literature

PSYCHOPOMP. CHAPTER ONE

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Literature Text

(1270 words.)


Angel and puppet. Now we will have a play.
Now will there come together what we always
Divide because of our presence . . .
Now will the angel perform over us.
--Rilke



You, Peter Polaris, open a white metal door attached to a vinyl sided, formerly brick warehouse. You attend to the handle with a gloved right hand and enter with surreptitious awareness. Millions of people wander doing repetitively peoplelike things. You flatten yourself against the wall. No one will sense you unless you think the magic words. You try not to think them. One or two of the bipedal herd, glance your way.

Peter is, (you are,) sensitive to sound. The doctors have noted this on your file. The rustle of people is horrific - the slightest murmur, anathema. 'Still.' He thinks. 'One cannot remain still forever.' So Peter crawls the wall space, arm swimming over arm. (This would look odd if these were normal people - but they are not, and you are not, certainly.) The room is filled to the brim with druggies, schizophrenics and low-impulse control maniacs, just like you. How homey. You lift one foot and it hangs there. If you move deliberately . . . engage each muscle just so, you might survive this. Peter, (you,) lock rigid eyes upon the scene of a thousand bodies that coalesce in shoals and fractile patternings. There is a voice in your head and it tells you, me, to drop my forward-thrust arm from the wall. Feet execute a two-point turn and head for the thicket of chairs. Everything is vaguely disappointing. There is no elegance - no color - no soothing shadows . . . just lumpy people in lumpy chair rows.

The test subjects wander in like stunned bees, but you, Peter, (us; we,) suavely enter the narrow aisle that takes us to seat number 587. There is sufficient room to walk without knocking knees and we are mostly grateful. 587 bleeds down to a mystical ‘2’; and this is perfectly sensible, since the other Peter is making an ass of himself in the present tense, and since two is a magic number, everything should be just fine. Peter will remember to thank his social worker (if he ever leaves here,) who signed him up for this madness. If everything goes right - if he passes whatever asshole test is forthcoming - he can avoid certain unpleasantries. Like aggressive shock therapy. Peter and his minions appreciate that. His gloved hand drifts. There are formal, high-backed plastic chairs for everybody with lots of nice padding - little people cups, he thinks. Peter sits on edge of 587 rigid with anticipation.

At the terminus of both armrests is a flat graphic of a hand in electric blue with the words PLACE HERE. Open circlets of some highly shiny metal await insertion of wrists. Ditto for ankles and head. This is Suspicious. You think undoubtedly demons live here. What to do, what to do? You stick your body parts in the holes and wait for the fun to begin. The pretty blue form lights up and the circlets squeeze tight. All of You hiss. Small needles or hooks or teeth or barbs penetrate and your limbs are held fast. There is exquisite pain. It is all very familiar. Peter feels the plop of a white plastic helmet on his head and it deflates in some way, scrunching against his skin. The plastic flexes once, then seals around bone and blood and bile. A blast of nerve agent slithers down nose and throat and his face goes dead. 'How kind,' one of them thinks.

Everything is dark now and this is rather nice. His face is one of a thousand identical (you are one of a thousand identical) with needles and deflated pricks, or needles and flaccid tits; with doubtless further invasions to come. The literature says Peter will no longer be a crippled physiologic - that his dysfunctionals will no longer stink within the lumpy morass of his skull, hi ho. He will be free, they say, of “Peter” and the 'Other Peter' and . . . well. Who knows? This might have some downsides, he murmurs, now that he is stuck to the chair blind and deaf and dumb as a rock with one white neoprene glove on. 'Other Peter' is a very interesting fellow! You would miss him rollicking around in your brain.

A red light appears before his eyes, emitted from his mad-hatter hat. It is very far away. It is getting close. Snarled hands are numb and eyelids up, unable to close. The light looks like an old-timey train running in darkness - in the mass of never-never evenings. The red Cyclopian eye winks in a vague and threatening way. The cone of light flairs from parallel supposed tracks and throbs deep within your skull. There is an urgent sensation. Someone, one of you obviously, must get up and walk to meet this thing that waits and thrums like a black heart. Unfortunately your feet  are restrained. Quite a brainbuster, this. This darkling trip will have to be done with one's mind, then.

CONGRATULATIONS. END OF STAGE ONE.

Your eyes flip open even thought you know they cannot, and you are standing two-footed at the entrance to an exquisite theater. It is just lovely. Such a nice contrast from that brutal room of a thousand transients. You ohhh and ahhh. Double golden Buddhas buttress the slick hardwood stage and you bow to them. They wink with gems gleaming from the center of twinned foreheads - on off, on off - a psychic Morse code. The walls are lusciously covered with watered silk; the seats dressed in red velvet. All the better you think, to match the curtains. Ah, love. You look down because you are now sitting in one of the sumptuous chairs that can even lean back and the red light of the ‘train’ pixilates into a succession of charming little lights that are burrowed into the flanks of the aisles. A silent, beautifully attired attendant hands you a goblet of sweet wine that awaits your approval.

The mile-high stage was empty a moment ago, but now the MC tap-dances in. His tuxedo is impeccable. His fingernails and brilliantined hair gleams. His name is Mr. Stroke, and he needs no introduction.

“Hello Mr. Stroke,” we all say, our voices ripe and firm. He is an exquisite, magnificent apparition. Everything is so lovely here, the rendering, perfect. We the chosen reach for Mr. Stroke.  We embrace, devour, and lovingly dissolve in his arms. He smiles. Mr. Stroke stands as still as a statue and a flock of gray doves pops from his beautifully tailored chest. And then he is gone. Poof! He is replaced with an ever-expanding scaffolding of letters.

“Where is Mr. Stroke??” The voice of one thousand begs. A simple line of text appears. It says,

             
               I, (state your name and seat number) HEREBY ALLOW
the Ultimate Therapeutic Gaming Platform of MISS MEDIA,
FULL ACCESS to my CEREBRAL CORTEX and ATTENDING PROCESSES.
Yes. Or. No.
All selections are FINAL.
Thank you.

The Management.

And all at once a thousand mental countries never before heard from answers from their cracked facades. Endless thrusting corridors erupt, bearing moving psychic dwellings built on desiccated dreams; and from towers leaned in sycophantic faith. And the riddled hearts of a thousand lost souls bursts forth and they answer as one . . . we say, they say, you say . . .

Yes. (Sign here.)



CHAPTER TWO - THE GAME OF ONE HOT BABE, MISS MEDIA.
Further chapters will follow in due time.
© 2014 - 2024 metamage
Comments4
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ShallowsDepressExit's avatar
I don't disagree w/ your angle at all, I don't know what type of schlepp challenges that sort of thing

all of this is happening upon more than one circumstantial course, t's my approximation