Thursday, 15 December 2016

nyarl@'z qyss, a cthulhupunq lullabye for the 21st century. episode #1

nyarl@'z qyss: 

chapter 1

    Lit up on faerie, street wand'rin'. wide open pained burning eating sin. Beautify the uglitude qlenching smile. my leather lace metal rubber & facepaint armour. Inch-thiq black & yellow diagonal down from right to left up from left to right face qlenching smile. Seeing unsavorily unqumftrably far in behind streeted eyes (even the mirrorshaded & gasmasqt). No hiding from faeried eyes. i see, transmute & qry, thanqful my paint iz tearproof. My boots smear grime & qrush syringes that rainsliqt refleqt the neon. my medicine stiq rattles with rusted qogz, greasy featherz & fray'd wires az i, wavering, lean on it & inhale the puke of publiq hate & shit love out my wildwired eyes, hating too, loving the hate. Keep love alive in wildwired eyes of gone faeried child, i. Barely see the glare of streetlight & headlights for all the radiant anger, hatred, fear & despair, spastiq siq thrillz of lust for flesh & blood. Whoa wus this? A li'l innocent bliss? sneaker'd feet stick out of an alleymouth: looq up them legz a li'l girl on a hippeeflip sittin' on a baqpaq & propt 'gainst a graffitied dumpster. Former cyberprep by the shoes. Gone street. Blissdoubt & who q'n blame? Not i. I qrouch down sly grinning in her face. I sqare her with my evil goth mutant vibe: big boots/blaq leather trench/white lace blouse a-tatter & bloody/industrialtribal jewelry & flatblaq supermop o'er my striped-4-danger face, but she dissipates this with a smile to reciprocate & pretty up her masqara-smear'd face.
    "Wutcha doin'?" sez i.
    "Trippin' hard."she bug-eye & smile still.
    "Walk wi'me?" i query.
    I lurch us both up, pulling her by hand. She has her bag az i resume my beat.       "you named?" i asq.
    "Bitch." this with sweet smile.
    "Zag." i shake her still-held paw & figure i'm four years her elder @ my ripe old age of seventeen.

    Ennui borders. thru is too good for 'is own good. Danced like a quark thru portalless walls of black ICE & instal'd invisible doors in the back of everything. Poised for anonymous takeout. no comfort for true in the edge's lux-lap. predation everthreats. perpetual motion is a must. Walk, feed & water the meat, too. Ball & chain.
    Maybe not forever, though. That'd be the mythical big score. Crossover. so he hunts for the netghosts cuz there's nuthin' else. An' even if one is found (& recognized), could it teach the way over?
    Weblore sez there're haqrz who've done it - encoded & made the move. Pure cyberspatial entity: conscious disembodiment. spontaneous-waking AIs are born there, but for a flesher , how to know your identity will make the jump? or if it even can?

   Thru is turning to the net mystics & fringe cultists: astral projection theory, transdimensional tripsters, etc.
    Cyberspace can't be beat.
    ...& yet... on the net is simply (a state or idea of) pure fantasy, cuz even if yer the best, y'won't know ya bin bested till it's too late. The only way to even hope for a guaranteed private exchange is offline.
So, online connections made, thru must embark on adventures in meatspace: qlubland in the city of night...
    Afterglow aftermath makes the street slip'ry...
    “Dey minds is s'ghetti. Be a fork!"... ..."I wanna motor on my castle."... ..."...bless all sentient beings in the infinite..."...(graff on the wall : peace B w/ U, noxys fluen, a collage of big-eyed sad faces beautiful & cartoony)///two skyboard punx chased by a skybike cop bust through the cloud formations awaft from sidewalk grates & gridloct wheeelerz crowding the asphalt below. A loudsharp lopsided beat shudders the qlub & handdrummerz meld with it their organic flux & let junq precussionists & street din endlessly cross-percolate. All this physica nearly humming with the fractalic mathematic underscript it writes & is defined by. Throatsore of this varicolour glowing smogscape that scandalizeth too the eye & nose.
    Transit from traffic to traffic: indoors again; from smog to amphetapheromusk thickening air as much. Beat hostilely louder. Sweat air athrob & bodies awrithe (in speeding light patterns twice as gyrant) claustrophobicizing the dancefloor even more than the streetz. To the bar. Tender wears a quadhawk, fullbody fishnet & a kilt, flashes his abalone teeth when it comes Thru's turn: triple bourbon triple espresso, please. A quarter cee. Cheaper'n cover in this place. See the spasmic throng; breakers, divers, hovboarders seshin' the transparent plexibowl ahang from ceiling mounts... ... the superimposed epileptic lightshow; hear mc's freestyle in cytoi, dj scratches, the angular rhythm; feel the sticky heat... Thru seeks the naked hippies smoking hash on picnic blankets on a dais lining one wall: the resident mystics. Askin'roun' f'r Feather.
    Turns out t'be this wiry dude brewin' magic mushroom tea on a hotplate plugged into the same port where a UV light is as he sits next to a girl painting herself in flourescing paint. Feather grins, wearing only little circular coloured shades, hemp jewelry & waist-length dreadz, hash fumes drifting out a cobber he is biting. Thru lays bare his heart.
    "The oh, oh, en : Ordo Oryx Niger : Order of the Black Goat. If anyone c'n getcha in there, man, 's them."
    Wut makes them so special?


    Feather's talkin' t' this weird dude, but i like 'im (th' dude)...he has a certain...purity... ...a certain naïveté that iz attraqtive in its innocence. Synchro enough, Feath looqz right @ & points me out to weirdude. I inqline my head in acknowledgement & lo! over he qumz.
    He iz truly shy & that's so refreshingly cute. 'M i 'onn' babysit two puppies in one night? He tries to looq @ home but his fish-outta-waterness reeqs.
    "You're Zag?" yelling politely @ but not into my ear.
    I nod, the faerie in my veins not letting me refrain from grinning.
    "My name's Thru.  Featther there sez you can connect me with the O.O.N.           Zatrue?" He looks so doubtful-hopeful i nearly laugh.
    " 'S right."
    Bitch iz gone all qoy-bashful now that feather's boy here faces us. My index digit ball'd & held by my thumb, with my remaining three fingerz i qall along with the inverse o' the universal "q'mere" signal as we move toward a certain unmarked & nigh-imperceptible door. Through this inqonspicuous portal we three go "backstage", not just of the qlub, but into the baqstayj of the world, where the children of the qorridors dwell...
    This's my home , where - sacred az i take it & blessingly az i meet it - the outside world iz left behind. Y'see, the whole world haz this baqstayjing - places where none iz meant to reside or work or to recreate save some qustodianz assigned to maintain some of it, & they only to work there.  qonsider the maintenance tunnel mazeworks that riddles the body of the city, behind & beneath & within its qountless structures, designed striqtly for & of utility, but not uninhabited.
    Az the cyberprep elite of the world auto-insulated in the air-qonditioned qatatcombz of their qorporate arqologies, so too the far end of the social speqtrum moved deeper into the superstruqture of urbanity - into the sewerwayz & subbasementz movng by stairwellz & freight elz, to rooftopz & sewertroughz.
True severe deathheadz only wander the streetz & subsist in shelterz & soup qitchenz but the sharp are hip to - & move to & from - this inside world. If all o' this invisible-to-the-surface-world realm were indeed officially maintained & secured, 'twould be a far different thing, but az iz, whole sprawling dungeonsqapes span bloqz, forgotten or forsaken. Even the routes & roomz that are officially maintained & secured are often jokingly easy to infiltrate. Where the pitoniq roots & bowellous ani of the city meet the living rock iz a strange & lively border. (infiltrant narqz are not unheard of , but their species iz rare & endangered indeed, not least quzutha daylong faerielit security samurai who lurk in the shadowz on the threshold of deep baqstayj, sqanning the brainwaves...[but i know a narq who nobody else seemz to've deteqted. She qonfided in me in a weaq moment. Some might qall me treasonous in my silence...]...we pass one o' tha samurai without preceiving it - even i only know it's there quzutha location.)
Generally baqstayjerz 're just too hostile to the lay authorities for the surface world to really even be aware of it. Whatz left of the atrophiq archaism qalled the middle qlass iz being too swiftly subdivided & either "falling through the cracks" (most of 'em) or being absorbed into the qorporate arqology enqlaves known to baqstayjerz az the hives (inqreasingly few of 'em, not that itz really a more desireable fate). Hiverz are az deathhead az the streeterz in "the cracks": gone wastoid, but holovid-fed 'stead o' drugplugg'd. Live ones do slip & drip 'midst the hiverz & the streeterz, but they a sizeable demographiq baqstayj.
    For Thru & Bitch I'm the bogeywoman & we've just stept through a glass darqly. Dad blame it, I love my job.


{Bitch:} "The night i ran away from the arcology my mom was so drunk she didn't know anything. She's, like, this corporate sultana with a harem of man-toy consorts from various rungs of the company. She'd say a CEO, & ludicrous & frightening as it is, she's CEO of her own company & technically subcontracts to the resident co.(whom i will not advertise for by naming here); a deal entirely in the abstract, the circumstances of which leave the corporation no less in the position of dangling her 'company' over its jagged, gaping maw.
    "For corporates like her this jargonizing affords a sense of independent conquest.
    "Yes, she & Larry Nelson were passed out a quarter naked in the lounge with the holoproj tuned to the house newsfeed, the anchor an eerily, unwittingly presiding electric phantom over a scene that seemed to me evil & gory, though it was unbloody. Now that effect may've been the 'shrooms, or maybe the Ecstasy, so whatever.
    "It will take her a few days @ least to notice I'm gone, & I don't know if she'll care. And well I guess that's kind of the point, y'know? And if she does she certainly has the dough to hire some ace dick to come sniff me out, whatever rocks I go crawl under.
    "I was interested also as I plotted my departure, how long I would get away on her credit before she would cut me off if @ all. A little lab work, if you will. To be honest I anticipate a high degree of apathetic ambivalence with little to no airs of aught else.
    "I doubt if anyone over 20 @ that arcology is really alive, being only slightly more hopeful for those under.
    "Besides, in a way I think she may want me to get away; I know they do hideous things there that she knows of but will not speak on."


    Much az i prize my lungz az smog filters for future generations even the great martyr Zag will not expose her naked snout to the vapourz that seethe miasmal 'round the O.O.N. temple which squatz deep, circled by a henge of chamberz where their pharmacist-shamanz plan with unsavoury chemistries to make new drugz & poison trespasserz...
    Demonized az the faerie qult iz, we got nuthin' on the O.O.N. Most never even hear o' them o' qourse, but those who do usually have qome pretty far in both occult studies & baqstayj qonnectionz, & the attendant intuition that they are among the thingz it were better not to know of.
    When baqstayj momz want to really sqare the fuq outta the qydz, forget the hiverz, pigz & narqz, mom goes straight for darq hintz about the O.O.N.
I never met one of 'em (knowingly), but the whole baqstayj world knowz where to find 'em ; it's one o' th' places instinqt wards qreatures away from by nature. I leave Bitch with some friendz @ the faerie temple & give Thru a gasmasq like the one I pocket. "We'll need these."
    We traverse the marqets of baqstayj, eerily like the official city above in its wayz.... ...humanz will be humanz.
    We moved toward shunned tunnel systemz but are still amid the thinning throng when an O.O.N. qultist appearz facing us, stinky even f'r a baqstayjer, in ragz & ragged, wildeyed beyond faerie-wired, a starq & siqly insanity... This speqtre lungez @ Thru & rendz the flesh of his breast with nasty & very qlawish fingernailz & Thru slumps to the floor az if unqonscious. Unqonscious indeed: hiz body makes with the pissing & shitting & all that good death thro stuff.
    The maniaq qultist waits for this to quiet down, watching gleefully, & then turnz to me, & whisperz hoarsely, "Hiz goal iz achieved. Seek us not."
With that this twister turnz & stalkz off to reabsorption in darqness.