’t use those, too strong.  No fair, crying boy heads home for cave to lick his dirty balls clean.
+	I gotta picture for you I on vacation in your country go to hear senator’s speak but all door are closed, all sealed.  So i gotta fiber optic and feed it in from the roof show all senators mad with sexual lust and blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit.
+	The technician is retro actively of course --the papers said the man was mentally ill.  ‘my cod!’ screamed a church lady in the front row, ‘satan has garbled the lords message, this isn’t what he meant for you to hear, no it was not all like that, there was to be understanding.’ she is parading her old cunt bones whining at the justices --tissue conducts signals, animals communicate through the use of visual, acoustic , chemical, tactile and electrical signals.  Our laboratory is an abundant and well preserved feed back loop to understand and interpret Eusocial behavior. negative feedback inhibition to make you shiver Gringo.  Make you shiver good.
+	Repetition unsuccessful.  The radiologist was called in to examine the patient --blisters and burns indicate high probability of skin mutation, what would you say Dr. Waiben?   Crested and on the nod? Diminutively yes definitely.
+	Information potential exists --its an unsettling thought, dependency --and what happens when things start to think? How do you draw the lines then.
+	HOW THE PLAGUE BEGAN:
+	The wish to preserve -not worth saving what already is- in this scenario.  The word,  the loss of body situated at the origins of recorded sound -the temporal metaphysical and esthetic possibilities.
+	<insert sounds of truck on dirt road>  
+	Old man yelling.  Get off of my laaawwwnnn!   Sits down to oil his gun some more and then half turns in his chair to face the camera and says "i haven't left the porch since i got this CDRom PEOPLE version 3.0.   Updated and expanded human potential at your fingertips.  Its the only thing i need --got no use for the stinking gringos anymore--  camera pans out and down 
+revealing a yard strewn with shotgunblasted bodies of young children.  We see wife, face half torn off, crawling towards a pistol <shotgun blast stage left> her head disappears entirely.   Old man: "human potential, the new CDrom makes wives unnecessary." cue logo: on sale now at a sanatorium near you....
+	I'm going to finally send you the orgy papers this time  -been fixing to get 'round to that for some time"  <heavy southern drawl>  don't think he's the type to do it though but i been wrong once or twice a'fore.    Don't want people showing up on my lawn though that's never good.  get off of my lllaaaawwwwnnnnn! <shotgun blast again, distant screaming sounds of deaths final agonies eeking out blood gurgling windpipes> Fucking Gringos! Go home in a thousand languages!
+	  Experience as much of the human potential as possible retain the container and forward the frog to the fun sun freaks of eastern tibet all is well with alkaline, and acidity is on the skids with death rooted out leaving only chicken shit shovelled scrapped and scraped like lemon lime gatorade poured from a fuck buck of love.  Stop talking to yourself --listen to the virus talk to you.  All that you consider to be a accident was carefully orchestrated for your benefit by a benevolent cocksucking god from the twenty-third dimension to just plain old irritate the fuck out of you like a bad rectal itch.  Stupid gringo got no cure for the ass itch i show you some pictures, yes very dirty, little girls you like??????
+	<<<<<commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe is fucking small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cries for his mother the general is laughing, your mother’s down the hall boy ,she’s busy with the president of France right now.  But maybe later you’d like to lick his come off her dead face.  Ban those words tear them right out snip snip.  Can’t say that, its disgusting.  War is a snuff film for the rich.  <<<<We gotta step up the bombing chief the public’s losing innarest in us screams the chief of staff running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple and with all seriousness General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect:  I remember a time when life was good no one got in our way, why in Europe under Patton i musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handleful of nuns too. He smiles lost in memory...
+	But God hath given us these trying times....
+	Yes it is bit hard to get cunt these days isn’t it, mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife’s cock....Yes dear start a war, get me some cute refugee boys, i so love snapping their necks when i’m coming, she growls affectionately.
+	That's it gentlemen were going to war!  The president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world KOSOVO it is he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia.
+	You like?  You like, no?  Too bad.  You can’t have those words, too strong.  I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, to expensive to buy it.  I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure rectal itch? Eh? Eh? Eh?
+
+
+	Chloe and Maya, got back to the loft just as the answering machine was picking up the line in nineteen ninety three.  leave a message.....Hi ladies it’s me i need a favor of you, or at least one of you...call me at.... “Hello” Chloe picks up the receiver midway through the message.  “Ya okay I’ll tell her.”  long Pause.  “Just don’t think that she’s yours cause she not she’s ours, okay.  Okay.  She hangs up the phone 
+	“Well?” Maya is anxious.
+	“Three months ago William was trying to catch a flight back to the United States from England, and he saw a guy OD on petroleum in the bathroom so the guy helped him out in return for saving his life.  This guy is someone you don’t mess with and if I were you I would avoid even having him know who you are.  Anyway William needs someone to meet him in Los Angeles next week and I told him you would go.”
+	“Okay.......that's where i just left from,but what the hell”  Maya is slightly disappointed.  “What am I going to do?”
+	“I didn’t ask, but I can almost guarantee you you’re going to be waiting alot, so you can write in that little notebook of yours, and think of me.”  Chloe smiled.
+	Two hours later Maya bid her good bye and the econoline blasted off into the early morning light.  The sun finally rose as Maya cut through Virginia and across the Blue Ridge Mountains.
+
+
+
+	Dr Waiben in Buenos Aries nineteen ninety three the warm summer air is wafting into the hotel room through a window, hot muggy sticky oppressive air Waiben is tuning a radio to short wave frequencies and feeding into a computer which, following a chaos math program for shoreline patterns, varies the signal at seemingly random and sporadic intervals which decay on the same scale as a Koch curve.  The computer is broadcasting the signals which Waiben is hoping will be reprinted in some part by William in the next room.  This kind of low grade telepathy experiment has become Waiben's latest obsession --having completely abandoned television as a form of active mind control.  It’s great as a passive he was fond of saying, but I am an active person and I so are the people I want to control.  He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, he focuses hard on the darkness trying to hear something anything a pattern of sounds from the horns on the street below any repetition that might be considered a signal pattern which could be captured by microphones and modelled by computer.  The problem with the technology in the recording industry is that it records what we can already hear he thought suddenly we built the instruments to record what we already know.  How do you build instruments that can record something you’re not even sure exists and how would you know if you did record something that that was in fact what you were looking for?
+	<<<<<<<<<<<exterminate exterminate exterminate>>>>>>:::” radio tissue is chirping broadcasts continuously down the line xxxxxxxxxxxration food and waterxxxxxxxxxxx
+<<<<<<<<nothing here now but  The Recordingsç∫~µ≤:::::::::”:::::::”::”::::::::::::::  
+	its an act of will short circuited all back down to earth and at some point deconstruction patterns form.  lots of fear bubbling up around the edges the old cunt pears mysteriously self 
+mocking into a crystal ball, she shakes it again harmonizing the electron spins and creating some unstable sarcastic flux. your gonna have the pellets one day boy, shooda listened to your mother. 
+	in another room the british physicist reminds us that life begets life through the slow rhythms of geophysical oscillations.  Whimsical elves re-peal labels back onto soda bottles in a backwards tape loop. 	
+	
+
+	The next morning William woke in Buenos Aries to the stink of smog and fumes and too many people living in to close a quarters with not enough bathing going on --the general smell that pervades all human outposts.  He stumbled out of bed grabbed the pad of paper that he had been scribbling on last night, walked down the hall to Sil’s room and opened the door.  Sil was still in bed with several women lying askew and presenting William with a scene of tantalizing depravity.  He crept up to the bed, “Sil.”  “Sil.” he whispered in a hiss
+	Sil bolted upright in bed and muttered, “the thing to do i suppose would be to recreate the future disassemble the present and cut up the past.”
+	“What?”
+	“Nothing where’s Waiben?”
+	“I don’t know.”
+	“Nevermind.  Are ya good with numbers?”
+	“No but my girlfriend is.”
+	“She’s not here but i’ll keep that in mind...alright i’ll do the numbers part you go down stairs and get the blue van its with the valet.  Bring it around front in half an hour and make sure the gated door is locked with three dead bolts.”
+	“You got it,” William stood and left taking a long last look at the sleeping girl’s firm round ass.
+
+ William was out front in the Van at the appointed time and Waiben came strolling across the street leading a monkey on a chain.  “Meet the President,” he said climbing in the van and shoving the monkey behind the seat.  He grabbed the notes William had made the night before and screened them quickly, “Damn...” he muttered.
+	“Did I do something wrong?” William asked nervously.
+	“No, would you stop acting like a scared school boy?”  Waiben glares at him for an instant and then relaxes.  “Look I’m going to explain as much as you need to know okay?  Get on the highway right there no just stay on this road for about twenty minutes and pay close attention to me.  Don’t worry about me I have no use for you, not right this minute anyway, but Sil needs your help.  You’ll start as errand boy or something of the sort if you want to move up Sil will let you, but remember no matter how stupid your part might seem from your point of view you don’t have any other point of view to see it from.  Picking your own nose could if viewed from the proper perspective be considered an act of pure genius......
+	Waiben continued on in strange circular lines of logic from which William was able to gather only that Sil would pay his bills rent food and all, and give him a cell phone so long as he, William was available whenever Sil needed him to do whatever Sil asked him to do.  In a way this was antithical to William's anarchist senses, but no rent and no job were always the true goal of his underdeveloped anarchy anyway.  Besides he needed an in to this sort of a life and these guys, whatever it was they did, certain gave a solid illusion of being rich and powerful.
+	Waiben was using an old police interrogation trick on William, although not because he thought William was stupid, rather because it always works.  he set himself up as the wild eyed scientist lunatic (lighthearted good cop) and Sil as the pragmatic realist with the money and means (powerful serious cop).  In fact they were both both, but William didn’t need to know that --the less you know about crime the longer you can expect to do it and live.  If he had in fact told William that he and Sil were not really good friends and would have killed each other if they thought they could get away with it and live to tell about it, it would have created an uneasy foundation for him to work from and might even have led him to believe that he might off them 
+both or play them against one another.  Sil trusted this kid so Waiben trusted, not Sil, but at least his judgement.  So Waiben had taken it upon himself to show him the Buenos Aires research facility.  It was something even his assistant Kellinger didn’t know about.
+	
+	The following was transcribed from audio tape recorded during the actual research faze and combined with analysis at a later date, it is intended to serve as a metaphoric representation of the dream process.  I have printed and edited it into this form so that my many benefactors and supporters both public and private may benefit from the research that they are paying for I thank you for your continued support and sincerely hope that the information I have gathered benefits you and that you will continue on with that support as there is much ground yet to be tread.  Sincerely Dr. Waiben:
+
+
+	Get me the fuck out of here.  bloody words sharp words that hung in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker and if every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience, me no way i’m outta here.  Situation getting sticky, humid like vaporous blood hanging on in the air.  Still acrid smell of urine and small children playing in a asphalt playground ringed on all sides by immense brick walls with basket ball hoops hung half way up each of the sides.    Its two months latter and William has settled into his loft with Chloe, he is still trying to make sense of a world in which eaters can exist for years without any one knowing about it.  He sits dazed on the couch processing the information like anyone who has suddenly had the proverbial wool removed from their eyes and realized that that which we are taught from childhood to distrust is in fact a pawn of something far more immense and much much more dangerous.  The governments and nations of the world are incidental pawns the real powers control them and then beyond there are even more and so on like looking two mirrors facing each other and going on to infinity.  The monster of power is faceless there is no one person or group that controls everything they are all parts of a immense and 
+multiheaded monster that is constantly biting itself and attacking it own heads until some day it will destroy itself.  William is unaware of the kind of power that is beyond human ability as we generally think of it, a world of ghost and goblins does not do justice to the power of stars and black holes with there inescapable gravitational pull.  William is at the beginning of a tunnel that is long and dark and which only one in million live to see the end of.  Its the oldest con, the rebirth mythology chase it forever and you’re only farther away.
+	Chloe is getting ready for the naked party, painting glitter and neon paint around her breasted and in stripes up her legs.  William is admiring her ass and knows nothing about a girl named Maya, a man named Pete, or that Sil Hawkard and Dr. Waiben are slowly but surely attempting to navigated the tunnel and to  push humanity down in with them kicking and screaming all the way.
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+	portrait of exhaustion your face hangs from bones like a projector screen, not much happened since the 1995 drop off but don't worry the drinks are on me.  Avert eyes look nothing head on --wary gaze averted to the passersby hung headed --lot of insignificant coordinate points brought together by chaotic butterfly thoughts.  And then you have to shave.  Maybe fifty five heart attack watch on your wrist hung like a trophy in the atrophy with the cigarette still burning --nicotine.  number patterns all broken down on account of the Lottery, the old man thinks of nothing but cigarettes and shotguns.
+	sorry to say that all I really wanted was to lay on rock and smoke your dope, forget fever fears and empty telephone alarms.  iAM tired again.  hung down and now:where do we go from nowhere --everynothing thing that isn't anywhere will be nothing now here.  newspapers blow in slow motion film loops a little too grainy to be real, everything is fine you can spend my money on a lottery ticket, cigarettes and whiskey.  Cellular red white and blue control symbol couldn't be reached for comment the old man stands up from the rocking rests the shotgun against the front of the house and retreats inside --Uncle is that you-- you saw uncle?  Unencumbered you will float off into abstract nothingness the suits are there for weight-cover --near the end of the line the bathroom attendant of stranger nightmares is helping the man back into his coat...
+	"ya know sir the thing that's going to get you through the oxygen chambers is going to be this breathing apparatus."  He drapes the fleshy blank of virgin skin over the old man's brittle wrinkled canvas innards and sharp protruding age bones.
+	the attendant adds with snicker "you can't always turn right on red ya know...."  he throws the skinned carcass into a lavatory stall where a pile of bloody skinned bodies is building up the old man steps back onto the porch, picks up the shotgun and sits back in the rocking chair the creaky of floor boards sound like screaming children.  Shoot her again.
+	Let me sleep until we have disappeared.  The train pulled out of the station before I could my papers in order.  Sad desert night and I stood in the phone booth for forty five minutes trying to remember a phone number.  I got confused when i remembered nothing was real and couldn't 
+really have mattered anyway so sat on my suitcase outside the train station and smoked cigarettes until the thought passed.  I am alternating between heavy and light like breathing into a balloon.  Cars never will be the same, and headlights don't do much for vision in the moonless night.  It was dark. Black.  Simply black.  I slept until morning and caught the next rain east....
+	There is nothingeverythingthatis.  In Canada great black crowds of crows will descend and attack in mass a single great horned owl and peck it to death in great bombing swoops beaks extended like cheap imitation switchblades from a drunken night in Tijuana.  eventually the owls next snaps from the continual battering and the crows fly away and return to eat the body after it has ripened up in the afternoon heat.
+	I used to go out after work to drink a beer.  But i don't anymore.  But i likely will again.  I likely will do everything i have already done all over again in slowmotion three year cycles like a film loop.  This makes me feel safe.  Safety makes me want to vomit on fat ladies that take up a whole bench seat on the subways up in San Francisco when i was twenty two I rolled on a new film when I am twenty five I rolled a new film when I am Twenty eight I will roll a new film.  This makes me feel safe.  Safety makes me think of national geographic pictures where brown skinned natives wrap worm heads on sticks and slowly twist the stick to pull the worm from under their skin with out ripping it in half and leaving its disease riddled body under their skin.
+	Nowhere anywhere as fast as they could run leaping timespace life elfian nightmarish flashes of light. I think I saw the end as a post script obituary for the living.  Its not going to be any better I can tell you that much --Dr. Waiben removed his shoes and sat back on the chair smoking a petroleum cigarette.
+	menes memories and magnetism
+	"The British biologist, Richard Dawkins has coined the expression meme to designate a signal traveling in human space-time and carrying information (or mis-information).  In Dawkins view, just as biological evolution depends on the circulation of genes, sociological evolution depends on the migratory habits of memes." --from Wilhelm Reich in Hell, by Robert Anton Wilson.  
+	memes by the definition given above would seem to bring the virus of language down yet another level to the point of perhaps decoding its genetic structure.  If we are to suppose that the viral quality of language is consistent with other virus then its transmission and ability to replicate itself must in the biologists reality tunnel, have a genetic code by which it reproduces and mutates the host cell structure.  Dawkins theory rests on the supposition theat ideas come before words ie the typical theory of language development we speak because we have something to saw.
+	On the way to visit the ostriches I had the peculiar sensation of running down a long tunnel of green black liquid in which little hairy elf like creatures were urging me to speak I could not speak and I felt a panic at the urgency with which they were probing me to speak I had the distinct feeling that If I did not speak I would cease to inhabit four dimensional spacetime, and I was struck by the overwhelming feeling that without words I would experience what those around me would have called death but what I now simply consider a loss of language I gave not concluded partly from this experience and partly from what the ostrich's told me afterwards that loss of word is loss of body and that we are in fact much like a computer monitor, the hard drive will continue to receive information even if those on the outside can not tell what is being done with the information received.
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