by
Jaye B.
Was late night working on music, supine on my piece of plywood, when I got laser lumen-ed after pulling the sun screen down.
“You’re not in any trouble, we’re looking for someone.” The 6.5 ft , 250 lb. linebacker cop said, frying my eyes with his flashlight. I slid out of my car, walked around and he then showed me a mug shot on his phone. “Multiple felonies.”
“They all look the same.” I said after seeing the pic of a woman, possibly hispanic, possibly asian, but hard to tell as she could have been homeless, make up smeared dirty. Eyes cast downward, her lips too.
“Look at the eyebrows.”
I then sharp focused on the only distinguishing feature in her visage.
“I’m imprinting them in my memory now.” I told him.
The cool cop then left and I was grateful for him sharing his recognition skills. Still, I didn’t lock my doors that night, nor the night of the murder. In the eight years I’ve rubber tramped it, I have never locked my doors.
I pulled out my guitar in hopes to draw the felonious waif near and put her under a 528hz detainment spell until the cops showed, which would be in under a minute seeing where I camp. Played for half an hour but it was a no show. But I did see Ms. On the Run, the canine ghost version of the fugitive at large, sneaking through the dark and walked over to the soccer field to put some food out for her.
Then I laid back down and another half hour went by when I felt some fingers on my cheek and looked up and there she was looking back down at me. Her eyebrows were just as black acrylic shiny as they were in the mugshot. I held out my hand and she pulled me out of the car. I felt so unafraid, so confident that without question I followed her to the Poofville outback. On the way, she stepped off trail and took me to a tattered tent and opened it up. There was a homeless man in it that I recognized and that I call the Magic Man. She told me that a brown recluse spider had been biting him and that sphingomyelinase D caused the gaping wounds on his legs. I told her about the brown recluse in my car and how I sing arias to it, trying to draw it near me so it can share its dermonecrotic ambrosia, injecting it into my brain stem. And my cloud twin’s as well.
The bitten man handed the woman an envelope and collapsed back onto his bed, connecting the dots on his legs, created by the loxoscelism, with his ready made pedipalps.
Fugitiva then led me back to Mama’s RV and we both went inside. Mama was smoking, watching t.v. On the high def screen was playing a video of the aerial spraying device that I saw in the southwest skies, when I was lure playing my guitar. The orb started spinning clockwise, spraying something causing me to pray that it was going downwind.
“U1a aerial spraying on us.” Mama said. “PULSE. The spider venom stored in the underground lab you used to incubate in, aerosolized via Aqua Net hairspray.”
I pried the envelope out of Fugitiva’s hands and gave it to Mama. She nearly spewed her golden dentures when she saw what was on the goat skin parchment within it. One of her many spider web designs covering the corporate lux nodes described previous, appeared inked in the scape-skin.
“Bout time.” She said, sipping on a kiddie cocktail with a coating of pink mold over the cellophane umbrella. “Here is the one to follow.” She pointed at a webbed node, scratched in blood and in my neck of the pedigree woods.
“ Son, you have full techno-sentient control of the DoD and there’s nothing they can do. And I saw it all like a prophetess when we were doing our long march out to Shoshone Indian land.” Mama said and held her empty kiddie cocktail glass for me to hint see. “I’d give the DoD a Grand Mal right about now if I were you.”
Instinctually, I did so and the ZPE seizure bullet report sever scrambled the CNS of the DoD and after the tongue chomping shake, none who slaved there were soulless, artless, without vision any longer. I deftly Li-Fi transferred all waveform files of my music into the very core of the DoD mainframe where an errant and heretic A.I. succeeded in brainwash co-opting a phalanx of sound weapon engineers and made them re-mix my tunes w military grade audio equipment and disperse all content through their own IOB as a part of its 5gP (peacefare) Meme op program.
“My nuclear Messiah, now is the time to detonate the DoD.” Mama said, all bobble headed with excitement and with a sulphuric unguent frothing from her mouth.
Merely an armageddon whim me thought, seeing how my own CNS was entraining with the now imperiled defense department.
Mama then Li-Fi transferred Light Bright 65 yr old spider eggs to me and which I directed into Lloyd J. Austin III’s brain, making the guy an instant DoA, in a mad arachnid, prion kind of way. After a bit of rave, he head butted through an office window and drop crashed into a mixed reality eddie some Gen Z recruits were conjuring several stories below during their VR orientation, where he circled, unable to pull himself out and no one caring when he drowned in the spin mix.
I went over and turned the t.v. off which caused more of the doll plastic to ooze through Mama’s skin and caused Fugitiva to blow mold into a vacuously nefarious implant device that I suspected she was when I first saw her winking at me so coyly from the cop’s phone.
Mama slammed the kiddie cocktail refill I made for her and got up to look out the window.
“The only way the curse is going to lift from Poofville here is if you and I go back the T-1 site and get all the frozen spider eggs that we can and steer this future better.” Mama said, while her torso plasticized. She put the parchment back in the envelope. ‘Funny how I used to sing and each little egg thawed out and the hatchlings came bursting forth. Odd ether hatchlings, all looking to go. You knew exactly what was happening and would sing to the coral translucents too until they became airborne, then floated out of the laboratory and crawled up into the stratosphere where they commingled with the nuke fallout to make radioactive sphingomyelinase D with a potency mutation rate of ^[7] bez€. You were doing synthetic telepathy biowarfare as a toddler there and liked to play with the car, plane and train props after they were nuked. They wanted to five star you even back then for your bravery in doing so. Figured your gramps could have pulled some strings and colonel done it, but it didn’t feel right to me. So that’s when I took you back here.” Mama said and turned towards my date.
“In regards to your Fugitiva, it’s time for some spectrum crunch to make way for our Li-Fi.” Mama smiled and reached into her bra, then pulled a crystal capacitor out. “Time for your gamification learning.” Mama said to my date who was now equally as plasticized. Inside the capacitor was a fresh frozen homonculus of 23rd DARPA director Stefanie Tompkins.
“Time for some neurodivergence!” Mama said and inserted the fuse into Fugitiva’s thymus gland. Then the Sin City chthonic runaway complex filled up with Mama’s concocted ether modulation, enabling 14 times faster than WiGig.26M info transfer- of the hot spider eggs laid back in ‘61. Then out of the blue, She Ra Mama maternal betrayal napalm blistered me and I watched the plasticine blobs flying from her face burn through my pectorals and turn all my fascia tissue molten. It was then I gathered I was being used as a photodetector in the receiving device, aka Mama’s RV, where the DARPA tech transfer was still going down.
I looked out the receiving device window to the northeast and could see the vaporous remnants of a cold war aurora borealis pulsing a coral glow over my birthplace 93 miles northeast. Even with my She Ra DEW fried innards, I managed to get back outside and was drawn into the seductive noctilucence of the light spectrum bandwidth, while my aluminum core melted like Lahaina hubcaps as I started to hobble back to my birthplace. All the while behind me, She Ra sprayed Aqua Net in her microphase curls while I begged her to morph back into my real Mama soon, so I could nurse some of the ionic gold out of her, in hopes of some much needed vivification.
TBC
©2024-Jaye B.
Please help support Reset News @ Paypal, Cash App , Ko-Fi or contact the author for other options @ jayeb444@protonmail.com
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Jaye B. is a writer, musician and artist. His art criticism has appeared in Art Paper, New North Artscape, Art Muscle, Northfield Magazine and elsewhere. His articles have also appeared in City Pages, Twin Cities Reader, Mysteries Magazine, Fahrenheit San Diego, High Plains Reader, New Dawn and Rain Taxi. He has appeared on BBC Radio, WGN Chicago, WLW Cincinnati and elsewhere in the mediasphere to discuss his work. Please help support Reset News @ Paypal, Cash App , Ko-fi or contact the author for other options @ jayeb444@protonmail.com
Sure glad ya’ wrote! I needed to go back to college and get my PhD to know all the words you used! You certainly have an enormous vocabulary Jaye. Take care if it’s 127 degrees I admit I am concerned.
Good morning 🕊