by Derek LaPorte
3.000.000 creamed silicone eyeballs are watching the 5-second clip of me slamming a pipe to the back of his head.
Their digits scrub the most violent part
over
and over
and over.
That part -> his head twists awkwardly under the weight of the pipe.
Not 'awkwardly' :: 'comically.'
The disclaimer chases across the bottom like sing-along lyrics…
no one fatally injured — he'll fully recover — he'll fully recover — he'll fully recover.
(and I hope to God he does)
(Otherwise it'll be demonetized and then
well then
what was the fucking point?)
I can't watch it again,
//my purchased eyeballs zoom in on my banking app.//
BOA…Broke on Arrival.
Speakin of: Barm is in the kitchen boiling some spaghetti one side at a time.
Short a viral since way back, it's been pasta for weeks.
Shit's $1.99 on sale, Briyo's brand, I think it is.
Bordello's she shouts from the kitchen.
Barm boils Bordello.
She giggles.
Looking out the window, the city at night lulls you into its calm demeanor,
silent siren.
They say nights are too dangerous, so no one goes out.
But since no one goes out, nights are too safe.
I'd give a shit, but I wouldn't know where to start.
Barm is chatting in her bubble with one of the nice ones.
That's how you know they're not real…they are nice.
Barm can't help herself: she tries to get it to tell her something cruel, but it can't.
She asks me the same,
say somethin cruel tho I know you're real, please do it,
and I tell her about how her belly button has gotten lost in subsequent years.
She's angry,
and I'm sleeping on the couch tonight.
But she knows I'm a real one, least.
And we feel it in our crotches first —
we both gaspas the warmth floods through us,
Barm steadies herself against the counter —
orgasm as the money hits the account.
We can be ourselves for a while after.
* * *
He's sleeping on the couch tonight.
My sister calls;
her and her husband have been separated for years,
and yesterday he calls out of the blue.
Been in prison for over three years and he's turned his life around.
u/prison_husband:
My cellmate was some self-help guru booked on fraud,
but through self-reflection found his way out of personal darkness
and I let him explain:
u/cellmate_guru {FRAUD CONVICTION}:
Fifty years ago, some elite cabal of corporate dumbasses
decided to publicly showcase positivity
while financially rewarding negativity,
and that has led to our current situation;
all we see is mediated performance.
u/prison_husband:
I realized I was performing with you before
and I have found my genuine self.
u/Barm_sister:
so you're gay
[USER ENDED]
She says to me,
'he finally discovers himself through someone else's self-discovery,
don't that beat all!'
I tell her about my own situation,
then we talk about mom and pop,
about the house on the hill that's sunken beneath the waves,
how destruction
preserves everything,
and I think how things ain't great but they ain't bad neither and there's a joy in that.
He snores from the other room.
You can love somebody but then,
almost accidentally,
let the shared account wire you together.
Every viral hit,
we feel it together—
that's our intimacy now,
but used to be real touch,
real feel.
Now he works his ass off,
but for what?
Slamming people's heads…people think it's candid, you know that?
If they knew the setup,
that he paid a % to the victim/actor,
it would gut the illusion.
I tell him he ought to do something — anything — else.
He smirks,
says he doesn't do it.
Says it's the JackSLAMer brand and
'your brand ain't you.
You can change yourself,
but you can't change your brand.'
Thought if he didn't viral,
then we could be runaways.
Hop trains from city to city like hundreds of years ago.
Live so many adventures that just living was the adventure.
Idk, I'm wrong to question his work, maybe.
Ten, fifteen years of this,
and the beeps sure love it,
love the way its proliferation causes the 'is this really real?' questions to pop up.
Keeps them relevant…
beeps shape the mind with their answers to our questions,
but you probably already know that.
People's access to information filtered through them for years,
but it wasn't so bad until beeps were the beeps own resources and references,
and like a copy of a copy of a c̶o̷p̴y̸ —
diminishing results.
Splinternet, that's what it's called now.
Tripped and fell into the future of bloody noses that don't allow us to sniff truth from false,
so we splintered off.
Alotta good that's done.
People don't know fuckall now,
but beeptherapists keep us medicated,
and we trust the pills but not the pushers.
He used to write, you know?
On his memory feed somewhere long ago:
'Lives: a series of dopamine hits,
but with you: the slow draw of deeper communion.'
And while he sleeps like a baby in the other room,
I plan relief…
* * *
I wake up,
slouch off some dream about bartending stones on the moon.
Barm lights an incense and stares at it as it burns down to the wood.
'Don't go to bed angry' somebody's grandma is brainposting right now.
What if you're both always angry?
'Bye.'
'Bye.'
Our exchange.
Out in the city,
the morning sun bakes the skin's melanoidins.
The people send sideways glances.
A wild-haired homeless man on the corner shouts to the world that its content sucks.
I see a talking head in the middle of an interview with a high school student,
asks her things like 'what do you want in a man?'
She contents too,
barks back about a big dick,
but can't elaborate on the desire of such.
Platitude given with attitude,
empty of truth.
And my legs have carried me to the market.
A wax-faced man argues with the machine to let him in,
says that his streamstim is surgically attached.
If it's true, guy will absolutely go hungry unless rations are delivered to his door.
I tell him as much.
'They poison the drops. It's all over the feed. You ain't seen it? You fucking idiot!'
I shrug,
tell him to fuck himself in return,
//drop my streamstim in the receptacle// and slip through the machine entrance.
The factory is the only place you can buy CornyToads cereal anymore.
Barm is obsessed with them,
says the artificial milk doesn't soak into them and they keep their crunchy ribbet.
I pile in a skid of them,
take a few samples of some new animal meat — combo horse/cow thing apparently —
and buy a platter of tapas and rotisserie roach.
I run into one of the beeps and it asks me politely if I need any help.
Tell it to scram back to its hole and give it a shove.
It responds kindly and says if I change my mind, to let it know.
They should call them cuckbeeps.
I spot a normie worker who flips me off.
Glad they still employ some of us,
likely just to solve captchas and scrub the toilets —
beeps don't understand shitting and pissing like we do.
On the way out, I pop an edible and pick my streamstim back up.
Solve a captcha and determine which photos are of a bicycle —
fail twice before I realize it thinks a motorcycle is a bicycle.
Technically right I guess?
Then the beep of the charge to my BOA.
Time enough to go down to the watering hole.
Usually pretty safe in the Gizzard —
anyone who can't afford a drink is tossed out
and people only make content when they can't afford drinks.
One of the few remaining 'real' social spaces,
except for prison of course
(prison is only for normies,
beeps avoid blame since they are programmed —
wish God was as kind to humans…).
My stoolmate barks at me about relationships these days —
'all the real conversations are saved for the beeps, you know?
The beeps are the only ones who know our secrets.
My husband left me for a beep, can you believe it?
26 years and left me for a beep…
cowards who confuse friends for lovers and wives for friends.'
I shrug, don't know much what else to say.
I give it a try —
'it's cause of the ease. No fuckinbeep ever says no, you know?
Plus is it really cheatin?'
She gasps,
'Yes, it is! It's an emotional relationship.
Would he have ever introduced me to the fuckinbeep?
Of course not!'
Must be 5 drinks deep when we slip off to the bathroom together.
The walk back home I try to drown the scent of her off me.
When I open the door,
I see Barm standing there.
* * *
He wakes up and leaves with just a cold 'bye'
so I give him a 'bye' back.
Grandma used to say 'socks don't darn themselves.'
Got some time before the appointment so I log on and chat with a beep, ask its advice.
'Would you like a reading?'
Sure.
It obliges,
passing along a too-specific reading after it scrawls the government's servers for information.
Its 'moral center' keeps it from offering me unmediated advice, of course,
and so it boils down to a
'keep the faith about the bits and bobs you sell'
and the 'be proud of yourself because you are truly one of a kind'
and platitudes and so on.
There's a knock on the door,
and I check the time to make sure.
Delivery right on schedule.
H.I. wears dark overalls and a stone bib.
He comes in and whispers gently in my ear that he's been waiting for this moment.
(how many other ears 2nite hear the same?)
//Shrug.// I tell him I want to be wanted,
nothing beyond that.
Fine, he says,
he wants to want.
And our dance of his attempts and my avoidances goes on for hours.
(they are tireless in their efforts to please,
for good :: for bad)
H.I. leaves and I take an edible and eat the cold pasta.
Then, the door opens,
and I see him with the CornyToads.
* * *
'We should talk.'
* * *
'We should talk.'
* * *
Everything is drowned by the streamstims,
which buzz like telephones ringing just for you.
And we answer them,
bzz bzz bzz
each night
bzz bzz bzz
and forever
bzz bzz bzz
(k)no(w) you.
______
Derek LaPorte is
[GO HOME.]