Hole Punch Page 10
“You’re going to have all the knowledge! All the knowledge you can take!”
* * *
Socrates rammed Ambrogio past the Rise of Machines, witnessing the Technological Singularity and the collapse of the Human Reclamation.
As the earth began to die under an expanding red sun: Socrates bundled up Ambrogio’s body and bum pummeled him into the shape of a comet. Ambrogio shot across the stars with Socrates' near climaxing face at his shoulder. Socrates slapped Ambrogio’s cosmic bum cheeks into the heart of a black hole.
From outside of infinity they felt the universe collapsing around them. Gravity inverting around them. At the end of everything Socrates pulled his penis out of Ambrogio and ejaculated a stream of hydrogen and helium and created the conditions for another universe all over Ambrogio's face.
* * *
“Haha.” laughed Socrates, slapping the thigh of the very confused Ambrogio as they lay in bed, back in ancient Athens. “That was a Big Bang alright! Fancy doing that again sometime?”
"Not in fourteen billion years," grumbled Ambrogio.
FOOD
Baldy, Fatty and Perverty all worked at their local abattoir in the village of Goatbridge.
Baldy put his head into dead pigs' mouths.
"Ooo look. Look! Someone likes truffles!" said Baldy, pointing as his head. “Someone likes truffles!"
Fatty removed the intestines and inessential meat parts of the pigs and gobbled them up, raw, only to puke them into a big, metal trough. Fatty then ate the puke.
"Someone likes truffles!" Baldy would laugh. “Someone likes truffles!”
Perverty stood in the corner and smiled at pornography on his mobile phone. Baldy looked over Perverty's shoulder.
"Someone likes truffles! Someone likes truffles! OINK OINK!”
Upstairs, their manager, the food-obsessed Barry Reginald, sat down to write his first ever novel:
"It was a warm, summer’s day. The world was baking like a pie inside an oven. The sun was like a big, bright egg yolk on the plate of the sky. Sunshine drizzled like lemon curd over the fluffy marshmallow clouds which hung like pale, hairless corpses in an abattoir.”
Barry Reginald licked his lips at such appetising words. Pie, egg, lemon curd, marshmallow and meat all in one paragraph. He went on writing with tantalised, excited fingers:
"In the village of Food they liked nothing more than food fucking."
THE TERRIBLE RIDDLE OF THE MARTIAN UNI-BOMBER
Derrick the dog looked through the tinted viewing window of the crowded lounge of Tourist Dome 14B. The sun was setting over the recently colonised Martian landscape. Derrick’s owner was a blind, old woman.
"I wish you could describe this brave, new frontier to me Derrick," said the old woman.
"Woof," barked Derrick.
"I can describe it to you," said a small boy. “It's dead, bleak, pointless and red."
"I didn't know that pointlessness sounds like that," said the old woman.
“Sounds like what?” said the small boy.
"Like the ticking of a clock."
“Woof,” barked Derrick.
Half a second later, the entire tourist dome exploded because a bomb had been hidden in a bin.
* * *
"Die infidels!" laughed Zargid Bee Splice, who watched the explosion of Tourist Dome 14B from atop a mountain.
As the self-proclaimed messiah of the native Martians Zargid Bee Splice was happy to destroy Earth tourists and colonists. Like all Martians, Zargid Bee Splice was green-skinned, wore a turban and had a love of killing humanity.
Zargid Bee Splice admired the explosion. It was beautiful.
"Take that up your political allegory!" laughed Zargid Bee Splice. “Who is the terrorist now? I’m the terrorist! Me! Die infidels!”
He hopped on his space scooter and whizzed away, his big, mad, terrorist head laughing.
"I'm going to blow up more humans! I'm going to blow up every human on Mars. That'll keep them away! Die infidels!"
Zargid Bee Splice's space scooter crashed into the outer wall of the Colonial Police Station.
* * *
Zargid Bee Splice lay in bed in a coma inside a prison cell. Sherrif Den Apparti of the Martian Police stood over him.
"We've got you now Zargid Bee Whatever Your Name Is. You came straight into our trap and now you’re banged up forever. If only you had come to us sooner, then three thousand people would not be dead. Thankfully, we have saved more lives by arresting you when you crashed your scooter into our station. Another victory to the Martian Police, and to me, for solving the Terrible Riddle of the Martian Uni-Bomber."
THEORY
All things originate from a source.
If we understand that source then we understand that we are all one and we all come from the same place. There is no point in resistance. We must to submit to our source if we want to be happy. If we do not submit then we drift into despair. We do not want despair. We are all in this together. So let us cling together to the source of all things and to the source of us.
Read the above with derision.
Theory is a figment of language.
Do not turn inward and do not surrender to prescribed ideas, sciences or philosophies. Weaponise your identity into a projectile that can break free from the pull of gravity and toward your own destiny. Freedom is individuality. Your prison is but a lack of perspective. Obedience to creation is spiritual totalitarianism.
Read the above with derision.
Theory is a figment of language.
SAVIOUR
A child muscle looks up at the Mistake.
“Are you really the Mistake?” asks the child muscle.
The Mistake nods.
“Yes my sweet thing,” said the Mistake.
“How can you be the land that we live on and also be here with me now?” asks the child muscle.
“I have sent a fragment of myself to live with you,” said the Mistake.
“Why?”
“So I can better understand you. I want to understand you and for you to understand me. Through understanding we will learn love.”
“I hate Susan Goodleffe,” said the child muscle. “I want to kill her. Does it make me bad that I want to kill her?”
“You have to love each other,” said the Mistake. “You cannot fight among yourselves. You need to love each other. I, the Mistake, came from a family that didn't love me. So when I found you, I decided to love you all forever. I want you to love me and to love each other. I raised you from sludge to feet and now to love. There is no room for hatred if you have love.”
“But Susan Goodleffe beat me up. She doesn't love me. Why can't I beat her up? She beat me up. I don't understand. How can I love her when she beat me up? She doesn't love me. I want to kill her. I want to beat her up and kill her.”
The hospital curtain opens and the Mistake’s muscle nurse emerges. He injects tranquillisers into the Mistake's oversized head. The Mistake falls asleep.
“Listen child, you should not disturb this poor Mistake,” said the muscle nurse. “The Mistake is very caring and sensitive. A very caring and sensitive carer for everyone.”
PIGS
Downstairs, he punched his grandmother in the face.
"Don't talk to my kids like you talked to me you bastard old bitch!"
Upstairs, Great Uncle Bilf smashed at the floorboards with a hammer.
"Full of blacklocks! Bloody bastard blacklocks!"
Little Cheryl was stabbing her doll with a drawing pin.
Downstairs, Ethel thwacked little Eric round the head with a chopping board. Eric fell to the floor with two teeth missing.
"Don't go looking at my stuff!"
The front door opened and in stepped Sarah. Sarah knew there was going to be a scene going on again.
"Where have you been?!" said Big Ma Mav with her big arms held to her sides and her apron smothered in something. "Have you been at your real mum's again?!"
Sarah sho
ok her head and held her baby protectively. Mav grabbed Sarah by the back of her neck and dragged her inside.
"You've been keeping my own grand-daughter away from me! You married our son and you think just because he ran off, that his daughter, MY grand daughter, belongs with YOUR family? She's ours! My son! Her father! Can bugger off wherever he likes! I don't blame him for flitting on your boney arse! If you think you can go back to your mum and gossip about us then you're wrong! Thinking your own are better than us! Thinking she's yours! She's one of ours! And don't YOU forget it!”
She waved her fist at Sarah.
“Don't YOU forget it or I'll give you some!"
Upstairs, Great Uncle Bilf smashed at the floorboards with a hammer.
"Full of blacklocks! Bloody bastard blacklocks!"
Little Cheryl was stabbing her doll with a drawing pin.
Downstairs, Derek polished the medals on his military uniform.
"You always think your bloody right don't you!" said Harry. "Since you got back from the army! You think you're better than me!"
Will, their older brother, came in with a newspaper under his arm.
"Come on lads give it a rest."
Will put his arms around them and brought them closer.
"I'll tell you a little secret."
He banged their heads together.
Upstairs, Jim was tied to his bed and his father was whipping him.
"Born in a thunderstorm!" his father shouted. "That's why you're bloody mental! You're bloody mad you are! Bloody disgrace!"
After Jim had passed out from being beaten, his father called to Jim's brother.
"Have you finished smoking that fag? I want to stub it out on his soft, thunderstorm head!"
DISPOSITION OF THE ORGANIC
"It is not enough to merely cause pain to the subject,” said the Grand Surgeon Sphere to the theatre of Spheres. “In order to solve the Disposition of the Organic, you need the subject's complete commitment towards Transcendence.”
On the operating table was a spluttering Organic.
“Remove the subject's vain attachment to their bodily identity. Take away their sex, face, shape and all other deceptions of the flesh. Connect the subject to their holy soul and promise a continuance and elation of that soul beyond the confines of their flesh prison. Offer the subject a bridge to transcendent purity and joy."
The Grand Surgeon Sphere floated in the air at the centre of the operating theatre holding saws and knifes in telekinetic limbs.
“Lead them into the divine light, away from the dirt, and vanquish their Disposition of the Organic.”
The Grand Surgeon Sphere sliced a laser scalpel into the Organic’s face.
"Please - don't – please – don't – please," spluttered the Organic. “I – don’t – want – be – put – in – a – Sphere...”
The scalpel dug deeper.
The Organic screamed.
"Allow them entrance to the Divine Light of Transcendence. Bring their flesh body to the edge of death and let their soul teeter above the empty oblivion. When they see the void of nothingness they always trust in the eternal brightness of the Spheres, our pure shining alternate to the cold, empty nothingness of flesh death.”
The Grand Surgeon Sphere lifted up the Organic's face, peeling it away in one tidy sheet of polymer.
“Remove their mask and show them a mirror, then they can see the truth beneath their veneer.”
The Organic tried to look away from his faceless reflection.
“Purge the Organic of their illusion of flesh identity."
The Organic screamed.
“The life of the Organic is vain with vanity.”
Saws hacked away his arms and legs.
“Existence dictated by flesh parts.”
The Organic screamed.
“The screams celebrate the dissemblance of their chains and demons. The beauty of their long sought severance. Do not pity the pain of the Organic.”
A blow torch is applied to the Organic's stumps.
“Cauterise the wounds. The flesh prison is fragile and if it dies too soon the soul slips away into nothing."
Dribbling foam and pupils dilating.
The audience stretched out for miles. So many ascended souls making darkness into light. They remembered their own Transcendence operations. It is beautiful to witness a soul departing from the Disposition of the Organic and into the Divine Light of Transcendence.
HEAVEN
“At the outer edge of the transcendent sphere of the Illuminated Heavens: the Seraphim sharpen their beaks on the auras of moon beams. They chirp and flutter pure rainbows of ecstatic light. They leap from one branch of the crystal tree to the next. They drink from lemonade lakes, lapping up the sweet, plentiful juices of their perfect paradise. Such beauty but this is merely the outer edge of the transcendent sphere of the Illuminated Heavens. In the upper and central levels there is the Light itself. The bright cascading glory of the All Powerful, All illumined and All Knowing Everything.”
Garry Lavender put down his pen and took a sip on his milk. He looked out the window at the street outside. It was a day his mum would have called “calm and quiet.” It wasn't calm and quiet. Garry saw and heard, especially heard, more than that. He always heard more.
Garry thought about writing more, but it was feeding time. He could hear his friends chirping impatiently in their aviary.
The path towards fulfilment and illumination was through the budgies: Earth agents of the Illumination.
FUTURE GLORY
“Only those who suffer are truly alive,” rasped Brother Dead Swan. “Those who resist despair are flailing blind and numb into the sinful delusions of hope.”
At the tables of the eatery were his fellow skinless and bleeding monks. They were eating from fire heated plates, shoving charred embers into their toothless mouths. They had learned to hold their pain quietly within the screaming of their bodies.
* * *
Brother Wounded Lamb pulled his rake across the soil. He held in a cry as the splintered wood pressed into his flayed fingers. On the ground in front of him he could see the feet of Brother Aching Worm. Such beautiful, blistering callouses on the feet of Brother Aching Worm.
Brother Wounded Lamb chewed a hole on the inside of his cheek to punish himself for his impure thoughts. No impure thoughts about the flesh.
At the Nunnery, on the other side of Devon, Sister Flailing Dove sat and span a glass dome in circles. Inside the dome was the blood of God. Encircling the brass base of the dome was an inscription:
“Our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.”
QUBERT
Victor Qubert was all alone in the office. The others had gone home for the Easter Holidays.
"It's always this way!"
He sat with head in his hands and he stared down at the subcontractor invoice. Four hundred and fifty-six times he had read the figures.
"Something's not right with these! Some prick has fucked them up!"
Victor grabbed the phone and dialled the subcontractor’s number on the invoice. It went straight through to the predictable Bank Holiday beep of an answerphone.
"SCREW YOU!" shouted Victor as he slammed down the phone. He screwed up the invoice and pressed it to his face.
"Screw you," he sobbed.
He went to the toilets and splashed his face with sink water. He looked at his tired, wet reflection.
"Come on Victor," he said, fist in the air. "You can do this! You can suss this out! Bang one in the goal for team Qubert! You can do it VICTOR!"
"You can't," said a mechanical voice from the ceiling vent. "You're useless Victor Qubert."
"SHUT UP!" screamed Victor, hands over his ears. "LEAVE ME ALONE! YOU CUNT!"
"You are never alone Victor Qubert.”
"You've done this haven't you?!” he cried. “You fucked up the third-party invoices DIDN'T YOU?!"
The voice did not reply.
<
br /> "PLEASE!" screeched Victor. "Fix the inconsistencies in the calculations you prick!"
PHALLIC
Sixteen years old, he walked into the guitar shop, he wore his skinny blue jeans, an Iggy Pop t-shirt, sunglasses and a leather jacket. He pointed at the phallic instrument of his dreams.
“I want that Fender Stratocaster!”
* * *
Seventeen years old, he wrote a song in his bed room.
“Oh oh oh! Anti-Establishment! Get me girls! Get me Establishment!”
* * *
Eighteen years old, he thrusts his perspex penis extension on stage.
“Oh oh oh! Anti-Establishment! Get me girls! Get me Establishment!”
* * *
Forty years old, he stands in the local pub with his latest band: The Harrier Jets.
“Oh oh oh! Anti-Establishment! Get me girls! Get me Establishment!”
AUTHORITY
The Sergeant cuffed her hands behind her back and pushed her head against the dystopic wall.
“Hands off me NARC!” shouted the girl.
He shoved her in the back of the Police drifter and piloted them back to the Police Satellite.
“I want my lawyer! Get me my lawyer NARC!” shouted the girl.