Sunday, August 27, 2017

Suitmation XI: The Devil's Superstructure 2: Housing Crisis

Suitmation XI: The Devil's Superstructure 2: Housing Crisis
by William D. Tucker

Gastropia's fattest shits ended up as housing for all the faithful
stadium-scale termite mounds filled with the blame-beast-burrowed
though over time the blame-beasts lost their effectiveness
Gastropia had cut their production cycles to the minimum
His mungnificence gave so much of His body
what with all the abrupt weight loss followed by weight gain episodes
Gastropia's mental self-image expanded and contracted as well
He would awake in a state of confusion
"I can be decent, good, kind, I'll murder and lie no more-wait, the fuck am I doing"
He took no comfort in the fact that such episodes were transitory
He feared the loss of total control most of all
and so the latest production line of blame-beasts performed far below specs
and they were just not that good at overcoming the internal phatasias of potential converts anymore
Gastropia despaired at the thought of declining memberships
but then a funny thing happened

people of profound ill will, from the highest income brackets, and with advanced degrees
just the sort of people Gastropia was looking for
enlisted in His faith-based organization in record numbers
seduced by recruitment literature describing cutting edge self-contained environments
to weather the coming apocalypse
that would decimate all the tax collecting governments and poor people and any facts, experience, or perceptions that would contradict their identities as special hyper-individualistic chosen ones,
genetically selected for unlimited wealth, infinite comfort, pleasure at all times

in fact
once the blame-beasts were phased out
the termite mound campus pretty much sold itself
the word-of-mouth was killer
Gastropia found Himself swamped with requests from highly educated wealthy people from all over the world
who lived in mortal terror
that they would ever be exposed as pampered, privileged frauds
who feared ever having to share with people
or pay taxes
or ever be questioned about any little thing
these new recruits were wee wannabee totalitarians
who naturally sought to worship the most powerful, most ruthless entity in the universe
a coattail grasping instinct for sure

Gastropia in all His mungnificence gave them dormitory mounds crafted from His wondrous feces
which the new recruits burrowed into with their hands, feet, and mouths
and it all tasted great
these new acolytes had never tasted shit so good in their lives
and they decorated their chambers with posters of Hitler, Mussolini, Robert E. Lee,
all sorts of random mass shooters and serial killers and mad bombers and anyone else who ever published a thousand page manifesto online to justify racism, genocide, misogyny, etc.

Gastropia reveled in this new self-sustaining, self-correcting recruitment program,
but some instinct told Him that He needed to implement some new layer of control,
and so He innovated a highly simplified breed of the blame-beasts
which had formerly carried elaborate thought reform curricula
but now served more as brain-to-Gastropia comms units
Gastropia would give  windy, jokey, hatemongering speeches
painting vivid pictures of the secret satan supreme
ENEMY incarnate

but He also listened
really listened
to the internal hate rally phantasias of this new breed of elite acolyte
and Gastropia tailored His  message just so to each individual murder-deity in the making
which was a lot of work for His big ass
and Gastropia kind of slacked off in the early going
lost a crop or three that had potential
who sparked off mini-revolts within the termite campus
but then it got good to Him
and He knuckled the fuck down
really worked His giant booty cheeks off
to fully win over every last mind
held nightly psionic rallies, mustering every last demagogic ounce of juice
Gastropia always struggled with performance anxiety
was self-conscious about His weight,
but He prevailed, found the showman-dictator within
and those massive fecal structures were erected in every nation,
upon every continent
and this provoked all sorts of resistance from the non-members
many gory insurgencies, microwars, and appalling interruptions in online streaming video services struck the soul of Gastropia's elite-in-training to the quick

but everything didn't come up roses for His mungnificence
in fact
His giving-good-godheadedness found His big ass in the middle of a housing crisis
some of His most prized acolytes formed breakaway sects and seized control of their fecal hives
used various psionic exploits to overload the multichannel comms functionality of the simplified blame-beasts and began to use mutagenic-hallucinogenic properties of Gastropia's feces to endow themselves with supernormal powers

His mungnificence found himself with a veritable pantheon of rival demi-godlings with which to contend
that was a pain in His big ass for sure
so Gastropia ended up  razing some of the largest fecal dorms He'd spent so much energy and concentration squeezing out these past few years and purging scores of potential able-bodied personnel that could've been valuable field assets
was big time bummer
not a good scene
and Gastropia just knew that He was gonna have to police ambition and jealousy within His own ranks from here on out, here on in

Gastropia fell into a major depressive episode
immobilized Himself with an incomprehensibly dense bout of stress-eating,
lost ground to the fuckshit braindead non-members
taking advantage of revolts within His ranks
always nibbling at His margins
never winning
but refusing to admit defeat
Gastropia's big ass was hella stressed for sure

what was worse
rebel acolytes took to cloaking themselves in elaborate cosplay versions of Gastropia
constructed from the holy feces its own damn self
and some of these authoritarian cosplayers
they actually did Gastropia better than Gastropia
this depressed the fuck out of His genuineness
as He obsessively tracked their social media followings
watched these imitators rack up hella q-ratings
even loyalist media commentators turned on the original

Gastropia, increasingly isolated, yet eager to seek His own advice, made a conscious choice to go off His regimen of mountains of cocaine and antidepressants, and His diet of abandoned ICBM silos full of original recipe KFC

this was unwise

Gastropia fell into an abyss of depression
as world war three convulsed the earth
Gastropia could not even manage suicidal ideation
He simply chose absolute nil-motion down to His bizarre atomic structure
He fell into a funk for two or three generations
as He saw Himself replace Himself many times over
"shouldn't I call this mission accomplished . . . cast myself out of myself . . . always need to get out of myself even though I'm home . . . shit . . . "

Gastropia did not die
but He could no longer muster a traditional form of consciousness

Gastropia was not all right
-August 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Friday, August 25, 2017

The Library of the Imaginary Grotesque Obliterative Sublime

The Library of the Imaginary Grotesque Obliterative Sublime
by William D. Tucker

And here we have a few volumes from the Library of the Imaginary Grotesque Obliterative Sublime:
Nixon's Jowls: Towards a New Regime of Conservative Eroticism
by G. Gordon Liddy
Introduction by Anne Coulter
Afterword by Mike Huckabee
Pretty much speaks for itself.
Lots of passages about the sensuality of flop sweat getting caught up in the folds of jowl flesh,
as you know,
Nixon sweated a lot.
Sweated every time he lied.
But what Mr. Liddy illuminates,
and this is something that has never before been revealed to commoners such as ourselves,
is that the salt and trace amounts of Blood of Beelzebub contained within Nixon’s sweat,
that matter became trapped within the jowl folds,
to be massaged, and molded, and sculpted
into little salty, demoniacal pearls,
that would just come flying right out of the jowl folds of Nixon’s fucking face,
bounce right off Pat Nixon’s face,
whenever he would launch into some paranoid antisemitic, white supremacist rant about palace intrigues and civil rights activists,
and his jowls would be flying all about,
all those jowl pearls would bounce right the Christ off Pat Nixon’s face,
Tricky Dick would see that shit,
and then out would come his sensitive side,
“Oh, Buddy, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hit you like that!”
“Oh, Dick, thank you! They look so nice!”
And Pat just strings ‘em into a necklace.
It all works out.
Wears ‘em to state dinners.
They look good on her.
They really do.

Our next volume is . . .
The Eroticism of the Armadillo by H. H. Brill
. . . we’ll just skip that one, for now . . .
. . . it actually has a rating of NC-4,000,000,000
only Star Children are permitted to read it,
maybe Galactus?

That’s probably for the best . . .
-July 2015

Copyright 2015 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Sunday, August 20, 2017

Suitmation X: The Devil's Superstructure

Suitmation X: The Devil's Superstructure
by William D. Tucker 

up from the impossible depths
seventy stories tall
the confused beast Gastropia awoke
displacing a vast amount of water before His august self
which swept all that had been conceived and constructed by human minds, labor, and resources inland
causing unimaginable devastation, misery, trauma, despair for the future

Gastropia, the hungry beast of all-consuming desire, defied all laws of physics
shouldn't be able to walk
yet He does
yet He exists

His extraordinary absurd origins:
once He was a low-shitty human adventurer
who wandered far from human reality regimes
took on vast powers from the blood and data of worthy foes
'til all His memories grew fraudulent, amplified by speedy supernatural highs
sparking off self-reinforcing cycles of rival paranoias within His magnificent mind
all the universe became as ENEMY
a vast, clanking, shitting, moaning, hooting, squirting bio-cyber-mechanical theatrical contrivance that needed to be utterly annihilated
in order to unmask the cackling puppeteer-impresario who had erected this spectacle to contain Gastropia within a show-of-shows of scintillating idiot joy
because Gastropia was the greatest god that ever used the word god as a verb
Gastropia was the most horridly beautiful fuckface to elicit arousal responses from an accomplished plastic burial disposal site in the benighted state of Florida
only Gastropia could be the star of this cosmic shitshow
only Gastropia could fuck volcanoes the hardest, restore them with sexual healing to active status
Gastropia granted Himself the right to murder all that stood between Him and the busting of the sweetest nut
Gastropia swore to climb the ladder of ambition 'til He reached that never-ending country buffet in fake-god's heavenly party house in the satellite-clogged sky
nothing would block the action of Gastropia's gorgeous bowels as they launched only the fattest shit monoliths into the most gilded toilet bowls of fake-god's long-evicted angelic occupation forces in all the far-flung precincts of kinda-hell
Gastropia was all right

Gastropia crashed every fucking thing into ruin
rubbling every last bit of the insidious, lying set designs,
and now digging down through concrete, sewer, secret fallout shelters,
forcing His way ever closer to the heart of mystery, the heart of the impresario's evil

the heart of boner-crushing disappointment

in all His rampages holy
Gastropia has yet to find the secret satan He seeks
but the self-sustaining structures of paranoid true-mind always crank out whole-assed internal mytho-fable to normalize and stabilize His ego complexes and keep the cycle turning over,
year after year
holy rampage after holy rampage

Gastropia updates His blame-beasts which disperse among the human population, burrow into susceptible minds, win over new fans, followers, worshippers, casual enthusiasts, fuck buddies, and Gastropia ghosts His august self off to a happy space to recharge, ingest numbingly massive quantities of muscle relaxers, and catch up on house of cards
"that kevin spacey, man I'd fuckin' vote for that guy for the president of every-goddamn-thing"

Belly laughs and farts and imprecations against the evil impresario echo through the minds of brain-burrowed acolytes praying for the next spectacle
as long as it doesn't happen to their town, city, rural route purgatory
yard littered with hollowed out gas-guzzling suvs, nixon-is-still-the-one and bush/cheney '04 yard signs, confederate battle flag bumper stickers plastered all over every surface-some of their houses are more confederate battle flag bumper sticker than house

the reliable devastation His big ass brings
the only thing some people got to look forward to in this life

Gastropia was all right.
-August 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Friday, August 18, 2017

After Iraq 2003, after 8 years of Obama, after white supremacist insurgency in Charlottesville . . .

After Iraq 2003, after 8 years of Obama, after white supremacist insurgency in Charlottesville . . . 
by William D. Tucker 

Processing the all the too recent past with comparisons to authors, works of literature, narrative constructs:

George W. Bush and Dick Cheney: satirical grotesques out of Terry Southern or Voltaire. Destructive evil executed in the name of the highest ideals and deepest self-delusions. Dr. Strangelove, Candide come to mind.

President Barack Obama: Sophocles, Aeschylus, Shakespeare: nobility, tragedy, ambitions thwarted, conflicts between rule of law and extrajudicial expediency, heroic effort, but ruthless enemies sabotaging every effort. The Oresteia, Henry IV, Hamlet, Oedipus Rex. 

Fake President trump: a swastika carved into a school desk by a disturbed seventh grader who whenever he takes a shit can do one of two things: wash his hands or wipe his ass. Can't do both. Can only do one or the other. A teacher sees the swastika, asks herself, "Is this really still a thing?" and then she brushes her fingers across the profane carving, an unconscious gesture to confirm the reality of the vileness before her. A HALF HOUR LATER: She eats a late lunch. ONE HOUR LATER: She experiences severe intestinal distress, must call in sick leave for a week. A WEEK LATER: She is hospitalized for severe dehydration, is unable to return to work for a month. A MONTH LATER: Little swastikas everywhere.

-August 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Sunday, August 13, 2017

Suitmation IX: Again we work, again we live

Suitmation IX: Again we work, again we live
by William D. Tucker

In the pipeline at last with our pre-modern historical panorama
We've collated our research and reconstruction on the Oldline Individuals
So much of their minds submerged
by so many contingent quirks of evolution
We have no idea if any of our dramatization is even close to accurate.
Our depiction is something like a chess game
with the individuals as pieces
and all their desires, instincts, property, laws, religions, illnesses, stray notions
as the players
it all takes place in the era prior to the advent of Free Will
the Great Cognitive Engineering Feat
which has an aura of romance in our time

We're amused
that an imperfect, probably mostly bullshit
historical re-enactment
is now destined
to take on the force of history
even when we know very well
the difference between history and entertainment

We'll have our moment with this one
a real breakthrough in the usual schedule of flickers
and most likely cycle out again into the exploitation programmers we've constructed for so many cycles
work those tropes to death after death

We may get our chance again
if we choose not to die
and those eons do grow long
dense with the free all practicing true choices
'til that priority pipeline just had to emerge, re-emerge, implement control and protocol
our chance will come again and again and again
if our mind(s) can endure the crushing boredom,
that weight of post-time time
where we're always choosing our moments
right up to the end which may not actually end anything
-August 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Friday, August 11, 2017

Free Agent 2: The Throne of Contemplation

Free Agent 2: The Throne of Contemplation 
by William D. Tucker

As part of my indoctrination into RIVALCORP, I am cracked, scanned, and drained-which means I sit in a well-appointed Throne of Contemplation  with all my bodily needs attended to, the drug-pump primed just so, and my choice of authorized flickers via direct brain stimulation. I re-watch the Beverly Hills Cop Trilogy, including the TV edits. I'm actually a really big defender of Beverly Hills Cop 3, and I even think there are some inspired cuts in the censored-for-television version. A couple of the shootings are actually more abrupt and violent with the cartoonish squib-work cut out, but other scenes do suffer. I go through every iteration of the Beverly Hills Cop saga before cycling into a state of lucid dreaming.

I got into the habit some jobs ago of refusing to dream when locked down into the Throne of Contemplation, because I didn't want my internal phantasia to be recorded and made property of the system. But then they would just interdict the sleep state, and that took awhile to resist. Once I got into lucid dreaming I forced the most depraved scenarios and imagery into the system: vast howling chancroids vomiting up greasy feces and broken off teeth; syphilitic samurai seppuku; cockroaches eating eyeballs out of Muppet Baby faces; a U.S. president eating nothing but hair for every meal ... but I got worn out with that routine.

Why bother to monkey wrench the system? The system is, itself, Sabotage Incarnate. The true believers keep it puttering along on a lean mixture of malice and avarice. Juvenile shock perversities  are amusing dirty jokes to spice up a puritanical day.

Moreover, I'm certain every loyal employee has engaged in such acts of so-called resistance. I got the idea from a colleague who has been mostly deleted from my memory. The system is fully capable of total erasure of an individual identity but that method has been deemed, for now, to be inefficient. The web of an individual mind has too many useful strands, connections, intersections, and working networks to be obliterated outright when it can just be steered onto the right path with the proper rewards and stimulation. Some pruning-sure, fine, and they have refined that capability to a shockingly precise degree. I admire it. I do. What they've achieved is absolutely astonishing. Solo units such as myself have largely seen an enhanced quality of life at the end of all processes. So why fuck with shit?

I don't exactly love Big Brother, or whatever you want to call it-it ain't that warm of a sentiment.
And I wouldn't say He loves me.
But He's done right by me in terms of the basics.
-August 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Sunday, August 6, 2017

Suitmation VIII: Tortsov's Lesson on the Soul of Monstrosity (excerpt)

Suitmation VIII: Tortsov's Lesson on the Soul of Monstrosity (excerpt)
by William D. Tucker

On the last day of class, we did not know what to expect. Tortsov himself was a few minutes late. He called us to order, and went straight into a lecture.

"We have worked many weeks on spontaneity, on living truthfully in each monstrous moment. We have seen upon this stage many wonders of monstered revelation. We have followed our transformations wherever they have led, and experienced continuous liberation. Now, we must come down to earth, and consider the likely course of our professional lives beyond this classroom. In the professional world, monsters are not heroes, protagonists, or even complex supporting parts-we are allegories, symbols, propaganda, mysteries, omens, fantasies, and inner conflicts made manifest. We shall be called upon to symbolize fears rational, irrational, bigoted, individualistic, nationalistic-we shall be called upon to enact certain patterns and tropes and rituals and rites which usually entail our ultimate destruction. It is easy to grow jaded and mechanistic in these kinds of roles. However, I exhort you to always strive for that vividness of the inner life in each moment no matter how hackneyed, cliched, propagandistic, or downright idiotic your allotted monstered role may be-who knows? If you play your part well, truthfully, and vividly in each moment, perhaps you will honestly give life to the soul of monstrosity upon our stage. And in that blazing moment of spiritual illumination may come a turning, and we may then be asked to play monstered heroes, monstered protagonists, monstered quirky supporting characters, monstered comedic leads, monstered romantic leads-I promise nothing, I prophesy nothing. But when the life of a soul is truly played . . . there may indeed come a turning."

At this point, Tortsov declared the class dismissed, and thanked us all for being his students. This was quite an emotional scene. All of us had never been through such an education. Even Tortsov seemed stricken with a kind of sadness that this journey was at an end.

Tortsov embraced each of us as we exited the class room and boarded the waiting military transports. A war was on, and allegorical beasts were needed in the Ritual AgitProp Division. I barely had time to say goodbye to Ferapont, and Katharine, and Igor, and Dolman and Rita, as the masked and armored troopers took roll call and divided us up among the three waiting vehicles.

We were off to incarnate the lives of essential beasts in the name of the state. Who knows how many transformations lay in our futures? Would any of us recognize each other after the day of victory?

The transport doors sealed themselves, closing off my last view of Tortsov's school for the next five years.
-July-August 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Friday, August 4, 2017

Free Agent

Free Agent
by William D. Tucker

None of the faces or uniforms or masks or languages registered
ran diagnostics on my eyes, ears, heart
it wasn't my eyes, ears, heart

I went to the company store to buy new getup
was promptly removed from the facility

And they were kinda rough with me
which was funny at first
made me feel like Eddie Murphy in Beverly Hills Cop,
but they weren't truly abusive,
didn't throw me through a plate glass window

The paramilitaries looked new and shiny
upgraded from combat webbing and shaved heads
into a league of techno demi-gods
or a cosplay science ninja team
heads encased in robo-insectoid helmets

On the street before the great and convoluted facility
I stood crying
I tried so hard to suppress all emotion
but the internal drug-pumps had already deactivated upon my termination
the tears flowed
I blubbered even.

I stood there for an hour or more,
half hoping I'd be shot by a shiny paramilitary
but no dice.

I stalked down the middle of the road,
hoping to be rundown,
but all the autocars swerved just so,
even broadcasting messages of compassion, recommending suicide prevention hotlines, Jesus Christ,
Buddha, L. Ron Hubbard;
one especially devout car offered to roll with me along my dark path,
but I mouthed insipid syllables 'til it left me alone with a pamphlet full of mistranslated, out-of-context Bible quotations.

A half hour passed
I settled into a stalking rhythm which the autocars found agreeable,
just a little deviation from their ground-plans
didn't even get clipped
I'd always wanted to test the collision detection on these machines
and an autocar pulled up next to me, told me to get in, and something inside me responded to a signal
-the chem-pumps I think-
which guided me to yes.

In the air conditioned cab, stimulant-alcoholic drinkbox in my hand
the autocar spoke at length about all the opportunities that awaited me inside RIVALCORP
which wasn't the true name, but a cipher
because the real name was knowledge reserved to the executive class
or possibly just the great algorithms in the Cloud of Clouds
the near immaterial  deities rumored to have the whole game on lock these days.

I couldn't even recall the name of the company I was just fired from,
my mind only coming up with PREVIOUS GIG, PASTCORP, variations on that general theme.

I swiped my consent through screen after screen
of terms and conditions
just like I did when I got headhunted for PASTCORP.

Why do they even allow any memories, for fuck's sake?
They write in so many strategic erasures and interdictions,
everybody's hacking into everybody else's chem-pumps,
just do the full wipe, fer Hubbard's sakes!
I'm pretty sure they like it like that-leaving in just enough to promote an illusion of free will,
easy enough to frustrate, tip over into despair in a world of unlimited choice,
and thus conformity, obedience, self-indoctrination follow on with the quickness
to still the cognitive dissonance.

a full wipe just means you gotta increase resources devoted to re-skilling, re-indoctrination lead times,
it's cool.

The autocar regaled me with readings of official poetry as it whisked me towards another great and convoluted facility. The verses stirred my at-a-distance-controlled heart. Shit would work out for a few hundred cycles more, I would know where I needed to be.
-August 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.