Re: Madman Jack
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Nonius
- Posts: 0
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 2004 12:00 am
Re: Madman Jack
ok, I know that you, Jack, are dying- hehehehe-dying, that is funny way of putting it Jack, you are dying to know what the Uniki is. Ok, I said in good time, but since time is running out for you Jack, I'll tell you and just you. think of the history or clothing. man emerged from the primordial masses of ooze and slime and decided that he needed to cover himself. It started with Adam and Eve feeling shy, or just a room full of cold and slimy monkeys, take your pick. This isn't a platform for theological discussions; I am just stating the evolution of things. the first humans decided to cover themselves becuase they were shy, cold, or possibly both. they did this with animal skins. then, a few hundred thousand years later, they learned to make clothes with plant products, and, within the same epoch, fashion was born. long story short, zoom to the 20th century, people started going to the beach, and they wanted to show a little skin and feel free. zoom even further and you have the first bikini. but, the bikini has some problems. it has these hideous straps that remind me of pockets, those lothesome creations that trick you into the thought that you can store and instantly retrieve important items like keys and cigarrettes. fucking pockets. you guys dead. Anyway, bikinis have straps, and they still have the trappings of enslavery from the primordial past- more skin should be free to kiss the golden rays of the sun. Oh, I forgot, I hate the Sun. I want to kill all Suns. But, that is neither here nor there. I'm talking about what people want, not what Jack A. Smith wants. So, anyway, I got this idea for the Uniki as I was casually strolling along the loathsome boardwalk at Venice Beach California. I thought, why not have a bathing suit that, er, plugs into, as it were, the erogenous zones of a human. in this manner, one could have a simple piece of cloth( not unlike the so called fig leafs of Adam and Eve, strapped in the front and rear of a happily skipping human, ) that is, er, fastened to the human with a simple plug into the human's arse.
Chiral is Tyler Durden
-
Nonius
- Posts: 0
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 2004 12:00 am
Re: Madman Jack
I got on the tube today, and it didn't work as usual. My employer, a large government bank is renovating the office but I know better. Motherfuckers are just fucking with me. Mother didn't like that I was not so keen to work on a holiday, but, hey, it's all part of the job. It's a tough job but someone's gotta do it. So, what's my office now? A Starbucks cafe right downtown, all the way to chinatown, snuggled between an Ethiopian Restaurant and a bodega that sells Khat and pot, after hours, that is. So, I get there and order my coffee flavoured capuccino and then, in an afterthought, order a slightly stale croissant, which is a sort of French pastry that French people eat at breakfast with milk flavoured coffee, which is called a cafe latte, when all of a sudden I get a call from that motherfucker to whom I hate to talk. never end a sentence in a preposition. are there too many to s? So, averting my eyes away from the luxurious hungarian coffee server, whom I like to call kitty, I feign a deep and interesting discourse, oral that is, into the inner workings of fractal organisational structures at my governmental bank, which, by the way, punishes bad performance with upgrades in title and rewards proactive reactive whatchamcallits with deferred pay in shares that are collateralized by the decaying and wretched central bank from the lifestyle superpower of the world. I needn't say where I'm from or at least in which jurisdiction I work, pay taxes, live, fuck, marry, divorce, a=a etc.
the deal is this. I told that motherfucker that I INSISTED on being involved in the repartiion of the org chart hierarchy. I wanted three, not two, not five, not four, just three deputies from whom I can suck information from the minions below and to whom I can bark out orders about this, that, and the other thing. Flummoxed, I, like many times in the past, reiterated my important place in THE INSTITUTION, citing my credentials, pedigree, connections with dangerous people, threats and so and so forth, but the guy didn't get it. He just didnt get it.
I eyed kitty, and let out a snarl surreptitiously, and, flourish of trumpets please, she was pleased thank you very much. Kitty likes me. I'm sure of that. But that is neither here nor there. I need to focus on the org chart. My org chart. My pleasure kingdom's bank's staff's org chart. I need those deputies.
and he says this. or he said this. "Jack, your headcount is 33, with 2 openings for senior analysts, but keep in mind that CC might reverse earlier strategic strategies for building the good solution, with...er, ah, dynamic people."
I say, or said, "What in the heck do you mean by dynamic? and two isn't three. I need three, not two, not five, not 100."
Now kitty is looking at me. heheheh. I'm busy though, and actually, mother just texted me to find out what is going on. Mother. Jesus, why is she such an albatross on my shoulders. She says I'm too much of a hobby-a-holic, but what does she know? Same for kitty. But they both are dear to my heart, despite the fact that this damn job is just overwhelming sometimes. by the way, I should check how the markets are doing. Markets. that's where the action is at. That's the place in which people buy and sell things at a very fast pace. Kitty and mother wouldn't understand. But I do.
Ok. I admit. This was a head fake. I am not Jack and it is not true that I am going to work in a Starbucks whilst my bank is being re-tooled. I suppose it is enough to say that I am not Jack. Or, it is enough to say that I am not going to work in a Starbucks. I could have inserted an “OR” instead of an “AND”. The fact is, I am writing, writing, about a fictitious guy called Jack who has a hardon for mother and kitty, when the reality is that I am a guy who is writing about a guy called Jack who likes some Hungarian Ghoulish dish. I do like Hungarian Kitties, and I do like my mother, but that is neither here nor there. Ok, so, from time to time, I may make a farce of myself, in my solipsistic existence, about a reflection of how I see myself, sitting in a world that consists of myself and, well, reflections of myself.
As I write this, I am in fact sitting in a Starbucks café, and it is true that I am being served by a very sexy Hungarian employee of Starbucks. I am building my next bots that will not only make money for me, but will, in a sense, I hope, be extensions of what I deem to be proper representations of myself. See, of course the bots will sell a security if they assess that it is rational to do so, and they will buy another security for the same reason. But, thinking about it, they can, in fact, replicate my other habits, choices, proclivities and so on and so forth. I’m convinced my bots can arouse me, titillate me, serve me up with delectable vignettes, bagatelles, triptychs, septatychs, of some low information, high noise, signal that would be on the one hand, hard to decode and on the other hand, rich in information.
So, yes, indeed, the fact of the matter is, I am not Max, nor am I the person writing about Jack, but, haha, I am Szilvia Kalman. The story is this. The guy who is writing about a guy called Jack is a bit of a creep. He pretends that he works in a bank as a TRDAER, when, in fact, he is nothing of the sort, cross my heart. He comes to Starbucks every day, orders a croissant and an XXL cappuccino, which, for those who are not familiar with the coffee flavored offerings at Starbucks,is a normal cappuccino. Sort of. It's basically 1 liter bucket of milk mixed with a shot of espresso, but that's the smallest we got.
So, the guy who writes about a guy called Jack, let's say his name is Pauli, comes in every day like clockwork and pretends he works for a bank, then he talks into a croissant as if it were a mobile, and then he hisses, yes, hisses, like a cat at anyone who is younger or at least looks younger than 20. He then lugubriously approaches customers and asks their opinions about oil, gold, stocks and so on and so forth, and then, he takes a tally of their views and dials into "his broker" and "trades".
Ok, no more messing around. Promise. I am none of those characters at all. I am living in a permanent human quantum entanglement of life. I come from a family of split personality disorderly tangled human beings. Entanglement is our pleasure, our raison d’mort. I live a life of swapping thoughts, memes, desires, dreams, Carthaginian pyres of burnt offerings of children, and so on and so forth. What does this mean? It means that I am in the constant state of not being in a given state. I live in three cities, have three wives, multitudes of children, several jobs, oceans of hobbies, floods of degrees and so on and so forth. I am a mythological monster and an acrimonious angel, I am gleefully generous and morbidly mean, agonizingly aggressive and glowingly gentle, a passionate Christian and a religiously passionate atheist. I like women who are beautiful little stupid creatures and I want to teach them a lesson in standing up and being somebody. Or many bodies in my case. I like art and science and Hungarians and stale croissants and Russian fat bears . But I especially hate fat bears when they growl. And I hate them as well when they don’t. For me, up is down, the sky is red, my batches blame me for the unfact that the sky is blue, and that I’m a bastard and the best man they’ve ever met. One minute I’m up a million, no, a trillion, the next minute my minions can’t go to evil Nonian medical school. One minute I’m watching the Kardashians, then next minute I’m a luddite. It flips back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and I can’t bloody understand it, because, friends, deep down in the spiraling unquantum, untangled decidedly Newtonian Universal soul of mine, I am one person, and that is my experience, that is my reference point, that is my Feynmannian inside joke that I cannot possibly understand my wavelike, particlelike, emotionally entangled brain because if I said I did understand it, I clearly would not understand it. And, of course, I could always admit flat out that I do not in fact understand it. It’s a lose lose situation, if you know what I mean. Or win win? Now, I’m being honest, and you have experienced a few of the characters that have taken over my person, but, I assure you all and myself that they are all me, in some deep entangled, ontological, NumberSixian sense, a sense, a place, a Talebian Ludic fallacio finger flipping nuclearphynancial alternate universe, the third side of a coin in which heads is NP, tails is Yahoo, and fukall is a cyberspace in which price is not a number and probability should be chucked into the Unswan like graveyard of Nonian survivers.
Therein lay my premise. That is the overture to this tale.
I only can divulge a piece of this story, because that is all I know. It would be theoretically impossible, by our current understanding of space, time and information, to know more. And it goes like this.
I was on the subway from Baker Street to Republic a few days ago, and I underscore the word few, because I have no clue whether it was a few days, one day, one month, a year, a century, a universe age. It happened sometime in the past and yet there are some times that I truly wonder whether the past actually, truly existed. I call this “Solopist thought in two dimensions”. It would be tedious to elaborate, but I do ponder, as a reasonably rational mind would, why time has some preferred direction to space. But maybe it doesn’t and I’m just ignorant.
In any event, so, X seconds ago, X being a constant to be determined at some opportune time, I was on the subway from Baker Street to Republic. It was hot and stuffy and humid and stultifying and I felt like I was in a greenhouse on the outer banks of some god forbidden white sanded gullah island in the South. My heart was racing. It was packed. I was late for work, but I was lucky that day because my office was being renovated, so my work was actually in a virtual office; Ok, it was a Starbucks Café. We stopped at 34th, then the subway sped on and stopped because of strikes, red signals, or something like that, and then we got to Les Halles, and a wave of angry jelly bean colored people jumped on the train. Many belted out grunts and snorts as if taking a piss on some Semetic God, many hadn’t bathed in years, many were short and dark and equipped with basketballs, and there was an endless parade of annoying teenagers. The Eastender who was piloting the train belched out a seemingly endless string of apologies for the slow movement of the pathetic tin can of weird humanoid sardines, when all of a sudden I noticed a young, Arabic-Semetic-Swarthy man standing next to me. He had a lilting and lithe trimmed ebony beard, was well dressed in an unassuming manner with a fall-leave fractal peppered cardigan, some expensive galoshes fashioned from the skin of an animal on whose hides French Fur Traders make a considerable fortune worthy of the financing of intercontinental wars, and he had the look of death in his face. He was hauling a large backpack, which, in these parts I think is called a Ruck Sack and he was reading some journal that exploded with T&A, page N stuff. He seemed too relaxed, so relaxed, so ready to, I don’ t know, do something and not care, that I felt the necessity to access that special skill I have, which, I’m a bit embarrassed to admit, is the ability to read minds.
The deal is this. He was going to blow up the train. That was it. I needed to get off, immediately, pronto. At that precise time, I was reviewing an article about Algorithimical definitions of metalife, by one Max Drapov, when I had this revelation that this man was going to kill hundreds of freaks, including me. Is it possible for a single human being, a single creature, a single lifeform encapsulated by the known precepts of complexity to know, with any given certainty, whatever certainty really means, what will happen in the next 1/googolish second or what someone is thinking, instantaneously, that is? Information, whether transmited though time or space must adhere to certain laws of which I’m aware, being the well trained Hungarian Physicist that I am. But, I did know that this man was going to blow up the subway. I looked at him, he fired a cool glance at me and I did sense that he was ready to raise his hands like some sort of despicable rapper or some other disgusting creature who drinks attention and farts out aggression in return. So, he’s looking at me, and I’m looking at him, and I look at his rucksack, and I let him know I’m looking at it, and the train is packed and I can feel the heat and I can feel that there is an unquenched thirst eminating in particle form from my person to obey the 2nd law of thermodynamics, or is it the 3rd? I needed to be the smoke particle that increases entropy, and I needed it pronto. Actually, I needed to smoke a particle of that nature. Now, I was sweating so much that thousands of jelly bean midgets and French and English and Africans on the train looked at me as if they wanted to offer me a white towel, when all of a sudden, I barked out: “Allah akbar man, what is in your bag? A bomb?”
The creature then looks at me and coyly and calmly whispers, "I'm 100 percent Italian. What's it to you?"
A thousand nanoseconds have passed and as I survey the standing, withering, sweaty creatures, equipped with basket balls and newspapers and instant coffee, I grab the rucksack. We are approaching Baker subway stop and the train is quickly slowing down and coming to an syncopated halt, out of kilter, rocking back and forth. Sweat is dripping down every mobile denizens body and I can hear the ticking of the bomb's mechanism. A woman screams. I can feel the throbbing tick tick tick. The Swarthy Creature smiles at me and I distinctly hear a muhahahha emanating from his fur lined mouth. The creatures gasp as I pull the bomb sack with all my strength and the train screeches to a halt and lets out a 19th century sigh.
The terrorist then lashes out with fast paced piston fists, punching hard and precisely on my person, my upper person, my face, my eyes and teeth are exploding in pain. He is beating me to a pulp, but in a flash, as the doors open and I'm instructed to mind the gap by some electronic voice with a peculiar accent, I run out of the train with the rucksack in hand and blood is oozing out of the wounds inflicted by the god-fearing monster. There is pandemonium as hundreds of creatures run jump and leap over each other to get out that train that would have been, in another paralllel universe, mechanical toast with char broiled human meat. The bearded terrorist jumps out and I am thinking of some sort of Hollywood movie scenario of a mano-a-mano multidimensional fight scene in which there a fleeting flickering moment of solace, a soujourn in time and space accompanied by EchoSpace, a space in which time has slowed down for him and me, and he is leaping towards me, onward and forward as the train's doors close and it lurches on, as the sound of screams are tweaked to another frequency and he lunges forward to grab the rucksack, and he lands square on me. We struggle for the bomb encased in chemical cloth. I grab his neck and choke him as he continues to punch. A woman is making an emergency call and 100s of creatures are running for their lives out of the train station.
But, er, Ok, let me say something here. I AM that Italian on the train, the person that Max, the crazy man, thinks is an Islamic Terrorist. I am an Italian writer of stories. I am that man on that train and, actually that crazy, schizophrenic hungarian physicist has grabbed my rucksack, which does not contain a bomb, but, rather, a very important piece of evidence that I am trying to unravel. that evidence is an old laptop and it has an important story laying lazily on its lethargic hard drive. I need to crack open that laptop but I can't. That laptop contains evidence of a story that, by it's shear creation, by me, has led me down this path of destruction. I wrote the story and the writing of the story, the actually creation of it, has, well, to be honest, created a new me, a new and decidedly more despicable me. I dream about that story, but I need to read what I wrote and the fucking laptop has gone, as it were, kaput. Was on my way to a Pakastani laptop doctor, in Soho, when all of this happened.
And now Dr. Drapov, the crazy physicist, has grabbed it and I will give him a good thrashing, a good beating, I'll roll him, maybe even kill him with my bare hands, if he so much as lays his paws on my laptop, my pandoras box. fucker.
So, this crazy mofo is grabbing my rucksack on the train, and he lets out a hiss and insists that I’m some sort of suicidal terrorist. He then bites me, yes, bites me and growls at me. The train halted instantaneously and I was sure that someone had pulled some emergency lever that creates pandemonium and instills fear and frozenness in commuters. The door opened, a woman let out a scream and the Hungarian wrestled the rucksack out of my hands and he let out a muhahahaha, and ran onto the station platform. I followed suite and let him have it, one two, one two, a right jab, an upper cut, and he was exploding with blood and teeth as I let out an immense fury, even though I am actually a gentle man, a very gentle man. A gentleman. Normally. Ok, so I am mixing tenses. That’s a detail. That was a detail. That will be a detail. But what is Time?
But I did need that laptop with the fried motherboard whose harddrive that some imported laptop doc assured me was still salvageable. I needed that harddrive and if I couldn’t have it, come hell or highwater, I was going to jump off of a bridge.
[url=/Show%20Post.aspx?PostIDKey=144145]one thing I feared, was that the laptop might have this written in it....[/url]
[url=/Show%20Post.aspx?PostIDKey=64387]Fuck[/url][url=/Show%20Post.aspx?PostIDKey=64387]Aspergers[/url]
the deal is this. I told that motherfucker that I INSISTED on being involved in the repartiion of the org chart hierarchy. I wanted three, not two, not five, not four, just three deputies from whom I can suck information from the minions below and to whom I can bark out orders about this, that, and the other thing. Flummoxed, I, like many times in the past, reiterated my important place in THE INSTITUTION, citing my credentials, pedigree, connections with dangerous people, threats and so and so forth, but the guy didn't get it. He just didnt get it.
I eyed kitty, and let out a snarl surreptitiously, and, flourish of trumpets please, she was pleased thank you very much. Kitty likes me. I'm sure of that. But that is neither here nor there. I need to focus on the org chart. My org chart. My pleasure kingdom's bank's staff's org chart. I need those deputies.
and he says this. or he said this. "Jack, your headcount is 33, with 2 openings for senior analysts, but keep in mind that CC might reverse earlier strategic strategies for building the good solution, with...er, ah, dynamic people."
I say, or said, "What in the heck do you mean by dynamic? and two isn't three. I need three, not two, not five, not 100."
Now kitty is looking at me. heheheh. I'm busy though, and actually, mother just texted me to find out what is going on. Mother. Jesus, why is she such an albatross on my shoulders. She says I'm too much of a hobby-a-holic, but what does she know? Same for kitty. But they both are dear to my heart, despite the fact that this damn job is just overwhelming sometimes. by the way, I should check how the markets are doing. Markets. that's where the action is at. That's the place in which people buy and sell things at a very fast pace. Kitty and mother wouldn't understand. But I do.
Ok. I admit. This was a head fake. I am not Jack and it is not true that I am going to work in a Starbucks whilst my bank is being re-tooled. I suppose it is enough to say that I am not Jack. Or, it is enough to say that I am not going to work in a Starbucks. I could have inserted an “OR” instead of an “AND”. The fact is, I am writing, writing, about a fictitious guy called Jack who has a hardon for mother and kitty, when the reality is that I am a guy who is writing about a guy called Jack who likes some Hungarian Ghoulish dish. I do like Hungarian Kitties, and I do like my mother, but that is neither here nor there. Ok, so, from time to time, I may make a farce of myself, in my solipsistic existence, about a reflection of how I see myself, sitting in a world that consists of myself and, well, reflections of myself.
As I write this, I am in fact sitting in a Starbucks café, and it is true that I am being served by a very sexy Hungarian employee of Starbucks. I am building my next bots that will not only make money for me, but will, in a sense, I hope, be extensions of what I deem to be proper representations of myself. See, of course the bots will sell a security if they assess that it is rational to do so, and they will buy another security for the same reason. But, thinking about it, they can, in fact, replicate my other habits, choices, proclivities and so on and so forth. I’m convinced my bots can arouse me, titillate me, serve me up with delectable vignettes, bagatelles, triptychs, septatychs, of some low information, high noise, signal that would be on the one hand, hard to decode and on the other hand, rich in information.
So, yes, indeed, the fact of the matter is, I am not Max, nor am I the person writing about Jack, but, haha, I am Szilvia Kalman. The story is this. The guy who is writing about a guy called Jack is a bit of a creep. He pretends that he works in a bank as a TRDAER, when, in fact, he is nothing of the sort, cross my heart. He comes to Starbucks every day, orders a croissant and an XXL cappuccino, which, for those who are not familiar with the coffee flavored offerings at Starbucks,is a normal cappuccino. Sort of. It's basically 1 liter bucket of milk mixed with a shot of espresso, but that's the smallest we got.
So, the guy who writes about a guy called Jack, let's say his name is Pauli, comes in every day like clockwork and pretends he works for a bank, then he talks into a croissant as if it were a mobile, and then he hisses, yes, hisses, like a cat at anyone who is younger or at least looks younger than 20. He then lugubriously approaches customers and asks their opinions about oil, gold, stocks and so on and so forth, and then, he takes a tally of their views and dials into "his broker" and "trades".
Ok, no more messing around. Promise. I am none of those characters at all. I am living in a permanent human quantum entanglement of life. I come from a family of split personality disorderly tangled human beings. Entanglement is our pleasure, our raison d’mort. I live a life of swapping thoughts, memes, desires, dreams, Carthaginian pyres of burnt offerings of children, and so on and so forth. What does this mean? It means that I am in the constant state of not being in a given state. I live in three cities, have three wives, multitudes of children, several jobs, oceans of hobbies, floods of degrees and so on and so forth. I am a mythological monster and an acrimonious angel, I am gleefully generous and morbidly mean, agonizingly aggressive and glowingly gentle, a passionate Christian and a religiously passionate atheist. I like women who are beautiful little stupid creatures and I want to teach them a lesson in standing up and being somebody. Or many bodies in my case. I like art and science and Hungarians and stale croissants and Russian fat bears . But I especially hate fat bears when they growl. And I hate them as well when they don’t. For me, up is down, the sky is red, my batches blame me for the unfact that the sky is blue, and that I’m a bastard and the best man they’ve ever met. One minute I’m up a million, no, a trillion, the next minute my minions can’t go to evil Nonian medical school. One minute I’m watching the Kardashians, then next minute I’m a luddite. It flips back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and I can’t bloody understand it, because, friends, deep down in the spiraling unquantum, untangled decidedly Newtonian Universal soul of mine, I am one person, and that is my experience, that is my reference point, that is my Feynmannian inside joke that I cannot possibly understand my wavelike, particlelike, emotionally entangled brain because if I said I did understand it, I clearly would not understand it. And, of course, I could always admit flat out that I do not in fact understand it. It’s a lose lose situation, if you know what I mean. Or win win? Now, I’m being honest, and you have experienced a few of the characters that have taken over my person, but, I assure you all and myself that they are all me, in some deep entangled, ontological, NumberSixian sense, a sense, a place, a Talebian Ludic fallacio finger flipping nuclearphynancial alternate universe, the third side of a coin in which heads is NP, tails is Yahoo, and fukall is a cyberspace in which price is not a number and probability should be chucked into the Unswan like graveyard of Nonian survivers.
Therein lay my premise. That is the overture to this tale.
I only can divulge a piece of this story, because that is all I know. It would be theoretically impossible, by our current understanding of space, time and information, to know more. And it goes like this.
I was on the subway from Baker Street to Republic a few days ago, and I underscore the word few, because I have no clue whether it was a few days, one day, one month, a year, a century, a universe age. It happened sometime in the past and yet there are some times that I truly wonder whether the past actually, truly existed. I call this “Solopist thought in two dimensions”. It would be tedious to elaborate, but I do ponder, as a reasonably rational mind would, why time has some preferred direction to space. But maybe it doesn’t and I’m just ignorant.
In any event, so, X seconds ago, X being a constant to be determined at some opportune time, I was on the subway from Baker Street to Republic. It was hot and stuffy and humid and stultifying and I felt like I was in a greenhouse on the outer banks of some god forbidden white sanded gullah island in the South. My heart was racing. It was packed. I was late for work, but I was lucky that day because my office was being renovated, so my work was actually in a virtual office; Ok, it was a Starbucks Café. We stopped at 34th, then the subway sped on and stopped because of strikes, red signals, or something like that, and then we got to Les Halles, and a wave of angry jelly bean colored people jumped on the train. Many belted out grunts and snorts as if taking a piss on some Semetic God, many hadn’t bathed in years, many were short and dark and equipped with basketballs, and there was an endless parade of annoying teenagers. The Eastender who was piloting the train belched out a seemingly endless string of apologies for the slow movement of the pathetic tin can of weird humanoid sardines, when all of a sudden I noticed a young, Arabic-Semetic-Swarthy man standing next to me. He had a lilting and lithe trimmed ebony beard, was well dressed in an unassuming manner with a fall-leave fractal peppered cardigan, some expensive galoshes fashioned from the skin of an animal on whose hides French Fur Traders make a considerable fortune worthy of the financing of intercontinental wars, and he had the look of death in his face. He was hauling a large backpack, which, in these parts I think is called a Ruck Sack and he was reading some journal that exploded with T&A, page N stuff. He seemed too relaxed, so relaxed, so ready to, I don’ t know, do something and not care, that I felt the necessity to access that special skill I have, which, I’m a bit embarrassed to admit, is the ability to read minds.
The deal is this. He was going to blow up the train. That was it. I needed to get off, immediately, pronto. At that precise time, I was reviewing an article about Algorithimical definitions of metalife, by one Max Drapov, when I had this revelation that this man was going to kill hundreds of freaks, including me. Is it possible for a single human being, a single creature, a single lifeform encapsulated by the known precepts of complexity to know, with any given certainty, whatever certainty really means, what will happen in the next 1/googolish second or what someone is thinking, instantaneously, that is? Information, whether transmited though time or space must adhere to certain laws of which I’m aware, being the well trained Hungarian Physicist that I am. But, I did know that this man was going to blow up the subway. I looked at him, he fired a cool glance at me and I did sense that he was ready to raise his hands like some sort of despicable rapper or some other disgusting creature who drinks attention and farts out aggression in return. So, he’s looking at me, and I’m looking at him, and I look at his rucksack, and I let him know I’m looking at it, and the train is packed and I can feel the heat and I can feel that there is an unquenched thirst eminating in particle form from my person to obey the 2nd law of thermodynamics, or is it the 3rd? I needed to be the smoke particle that increases entropy, and I needed it pronto. Actually, I needed to smoke a particle of that nature. Now, I was sweating so much that thousands of jelly bean midgets and French and English and Africans on the train looked at me as if they wanted to offer me a white towel, when all of a sudden, I barked out: “Allah akbar man, what is in your bag? A bomb?”
The creature then looks at me and coyly and calmly whispers, "I'm 100 percent Italian. What's it to you?"
A thousand nanoseconds have passed and as I survey the standing, withering, sweaty creatures, equipped with basket balls and newspapers and instant coffee, I grab the rucksack. We are approaching Baker subway stop and the train is quickly slowing down and coming to an syncopated halt, out of kilter, rocking back and forth. Sweat is dripping down every mobile denizens body and I can hear the ticking of the bomb's mechanism. A woman screams. I can feel the throbbing tick tick tick. The Swarthy Creature smiles at me and I distinctly hear a muhahahha emanating from his fur lined mouth. The creatures gasp as I pull the bomb sack with all my strength and the train screeches to a halt and lets out a 19th century sigh.
The terrorist then lashes out with fast paced piston fists, punching hard and precisely on my person, my upper person, my face, my eyes and teeth are exploding in pain. He is beating me to a pulp, but in a flash, as the doors open and I'm instructed to mind the gap by some electronic voice with a peculiar accent, I run out of the train with the rucksack in hand and blood is oozing out of the wounds inflicted by the god-fearing monster. There is pandemonium as hundreds of creatures run jump and leap over each other to get out that train that would have been, in another paralllel universe, mechanical toast with char broiled human meat. The bearded terrorist jumps out and I am thinking of some sort of Hollywood movie scenario of a mano-a-mano multidimensional fight scene in which there a fleeting flickering moment of solace, a soujourn in time and space accompanied by EchoSpace, a space in which time has slowed down for him and me, and he is leaping towards me, onward and forward as the train's doors close and it lurches on, as the sound of screams are tweaked to another frequency and he lunges forward to grab the rucksack, and he lands square on me. We struggle for the bomb encased in chemical cloth. I grab his neck and choke him as he continues to punch. A woman is making an emergency call and 100s of creatures are running for their lives out of the train station.
But, er, Ok, let me say something here. I AM that Italian on the train, the person that Max, the crazy man, thinks is an Islamic Terrorist. I am an Italian writer of stories. I am that man on that train and, actually that crazy, schizophrenic hungarian physicist has grabbed my rucksack, which does not contain a bomb, but, rather, a very important piece of evidence that I am trying to unravel. that evidence is an old laptop and it has an important story laying lazily on its lethargic hard drive. I need to crack open that laptop but I can't. That laptop contains evidence of a story that, by it's shear creation, by me, has led me down this path of destruction. I wrote the story and the writing of the story, the actually creation of it, has, well, to be honest, created a new me, a new and decidedly more despicable me. I dream about that story, but I need to read what I wrote and the fucking laptop has gone, as it were, kaput. Was on my way to a Pakastani laptop doctor, in Soho, when all of this happened.
And now Dr. Drapov, the crazy physicist, has grabbed it and I will give him a good thrashing, a good beating, I'll roll him, maybe even kill him with my bare hands, if he so much as lays his paws on my laptop, my pandoras box. fucker.
So, this crazy mofo is grabbing my rucksack on the train, and he lets out a hiss and insists that I’m some sort of suicidal terrorist. He then bites me, yes, bites me and growls at me. The train halted instantaneously and I was sure that someone had pulled some emergency lever that creates pandemonium and instills fear and frozenness in commuters. The door opened, a woman let out a scream and the Hungarian wrestled the rucksack out of my hands and he let out a muhahahaha, and ran onto the station platform. I followed suite and let him have it, one two, one two, a right jab, an upper cut, and he was exploding with blood and teeth as I let out an immense fury, even though I am actually a gentle man, a very gentle man. A gentleman. Normally. Ok, so I am mixing tenses. That’s a detail. That was a detail. That will be a detail. But what is Time?
But I did need that laptop with the fried motherboard whose harddrive that some imported laptop doc assured me was still salvageable. I needed that harddrive and if I couldn’t have it, come hell or highwater, I was going to jump off of a bridge.
[url=/Show%20Post.aspx?PostIDKey=144145]one thing I feared, was that the laptop might have this written in it....[/url]
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Chiral is Tyler Durden