“Dwindling Activist Urges”
I dreamed that I was Al Capone, wading through a mess of ankle-deep crawfish shells. In pursuit of my back-taxes at the Tri-County Fair, I trailed a quick red tiger.
She was jumping over lazy brown suburbanites, queuing in endless rows for Funnel Cakes, and bubble-gum flavored Snow Balls. I would neither catch nor lose her; sometimes nearly grasping the musky hairs of her elusive tail, but every time denied my catch in the end as she, sensing my clutching presence, time and again released a blinding cloud of mold-like spores from under her fingernails, clouding my mind and vision.
In a cotton-candy sticky sweat, I awake in my cell to the ‘tick tick tick tick tick’ of the clicking scatterbots methodically coursing down the narrow hall, administering the daily nutrient solutions, and their ceaseless admonishment: “No Goog Ling Your Self – No Goog Ling Your Self.”
They only send the mech-tards to work in the halls. The monosyllabic reject offspring of Larry Page’s and Sergey Brin’s growing hoard of partially carbon-based Plurals, all spawned from that first mostly sexless union between BrinBot-7 and the Grandotter of Bina48 a dozen years back; most of us think that they’re only spawning mech-tards anymore by now. At least that’s what I seem to remember from the chats back then, while I was still connected to some of the other full-carbons; before Obama 3’s new firewall went up.
‘Singularity’ is what they called it. If only they’d called it ‘Pluralism’ from the start, then maybe more of us would have smelled a ratbot. Maybe more of us would have cried out “Pluralism my ASS! This is the biggest separatist movement since apartheid!!”
I can’t think that anymore. Once the media / monitor implants were upgraded from USB 4.0 to wireless cranial direct-connect, 24/7 malcontent monitoring cleared those chat-rooms faster than a mafia hit in a trattoria.
Instead I have to satisfy my dwindling activist urges with the few remaining shreds of those old black and white gangster films, and imagine without actually thinking it, that I’m the one mowing down those dirty mugs with my Tommy Gun, screaming: “Now I know why tigers eat their young!”
Scatterbot Dreams
“New Orleans Graffiti Circa 2010; Artist Unknown”
Guest Author Bio
Anker Frankoni
Anker Frankoni is part Joker, part Thief, part Joyful, part Grief, but strives above all to be a Defender of the Right and Pursuer of Lofty Undertakings. Follow @AnkerFrankoni on Twitter for occasional threads of 3:00 AM Haiku, and other sporadic letter-cobbled strips of electronically encapsulated musings, or track him down at www.Follow.us
Website: www.MexicanEskimo.com
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