Acoustic Hijinks at the Mapparium

DATELINE: Shawmut City, c. Stratum XX

On furlough, the ’Nuts happened across the headquarters of religious scientists in the high-toned neighbourhood of Back Bay.
  ‘How do you see the world?’ beckoned a sign at the end of a motionless reflecting pool.
  The quartet entered the great stained-glass sphere to view a globe outside-in. A glass walkway transversed the sphere’s interior from an area west of the Galapagos to the Indian Ocean’s Maldives. One could stand at the Earth’s core to see its crust and mantle in the heavens above.
  Jeck and the others stared around in amazement as did a tour group at the far end of the sphere. It dawned on Jeck that acoustic transfer functions within this enclosure would result in aural localisation illusions.
  With the mischievous spirit of Eris, Jeck quietly began the stridulating Song of the Gryllidae. The meek chirp crescendoed into a mezzo-forte trill. Whilst this went unnoticed to those beside him, the acoustic propagation found a focal point at the opposite side of the sphere, confusing the tour group. The flustered tour guide gazed around for an answer to the intrusion resonating within his world.
  “Guess we gotta call the exterminators,” he grumbled, his muted voice carrying around the inverted globe.

The Miet-Box at the End of the Lane

At the end of Pauskil Lane lies an empty lot. Cracked asphalt and concrete slabs hint at the bunkers that once occupied the parcel.
  Over the years various musical clenches used the bunkers for their hersall prep. Some notables: Mr Garge and his Barmherzigland brethren, Otto’s Ilýsion Pedía, Mook Matar, Vaqueras Llorando — even the ’Nuts honed their tecnik there within the breeze-block chambers.
  Mr Wrymouth, who rented out the bunkers, was a rare sight — unless he saw people there he thought he could Save (assuming no one save himself had ever heard Good News). But he just had the structures torn down one day for no apparent reason. (Well, their proximity to the seedy Vistaparque council flats must’ve been at least one reason.) Even Mr Garge’s adjacent teleball rink was repurposed as a car park for the art school extension.
  It’s all gone now, but if you listen closely you can still hear the strains of “Pink Pudding,” “Donne de la Vigueur à Mon Âme,” and “Me Siento como Freddi”. That, and the sound of a ’60’s TV console being shattered by a makeshift teleball javelin.

Tales from the Grid — Vol. 1.3

In C-Town’s squalid eastside, the ’Nuts huddled under a stone archway in the dingy recesses of The Euc. A twerpy fellow with arm in a cast approached fervently.
  “You guys did it! You stole my coat,” the guy pointed. The group accused sat bemused and wondered what this runt was on about.
  “You see, you guys are from the South and aren’t used to our harsh winters here. Therefore, one of you stole my blue coat!”
  Provincial logic at its best.
  The ’Nuts looked at each other, imagining retorts offering to break his other arm as well as generalised ridicule, but simply sat staring at the raving man-boy.
  One of the group piped up: “I hope you at least paid cover to get in here — that way at least someone’s benefiting besides us watching your spastic and spurious strictures.”
  The twerp fumed silently before storming away.
  “Must’ve seen Light of Day a few too many times.”

Tales from The Grid — Vol. 1.2

Remarkable Repasts from the Road

Whilst reliance on the Spice Kit allowed the ’Nuts to dine frugally from the consoles of Graudonner II, oftentimes circumstances would dictate a sampling of regional fare.

• Norfolk’s King’s Head specialty: Grape leaves. Dr Carter’s diagnosis: “Dog turds covered in snot.”

• Moroccan Delights in DC: Bobby Mac is not impressed with their “Tejas Toast.”

• Louisville’s Levant Eatery: Gyro stew. For $2 per bowl, a meal too cheap to be good -- and the butt of continuous jokes.  

• Hole-in-the-wall joint in NYC’s Alphabet City: An authentic Polish breakfast for under eight bucks.

• The ‘Lex’: ’Cue capital of all creation. Coarse chopped brown and red slaw FTW.

The Spice Kit

On board Graudonner II, the ’Nuts often relied on a weathered yet sturdy strongbox known as the “Spice Kit” to help season their victual interludes whilst on the road.
  Within, one could find shakers and flavouring agents including the Ten Condiments and such treats as banana habanero jelly and Panax ginseng vials for the morning sesh.
  This vital collection of fines herbes helped the ’Nuts see their way through grueling tours of Rust Belt dive-dumps, with measly per diems, confused hayseeds, and Punk Rock Bathrooms™ — all adding to the regional colour.

Der Kuss der Gräfin: Dreams of the Mudlark

...The green of the grass, the murmur of small talk, and the balm of camellia in the 21st Stratum...

The garden party took place in the backyard of the Stuttering Barrister, a man who fancied himself a small-town media mogul, so many of the invitees were local politicos, reporters and uni law students.
  The event was catered by Mr Bobbs, who was dismayed by the guests’ upturned noses regarding his colourful hand-farmed spores. Stoddard should have been with the Nuts mixing down the Making Love For Now UK sessions but instead attended the soirée, not because he was any fan of the Barrister or for the opportunity for free grub. The presence of one Miss Tuddley had him overlook the mingling toffs and other annoying aspects of the gathering.
  She was landed gentry, a young woman from a family with a fortune in divinity treats. But she wore her privilege quietly as she studied law at uni whilst residing in the Stuttering Barrister’s attic loft.
  Stoddard had already met her acquaintance so the slide into cordial conversation came quite naturally, and was facilitated by a fellow law student by the name of Rhett, a sociable young man conversant in topical banter.
  The three chatted amiably away from the rest of the stiffnecks meandering across the lawn, and much punch was imbibed. Stoddard subdued his crush with nonchalance, but tacitly admired the favours of Miss Tuddley in her propinquity. Her raven hair and brown doe eyes captivated him, but he was under no illusion of anything serious, for her station in life was far above his. That said, natural beauty and natural smarts are to be relished and not resented, after all.
  With the sun setting the garden party waned and the trio retreated to Miss Tuddley’s loft for further refreshments.
  It was a charming yet humble abode. The hostess pointed out her snowglobe collection whilst she prepared convivial adult beverages.
  Stoddard lifted one snowglobe off the shelf and gave it a slight shake. Dusty flurries swirled down over a dark, sleepy village.
  Merriment ensued and was indeed entertaining to Stoddard, yet he felt both privilege and appreciation to be in the company of social betters who were no doubt heading for the haute monde in years to come. Rhett, probably a future barrister himself; Miss Tuddley, most assuredly destined for nobility. Stoddard recognised status hierarchies, but only in the context of merit. Is envy not an affront to aspiration? Though a humble tradesman, he aspired no less than his present company, so there was an unspoken camaraderie beneath the boisterous cheer in the room.
  The evening wound down and everyone’s groggy fog of incapacitation meant no one was going anywhere. Rhett volunteered to crash on the settee. Stoddard nervously eyed the floor, looking for the most comfortable spot.
  Miss Tuddley stood placidly across the room looking directly at him. She made a slight gesture with her hand and quietly said in an almost childlike voice, without a hint of guile, “You can sleep in my bed.”
  Mere seconds felt like hours. Her delicate face was expressionless, save for a faint trace of ...what? Wistfulness? Tiddly fatigue? A beautiful woman is offering you her bed. What to do?
  “Okay,” he replied with clumsy nonchalance.
  The lights doused, they both lay side by side above the covers. Stoddard was stiff as a corpse and would indeed fit in a coffin, given the nervous restraint of his posture. Yet he felt more alive than ever as he quickly faded to slumber with the lovely Miss Tuddley silently inches away.

I’m on my best behaviour out of respect. I’m on my... best...

He was fast asleep.

They say one’s dreams are all the more vivid when dozing far from the comfort of one’s own bed. Intense imagery, heightened spatial acuteness, the locus of dynamic circumstance. But lucidity itself often takes leave...

In the middle of the night the vision appeared somewhat abruptly before Stoddard. It was a silhouette seated beside his frozen, prone self.
 Soundlessly the figure watched over him for a moment, then bent forward as a moonbeam caught a glimpse of face.
It was Miss Tuddley.
  She leaned close and planted a warm but firm kiss on his cheek. One. Two. Three seconds and she drew back into the gray murk, staring for another moment. Stoddard blinked as the movie played in reverse and ended in darkness as suddenly as it had begun.

Years passed and the lives of Miss Tuddley, Rhett and Stoddard progressed quite nicely, both socially and professionally, though all three had lost touch. Stoddard didn’t think much of the odd dream -- it was simple wishcasting, right? Still, there was something about it he couldn’t put his finger on.

One nondescript afternoon Stoddard was strolling down High Street when he ran into Rhett, bearing a well-dressed and more mature mien. The two reminisced and updated each other on their respective professions -- Rhett, who indeed became a barrister; and Stoddard, who was a successful operative with the APF.
 Stoddard cooly brought up word of Miss Tuddley, who was no mystery, for she was now a countess with a current seat in Parliament.
“Do you ever see her? In the city?”
“Not too often. She’s busy. I’m busy. We’re all busy.”
“We are,” Stoddard nodded slightly, looking askance in the distance.
 They stood for a moment until Rhett broke Stoddard’s silent reverie.

“You idiot.”
“What?” Stoddard straightened himself.
“She always liked you,” Rhett muttered with a sly grin. “Don’t you remember that night at the Stuttering Barristers?”
“I... erm, yeah.”
 He stared out at the horizon, slowly piecing together something everyone else had seen as rather obvious.
 And he remembered the strange, paralytic visions in the attic loft all those years ago. And in them, he remembered having blinked at them.
 And he thought: Since when in the hell do people blink in their dreams?

Maybe he was an idiot.

041887: Lord Ravenhurst interview minutes — If Styx Was Nine

Pungenday, Discord 35, Year of Our Lady of Discord 3153

Lord Omar Khayyam Ravenhurst: “I picked ‘5’ -- it wasn’t a coincidence that I picked 5, ‘cuz I talked to a guy in New Orleans about assassinating Kennedy, who at one point right in the conversation said five is a very important number. He was always telling me stuff he said I should remember... I wasn’t paying attention, I thought he was nuts... So anyway, just in case five was an important number, I worked it into the Discordian since I had a dogma...”
[...]
“‘17’ is about last-ditch reactionaries fighting a battle against the forces of evil against the forces of good...”
[...]
“‘9’ is society being driven forward by its contradictions.”
[...]
“And ‘23’ is people who are the gung-ho communists, like the communist party in China forty or fifty years ago...”
[...]
“That’s basically what I am, a ‘Nine-and-Five’ would be somebody who is middle-of-the-road, ... ambivalent about both capitalism and communism... [tape gibberish]”

[Various mentions of Hitler’s Werewolves, the European name ‘Switzer,’ ‘Oswald’ being a German Crusader name, and moving on from reading Marx/Lenin to Ayn Rand.]

And so went the interview upon a L5P grassy knoll on a warm Pungenday (not to be confused with Pungeon Day). Lots of entertaining red meat for numerology and conspiracy buffs, to be sure. But a peculiar thing was happening as this all transpired.
A man, madras-clad, passes by.
Of no notice.
But then, he again passes and subtle details surface: camera slung around neck, blank expression.
Minutes later he’s there again, at the edge of a crowd staring dead on at this brave clench who dares to confer with their interlocutee in a public place.
Gone.
The interview winds up as batteries wind down; magnetic media slows to a halt.
And there that stranger is again, amidst the passers-by, glaring.

Is paranoia a contagion or is it a buzz? Or is it both -- a contact high, seeking memes and meaningful patterns in everyday sensory input?

Who is this being?

May we fancy some idle speculation?

• Was this Charon of Styx, mistaking Eris for a mere mortal awaiting his Final Ride?

• Was this preppie android an MIB -- one of the notorious ‘Men in Black?’ (Perhaps with his fashion update he should be referred to as a RIP -- ‘Robot in Plaid.’)

• Perhaps it is an individual variation of Lord Ravenhurst’s ‘9’: the good lord, being driven by his own contradictions, projects an obverse isochronal simulacrum of himself -- the Anti-Thornley.

Let us entertain this notion. What do you think?