Blind Oblige i

I set forth the surfeit of malcontent pricks who’ve with sun-blistered shoulders sat down at office desks on an obscure Florida beach to transcribe the speaker’s thoughts on old manual typewriters they take out of sleek black dust-covers while wearing only bathing boxers and ties of varying floral pattern and color. These few brave shoulder-blistered pricks who’ve taken it upon themselves to accept the duties necessary to transcribe the speaker’s words. So his words, then. The speaker’s. They come through the earpieces the pricks wear as they type, straight from an analog-to-digital audio converter plugged into a tape deck which plays the speaker’s tapes he’s pre-recorded on vintage celluloid for the men to transcribe. Thing or whatever being that basically what’s really going on about the multiple pricks is that really this whole time he (the speaker) has been using a voice-modulator to slur his words that the transcribing pricks can each fish out only whatever it is their respective ears’ heads’ minds can interpret from the slur-spree, which is itself not unreminiscent of the mumble-rap hip-hop collective Drum Throat’s lead-singer Cory Benz’s iterative mumbly deep-voiced crooning as of the choruses he (Mr. Benz) produced in the early 2010s. Thus the variation not only in ties’ floral pattern but also the actual transcriptions of the pricks themselves. We have no way of knowing what the unmodulated Voice-Recordings might’ve sounded like, nor any reason to believe that the speaker made any of it intelligible to begin with. Only the pricks can listen; only the pricks can determine what is truly being said. Thus far it seems that their popular interpersonal opinions have lead us to believe the speaker is duly harried. And that is all that has been told to us. When the channel changes and the prolonged jukebox switches gears, all our somnolent hearts wake up with a terrifying start.

Abstract Wall Excerpt X

The appointment was set for 4:00 PM today. Brizzle came in with a Cup o’ Jo steaming through the mouth hole of its collared paper container’s plastic lid to confabulate with the idle dawdling subjects in their wheelchairs awaiting Dr. Lite’s experimental counsel. Brizzle’s eyebrows were bushy-black, as subject M. Wender would later describe them to subject P. Nine, set at a sort symmetric incline to the forehead’s middle expressive of like the necessary ingredient for an aspect’s disgust or anger due to the resultant facial hypertrophy of what is rumored to have been a botched acupunctural session under the direction of one medical “professional” purportedly described by Brizzle himself as the inept Dr. Who Shan’t Be Named, ergo this feeling the uninitiated get whenever in conversation with B that maybe he’s harried or enraged or both, and that this seems always to affect their understanding of the conversation’s undertones such that a simple “good day” is forcedly sarcastic and a more intricate like “how are you doing?” is an obliquely passive-aggressive way of prepping for a shit-storm he’s going to unleash upon them via physical abuse of some kind, thus the often hurried quality to his and strangers’ conversations mostly truncated by their admission to having to be somewhere or do something in a hurry. Nevertheless but still the strolling Brizzle enters the waiting room and greets the paraplegic subjects, most of whom are by now familiar with the context of the eyebrows, shakes a few of their hands, and proceeds through the back entrance of the front desk at which Mila Sufjan is entering New-Patient Data and preparing to microwave a cup of Nogu-Naga’s Soy-Chicken ramen simultaneously. / “’Lo, Dr. Gooblerdash. Good Morning.” Mila’s left hand is stirring and clasticizing the lumped cube of submerged noodles with a plastic spoon; the right is filling in a line on an NPD form with deft cursive: it is rumored she is ambidextrous. / “Morning, Mila.” Brizzle sets down his coffee to pull a ring of keys from his pocket with which he unlocks and opens a file drawer labeled Dr. Gooblerdash PhD all in one motion. He finger-walks along the file series until they (the fingers) reach the New-Patient Query tab at which the fingers split and open the tab’s folder that he can lean forward and peer in at a single white envelope. There is no label on the envelope. He takes it, closes and locks the metallic drawer, and exits the front desk’s opposite side’s door with coffee inhand to enter the hall of offices to enter his own whose mahogany door’s golden-lettered plaque reads Dr. B. Gooblerdash PhD: Literary Affairs. There is the chilled quiet of the muted outer-office as he closes the door behind him, breathes in solemn air, places coffee and unlabeled envelope onto his desk in their own unique quadrants, and reclines into his wheely leather armchair. Much time spent parsing the sun through the window’s blinds’ striated plane. The owl clock on the wall behind him coos at the hour mark: 1:00 PM.

.x.

How to begin. The annex’s large deficient copier makes digital burps and scansound as its perforated scroll churns out slowly. Outside, eleven floors down, on the Surface, a blank-faced young man approaches the turning doors of the Mills & Potbelly bldg., adjusting his tie and checking his breath with a cupped palm. The clouds are low, swollen-gray, and emit a light rain he is sure to avoid with the aid of a newspaper held overhead until he is finally inside. He throws the soggy organ into a nearby receptacle as he enters. The building’s lobby is largely minimal, with a marble floor of white and gray that seems to expand onward for its floor’s entirety and a long central elliptical desk at which four women in blue pantsuits are answering calls and relaying them to their necessary floors, supposedly. Behind this desk a large analog clock displays the time. Time will pass through him: the time in the elevator, which is faster than expected; the time spent walking up to the eleventh floor’s clerk, whose nametag he won’t remember but whose face he will: a custard-yellow face, her lips painted beige whose emanating voice portrays a kind if reserved personage; the time finding his way as directed to the office doors of the Jubal Early Paper Cup Corp.’s Tremscen, CO branch; the time preparing to open said doors during which he watches his hand reach for the silver knob; the time speaking with the receptionist named Hilda about his supposed metriculative interview with one R. Beirfoust, Sr. District Mgr.; the time waiting in the near-empty reception area, which is lit by six standing lamps all of the same make/model, during which he more like observes than reads the pages of a lush issue of some business-diagnostic-type magazine he assumes he’d be thought well of being seen reading in this context; the time this rather flimsy-seeming Sr. Mgr. spends walking over to him, half of which (time) he pretends to be too engrossed to afford himself the peripheral awareness of this man’s presence, until…; the time they spend shaking hands and introducing each other to themselves; the time during which he is brought into and through what is presented to him as the Call-Room area, where numerous employees in attire not dissimilar to his are cradling phones with their shoulders and jowls, speaking  into the phones’ plastic transmitters as they go about their paperwork with multiple colors of pen, and finally into the office of this Mr. Beirfoust who in the privacy of the small windowed room opines he’d rather just be referred to as Roger if he (the blank-faced young man) doesn’t mind; the time of the few seconds this young man with the blank face spends formulating an appropriate response which occurs as “Nice to formally meet you, Roger. I’m Lamron Cinevax.”

.x.

The segment for which all our readers have gone the alleged goo-ga and sidewise-sane is the one wherein our dear Alucard appoints himself with the necessary materials for a mind-body transfer with his sleetheart Deidre Antlerst, who apparently (it is revealed in later chapters) doesn’t survive the spiritual exegesis; her soul’s integrity is entirely diminished. The sign and ever-waking indication of our reader’s sidewise-sanity is the reported presence of what they’ve referred to as the floating heads, that our counterpart spirits have assumed a floating effigial form visible only to the readers of this particular segment, loyally trailing and accompanying the viewers of the manuscript’s words on whatever nonjourney it is their red strings have led them. It is supposedly notable that the number of heads is not strict or as-it-were set in stone, but that this variable exists as a respective demarcation of the allure these respective readers have for the heads themselves. Some readers will only ever have a single floating head, for example. Seia Lagoontongue, for instance, now has six.

.x.

            The dragoons in their hollowed caves have horded competing accruals of gold and rich treasure for to make known their dominance within the dragoon salary world known. A bristle-backed green dragoon known only as Bedrock has even within his dank Danish cave an entire pirate ship purloined from the days of yore he uses as a vault, equipped with intricate booby traps and means of capturing any poor heroic souls that might venture inward…

.x.

L drives at high speed through the night. His corolla’s insulated air is suffused with the smoke of the pearled blunt between his lips. The road’s yellow onrush of lane demarcation resembles to him lines with instruction to cut here. All he can think of are the lines, car’s headlights as the twin blades of scissors made to cut through the night’s long pitch-dark. He plays through an imaginary conversation he might be having with Phillip, if he were here in the car, with him. The talking goes like it used to go, with Phil making the usual idle similes L finds so substantive.

“My brain’s buzzing like…”

“Like a bee?”

“Like a bee.”

“Does that.”

“So much lately man. It’s been like some kind of experimental film.”

“In what way?”

“In that like if it were this particular kind…—”

“Of film.”

“Of film, this kind where the director or what you like calling them the ‘auteur’ or whatever were to be interested in like camera movement, like the camera’s position in relation to the subject matter or something—”

“Mm.”

“And like if that were the case in this totally experimental film I’d imagine this particular scene where the camera’s filming like a bee on a flower, you know, doing its thing—”

“Like pollenating.”

“Like pollenating, then like when the bee takes off or whatever the camera follows but like buzzes, like begins shaking, moving, shaking all fast up-and-down as like an imitation of the bee’s wings or something,”

“Is like…”

“Is like what it feels like. Like that sort of experimental-type buzzz, y’know?”

This sad song on the low-volume radio begins playing now, after the ecstatic adverts, and so (playing) the melody over which a soft female voice croons becomes louder as he turns the leftmost knob on the dashboard’s glowing interface clockwise, as he in the smoke-filled car puffs rings that obscure the road he is cutting through, woman’s voice falling and rising in tandem with the melody so loud now he feels it piping through his chest. He feels the individual nerve-bundle-traduction, the brief spasms of intermuscular warmth which radiate in syncopation with the stereo’s bass’s rhythm, which shakes the car slightly each vocal peak. (Louie L’amore / Give me the score / I got a handful / The doc’s in the moor // I made me a cocktail to give me summore / and the salt was a bit overbearing // So Louie was loosing his handles / His hair was so littered with brambles // I think of it well / that you couldn’t tell / of pitiful Louie L’amore.) and as well the brief manic breaths of the crooner onradio incar at once arrest him the way seeing a beautiful fragile maltese pup waddle along at the end of a leash would arrest him, that pure sudden flash of light synesthetically warm and pleasing—the freshness of an animal soul. He and Phil (if Phil were here) would be maybe practicing through possible scenarios involving their being stopped by a Pol. O., the possible ways through which they would divert the officer from suspicions they were on anything, going even more extraneously through possible subscenarios involving them perhaps convinving the hypothetical officer at hand that perhaps he was maybe himself—on something. Maybe more as a kind of joke. Phil would always play the Pol. O. himself with for whatever reason a particularly po-dunk southern accent qua the courtroom judge from My Cousin Vinny, a film they often quoted. The past images and thoughts flooding his head in this moment atwheel incar in a cloud of Ganja smoke passes almost too slow for the road’s cut-here line’s own good: he with pearled wand in lips making a whole mess of the cerebral snowball forming inhead while still regulating foot pressure on the gas pedal. He sees things. He sees almost protovisually in the amphitheater of his thoughts’ capsular bubbles large red advertorial retail signs being erected on a grassy hill under sun by Cueballian workers in orange vests. He sees Teego the Fish scrambling on an acid trip for the remote control he will never find to lower the volume of the Television’s voices to more clearly differentiate between them and the ones inside his head. He sees a rubber-banded watermelon burst on the monitor of Jackson Ofolatica’s computer. He sees Stacey crying in her Woltsvagen bug, the rain coming down on her windshield. All this and more in his head jogging on like a light runner whose BMI does not correspond to his or her effortful regimen. He sees the protracted halation of streetlight passing over the glass windows of his car, from multiple angles, and sighs his last little bit of PureJoy from the Back Woods smoking in his hand now, in-motion-at-rest, emitting the cloud. Phil would undoubtedly at this juncture have rolled down the passenger window to stick his head out into the undulant airspeed of Lam’s high RPM to make an echoic yawp with the pale bricks passing as a blur behind him to sort of in some way sanctify and/or christen the road-trip experience. He (L) imagines orally the probable things he would say to him (Phil), like: “You silly goose.” / “Let’s stop by an Arby’s someplace.” / and “Come on man, get your head out your ass.”

Excerpt from the Thing which Grew

The Dresser is pulled at an angle, ajar between the wall and door through which Mary is entering with a silver tray of fruit kababs. HALT! Castillo’s mind is racing like at the speed of what he imagines is described by a fig tree in time-laps: the brown-furred syconia glistening wet at the eyes of the stalked scale-membranes, all blooming milk. Several feet in front of him: Mary, with that specious grin—lavender labium caked in cherry by tons of what Donald would no doubt describe as quote an enormatively large metal case of facial applications unquote (i.e. like for instance an excess of something like upward of sixty-two different sizes and styles of unique and specifically designated brushes, each bought from some reputedly facially superior cosmetic entity, or organization [neither of which is clear as of the time being as Mary’s social life hasn’t exactly arisen from the murk of her boyfriend Chad’s recent suicide.], tethered to an individual set of powdered clam-shell wells of cream foundation and slight bronze and rose blush which blooms sheetlike across the segments of sectioned toner applied to her cheeks, which without said applications are white as freshly fallen snow.)—is doing a petit waltz, juggling her heels from side-to-side and swaying her hips rhythmically as if to describe the radial movement necessary to keep midsection an invisible hula-hoop: this thing she often does, this petit waltz, which so engenders the connection he feels the both of them have, a type of memento significant to the abstract relationship they have formed together and constituted with time and the intricate little whereabouts of their cohesive unitary whole: two nights of sleeping and brandy-sipping and televisual snow aboard a burning cruise ship; the time Rictor Bastion stole Mary’s psychotropic medication under the impression they were capsules of the benzo variety, and so then Castillo had to beat the crummy goon’s map to a pulp in order to retrieve the non-benzos and return them to her on her and Chad’s apartment’s balcony, which he climbed so as not to stir their landlord’s premises’ sleeping guard dogs; Chad’s funeral, during which Chad’s casket rose high above the platform designed to plant it six feet underground, where everyone began looking up in awe as their dearly remembered friend’s sleek black coffin ascended into the mouth of a spinning blue-green UFO which the US government’s CIA has yet to comment on. Beautiful moment, that one. Castillo remembers Mary was the only one crying. So then but here she is, now, proffering her silver platter, entreating him to a “fruit-skewer.” / “My lady,” he indulges: [chomp:] off with a slice of pineapple and watermelon, which he can feel the juice of seeping through lips’ edges, down his chin. / Mary giggles: “And the dresser? Why is the dresser pulled like that? Nearly knocked into it.” / “Oh.” Castillo pops his knuckles. “Been working on a little project.” Thum-thum, thum-thum. HALT! Was it Peterson in High-Class Documents whose invoice, concerning a sneaking suspicion the Agency wasn’t going to let the whole Situation go, remained on his phone? Or was it Carlyle? The broad flannel-checked tie of Peterson’s weekly Agent ensemble ostensibly has what the big goofs in Dept. 9 are calling a Micro Camera. Really churning the old mental stew. Mary is curious, in these few seconds, he can tell—the eyes, which glow green whenever it is she has a cat-killing level of curiosity wafting about her head like an invisible halo, reveal in glowing all too much. ⁋ And then there is the envelope within the dresser’s lowest drawer, under layers of paired socks rolled so as to consume each other, which, when the envelope itself is opened, he knows all too well will release the inward eye to its own vacant silver-screen room, where it can watch amid the dark emptiness of unattended seats all things unfold from overhead. McDaniels would have him refer to the experience as a nonexistent one, which is to say that he’d rather Castillo didn’t refer to the experience at all. Fine crystalized milk pooling out over the hirsute scale-membrane. Not now, he tells himself: Kick it into third gear, man! She’s watching. She knows something is wrong. By the time he swallows the two fruit morsels, all of this has just passed through his mind in tangent vectors all too interconnected and wound to be pulled apart and distinguished from one another and dissected for data concerning these individual parts. It is all one gray smear. Just so, with little heads-up, Maxine Duntlerst rings the rotary phone in the kitchen downstairs. Mary knows it is Maxine; she has been notified Maxine would call. There is a fleeting moment between them, before she turns with her platter of fruit-skewers and exits down the stairs to pick up the rotary’s handset and end the trill of its hellish bell, which seems to last for a longer time than it is: Mary’s cream face, a bit curious. She is not fooled for a second. Castillo closes the door, when she leaves, in order to configure the radial sonar device he’s been commissioned by Gordon and the higher-ups. He does this to listen in on the frogs outside, which are possibly Animatronic Soviet Bugs according to G and the higher-ups, although Mary and Maxine’s conversation does seep through whenever his drunken hand slips idly Southward along the house’s interior: “Oh, you’re bringing Simon, yes?” / “Why of course, dear.” / “You and he are doing well?” / “Better than ever, dear.” / “Oh?” / “Why, dear, don’t you know? Simon’s been promoted to Head of Subsequence Cryptography. They’ve given him an office.” / “Well I’ll be shaken loose of all the change in my pockets, that is fantastic, Maxine!” / “Yes dear, yes…” until the sound of their telephonic chit-chat is overshadowed by a baritone ribbet… hands adjusting now, preparing an audio vector for the garden and outlying trees. Another and another: ribbet, ribbet. But are they robotic at all? Is the audio itself canned-sounding? Would you put it past them to be watching? Recording? What on earth was he meant to be looking for, exactly?... Wiping fruit juice away from his chin, idly, trying to think, until: there is a shadow walking past, up the street, along the sidewalk. It is bulky, substantial, yet foglike the way it moves smoothly without footstep. Readjusting the radial sonar’s audio vector, getting in full the man or woman, whomever it may be, walking closer to the edge of the street along which Castillo’s room overlooks and surveys, in darkness, through telescopic lens. Sure enough there is a voice, breathing. It breathes hoarsely, in the cold, under several layers of white cigar-smoke which dissipate through stagnant clouds of brightening gray, in the oncoming streetlight, toward the corner above which their home is structurally situated. ⁋ Up to a certain point, one eyeball and set of ears can only do so much. It is indistinguishable, the thing, clad in dark trench coat and fur-padded Ushanka and somehow yet waning in the street’s vacant moon-paled silver seeming to be wearing a kind of flesh-tone mask whose mouth is badly askew at the right jaw, in a pink circled lips’ O through which the man or woman is smoking a Baroque cigar, label and all, green-scaled dragon snarling, visible through the telescopic lens’s third magnification mode. Crisp and jaunt walks usually occur along this street, nothing of the sort this stranger is putting up. Its gait is frightened, suspended on wobbly heels as of the orange embryonic eyes of egg yolks. Look away quick as the flesh-masked man peers up at you. You can tell now, from his voice: “What?” he is a man. But that is all you will hear before the lens is dismantled and our here radial sonar is put back in its black foam-padded case at the sound of Mary’s calling up to alert Cas that the candles need to be lit: there is dinner to prepare. How would any conscious thing go about accurately reflecting on their muddled courtship? Their secret rendezvouses? Their lasting partnership, as bunkmates, in this squalid apartmentage? Slowly the narrative would begin to seep out unto a point at which the whole thing from overhead is one simple knot of complex relations and shared experiences. What hurts his head is the idea that the knot is tied by him, or maybe rather his awareness of it, that people can and will confer and communicate and relay data in such a way as to monetize the very use of his time. And furthermore the great silent gash of unwritten programming which dictates the computational rationale of the equator itself, washing widely over silent skin the sound of waves and breaking tides as a bright red scar from where zizzing lightning struck him, as a child, along his right shoulder. The question he remembers at that moment when the lightning struck as if it were yesterday being Why must I feel anything? And he still asks himself the same question from time to time, when it really starts to hurt—his head—and the pressure along his temples boils up to a point of such amplitude that all he can see or feel are dark circles, spatial distortion. He knows it must be the chip. He is not permitted to say anything about the chip to anyone, or to think much about the chip as a means by which to evade a deathly cognitive-loop coma which is redolent these days as the surveying ELF towers surrounding send out Empathy charges and great emotive energies which can in tandem with self-aware cognition cause an agent loaf of the G- to X-class operatives to become a drooling vegetable, w/h/y. Point of course being not to dwell on the lurid chip. A slight suspension to the rules occurs: ...

Key for Files Referenced in the AW

General File Key:
(NOTE: The following key refers to a few of the files mentioned in the AW. They are varied and ubiquitous. Some files are less ubiquitous than others, obviously, such as the dreaded V000, but that's all subject to the text.)
J11: Order-Form-Revision
J19: Delayed-Payment-Notice-Form
K7: Ref.-Stats.-of-Fixed-Monthly-Estimated-Income-Notice-Form
B14: Ghost-Form

B14 Files designated those which are not meant to be filled out entirely--for the sake of some interoffice-politics-fraught calculated reason no one even really fully understands anymore; they just exist, is the thing, "B14" being an umbrella-term for any ghost form, which in specificity would be prefaced with the aforementioned File Code, as in (in the case of a Ghost-Form J19, for instance): B14-J19.

BVWX: Budget-Verging-Wonted-Xericness-Form

BVWX Files feature hole-punched reference cards as well as perforated-signature-slips which can be used for other files' folders in order to reference the BVWX said slip designates.

TMP: Taut-Mutative-Precaution-Form

TMPs are also referred to by Computation Experts and Data Filers as "Rusted Nannies." Often these forms are the thickest due to their broad contractual designations.

V000: Delayed-Acct.-Cancellation-Notice-Form

V000s are reserved for black file-sheathes.

K12: Acct.-Complaint-Form

K12s feature red exclamation marks on their sheathes and outer files. They also often feature copied subforms and (1/3) triplicate signages and slips and color-coded smiley-face stickers:
Blue Smiley-Face: Acct. is not in any notable significant distress.
Yellow Smiley-Face: Acct. is in distress, but will probably remain on-board.
Red Smiley-Face: Acct. is in distress and will probably not remain on-board.
Black Smiley-Face: Dead Acct.

C90: Secondary-Stratified-Trusts-Earning-Form

C90s have stapled in them green triplicate signage subforms.

H72: Unclear-Resolution-Investment-Form (for individual accts. only)

etc... There being of course many more file-types, most of which are iterative of these preceding. They range from the wax-sealed A9s (Retained-Investment-Forms) to the eminently shredded F666s. There are some files for which only MGMT knows the function. That is just the way things are.