Cue for the Visions: Ice Cream Social

The audio Cue conjures a dim 10th Stratum scene: A post-athletic event proudly catered by Creamy’s. An indigo twilight casts upon peach-coloured work tunics amid youthful bustle and crisp autumn air. At the long tables servants proffer tasty portions of paghpaghak — iced dairy concoctions with flavours like Ulster Meadows, Amaretto Chocolate Cheesecake and Rhesus Pieces. The victorious plastic gladiators and their blonde spirit squads in tow seem to enjoy the treats with gusto.

The nightfall fades to a velvet black as the attendants continue scooping under lone vanilla moonlight. They soldier on, reflexively avoiding flavour buddies by second sight, carving away under the firm, Kissinger-like direction of Mr Burr. The chimes of the Cue amplify the majesty and privilege of serving such Nectar of the Gods, regardless of recognition by the recipients.

I will be there.

Aborted APF Operations Case Study: Project Iota

Project Iota was a covert countermeasure proposed to Allied Pungeoning Front Director Johnny Gutts by Field Agent Ben Jantry back during the 25th Stratum. It was a bold and innovative idea that bore the hallmarks of PSYOP and CW (before Convention) in its potential as an effectual provocative.

The Subject of operations was to be Captain Jethrine, a.k.a. Sleezi-Tiki, a low-rung operative and toady of the BubbaCabal.

The staging area was to be the Subject’s quarters aboard the S.S. Reverend Resbo whilst in port.

‘Weapon DF’: Via network, Agt. Jantry had procured a quantity of ‘decomp fluids’ of a type used in forensic training. Though the APF had an agent-in-place aboard the vessel (Young Merbos), Agt. Jantry offered to execute the operation himself.

Mission Scenario: At 2100 hours local time, the crew of the Rev. Resbo will still be on leave. Taking advantage of the piss-poor security BBACBL afforded the vessel, Agent will easily make way on board and access Subject’s quarters within a seven minute timeframe. Agent will then deploy DF in minute amounts to area undersurfaces — underneath pillows, blankets and cushions, and within articles of clothing. This is for the purpose of delaying recognition by Subject whilst the putrefying effects of DF progress. Agent will then vacate the quarters and vessel undetected under cover of night.
Total excursion timeframe: 17-18 minutes.
The moment Agent sets foot on the gangway Project Iota will be in effect.

Projected results: Subject will find nothing amiss the first 12 hours. Thereafter, a faint but increasing odor redolent of decay will be noticed. Within 24 hours the foetor will reach maximum pungency. Within Subject’s quarters and even following them around will be the stench of death. The rancid aroma of rotting roadkill. A billowing of pus and sulphurous muck suffusing the scene, emanating from… but where?
Psychological reactions will range from disgust to panic and should have a negative impact on Subject’s efficacy in fulfilling BBACBL duties. BBACBL crisis containment attempts will be futile. Alternate stateroom and uniform requisitions will not be possible as the vessel’s full complement and imbecilic QM will negate the option.

Projected outcome: Subject’s diminished morale and efficacy will amplify the perception of said Subject’s already-existing incompetence as well as hinder actual on-hand duties. Upper echelon BBACBL handlers will then have no other option for Subject than Rubber Room reassignment or termination.

Project Iota — Shelved/Scrubbed: Director Gutts deliberated upon the plan and was impressed, especially with the karmic aspects of this countermeasure. But considering that the Subject’s existing trajectory into ineptitude would inevitably torpedo all BBACBL operations anyway, Gutts scrubbed Iota whilst extracting the agent-in-place from S.S. Rev. Resbo.

As they say, “Give ‘em enough rope…”

Yaytsa Vorob’ye: Sphere and Culture Atomise

Trace the rage.

There is the Young Idealist, one yet to learn the lessons of the past. Earnest but naïve, he can afford to fall back on the Good Intentions excuse when beset with fiasco after implementing a system otherwise considered a time-tested failure. He doesn't understand human nature.

“It wasn’t done right,” any true Scotsman is sure to tell him.
  And that Scotsman may ostensibly appear to be an older idealist cut from the same cloth. Maybe he knows more about human nature. If so, why would he push for a system known to fail?

The answer is twofold: 1) Power for power’s sake. It doesn't matter what a mess the rest of the pyramid is as long as he is on top, and stays on top.
  Which implies: 2) Disdain for his own citizens. To adopt knowingly a system that robs people of dignity whilst appealing and pandering to their baser instincts is not a sign of faith in man, but the desire for control via infantilisation and petty distractions.
Panem et circensus. Divide et impera.
He is the old cynic masquerading as idealist.

And what are ye fruits?

  Dysfunctional mentalities running the gamut from artificially high self-esteem down to nihilistic self-loathing.
  A culture of dependence. Asocial adult children given to navel-gazing raising the next generation of same. Neurotic paranoias. Anarcho-tyranny.
  Again, the extirpation of dignity. It is easier to envy than to aspire. It is easier to covet than create. Pride is easier than self-improvement.

This is the path to dust. The seeds are planted.

The culture as planetoid: self-destruction, but on a micro scale.
  Rotting promontories, disintegrating strata, foundations unbound. The asthenosphere shatters, the resonance like massive bone slowly snapping below one’s feet. The mantle has begun slaking with little to support it. Paleoliquifaction churns the particulate individuals into a runny entropic slurry. And in the final destructive cratonic sequence, when the gravitic centre cannot hold, the devolved gleet — of man, of stone — decays into interstellar dust.

Powerless wrath detonated the erythrean sphere; the punctate orb, encumbered by the vecordious masses, took the Sphynx way out and pulverised itself.

Lola, el papagayo contento

The Curious Fledgling

Thryothorus ludovicianus

Le dire est autre chose que le faire

“Where the hell was it?
On Ponce, near the Kro-Zhay maybe. Walking from one place to another. The Clermont? The Concourse? Don’t remember, but it was after a gig or show.

But it was on Ponce. Late. Dangerous, in other words. You do not stop and open your purse to the first lowlife who stumbles within ten feet of you. That man is not a kindly hobo looking for charity. He may swipe your bag. Or he might just stab you for no reason. Crazy, I know. But this is Ponce. Where Crazy lives. Your dripping mawkishness in the face of potential peril would have been your undoing, save for the fact that your man was walking with you. And the daggers he was staring at you and your damn fool stunt. Hope he gave you an earful...”

An uncomfortable pattern emerges:
• The Slipped Masque of LeVira.
• Veronique and the stranger’s candy.
• Jean Wecastor’s tolerance for codependency as well as consumption to the point of public incapacitation.
• And Elise, with her charitable chumming of the waters of Ponce.

In each, an individual given to proclamation on the importance of “empowerment.”
In each, an individual irresponsibly willing to put themselves in unnecessary danger.

Is there a psychological disconnect between therapeutic wishcasting and the inability to weigh risk? Willful blindness? Or a darker, self-destructive tendency in the subconscious?
Dunno. Freud would probably go to town though.
Ultimately, Montaigne had it right, regardless. As well as James and John.
Old words. But good words.

Strontium Evening

The ascendant Fifth Stratum iteration of a sunrise from beyond an ancient Spanish fort — known as Platinum Morning — has a little-known counterpart: Strontium Evening.
The sounds of Nightkill remain the Cue for this particular Vision as well, sung here instead by Hesperis rather than Eos Erigeneia in the original.

Maturation of the volition was reached by the 12th Stratum when transmission of the song to the Bonus Chamber provided a fitting audio to the pre-existing visual.
The setting here though is more domestic than exotic: Rolling tracts of the East Bank, notes in the air of freshly mowed lawns mixing with hints of charcoal from righteous grill-outs and the intermittent crackle of UV bug zappers. All under a blazing scarlet canopy.

And once again, above a tree-silhouetted sky, the arpeggiated major sevenths chime through the crimson ether, cycling their march in semidiapente, fading into night.