Thursday, March 14, 2024

Winter Waggery in Wicewudu

Before the days of entente with Fake Hayata (aka Weasel), the trickster spirit within Gass-Boy led him and Malinconico through the wintry wastes of Wicewudu.
  The pair eyed Batya Belef toiling beneath his mashina. Of course, the mischievous spunk activated Gass-Boy to action: He scooped up a handful of wet snow and quickly packed it into a ball in the palms of his dirty gloves. Malinconico’s eyes darted from Gass-Boy’s hands to the supine gentleman, putting together what was about to take place and took a few steps backward.
  Gass-Boy launched the snowball in a long arc. The projectile splatted on the asphalt inches from Belef’s head. Eyes locked and the flight response kicked in.
  Gass-Boy and Malinconico fled from the Nottingham Weg as fast as the thick snowfall would allow. Through the Olkiewicz marshes and Condemnation Alley they pushed onward. A backwards glance showed Belef slipping on the slick ground even as he was gaining in pursuit.
  Teary panic set in as the furley youth reached the Sheffield verandah with the man on their heels.
  The young men slid to a stop in front of Courier One, his arms folded. They spun around to see Batya Belef standing there, arms also folded.
  Silent disapproval often seems the loudest.

As often realised in hindsight, our proximity to trickster archetypes acts as cautionary tales to guide our witnesses down the road.

Friday, March 01, 2024

OptiGrids, et alia: Usilitel’ Dukha

OptiGrids, a failed lifestyle programme of the mid-30’s strata, received much criticism like other lifestyle products thenceforth. Not so much for its half-baked concept and poor execution in an attempt at besting a superior product, but for exacerbating social neuroses that are timeless.

The Opti-Proxy of one Taoja stood in the communal chamber making small talk with visitants and thru-passers.
  “Lookit the bugatty moodge,” shot one snide malapert.
  “Such dorogoy platties,” smirked another.
  Though Avatar Vitiation was a valid concern, skitebirds on hand wasted no time with hasty judgements based on mere appearances.
  “I got little deng,” explained Taoja. “My blazer is from the charity shoppe. My shirt and trou are cast-offs. Even my avatar construct is a favour from a tog.”
  “You smot that sophistos look, aincher?”
  “Bezoomny, the lotta ya,” Taoja shook his head.

There are no tall poppies in Tucland, and all of their crabs writhe at the bottom of the proverbial bucket.
  But Taoja was neither. Even had Validity Projection not failed, knee-jerk biteback would always be there.
  Worse than hatred of success, this was hatred of perceived success. Contact Slough is the only recourse for those who cannot stomach such a scabrous standpoint.
  ’Twas ever thus, the Spirit of Cain.