Deprived of my descendant and his torpidscraller, I am resorting to the old means of storing information. I held in my hand several 8 inch floppy disks which I magnetized variously to retain what words I could think of to describe my situation, or sitch, as I called it. You could basically do that to any word. Or, you cou bas d th t an wo. This is the method used by the Chadfolk in their Fratlands.
The sun was beginning to spread it’s funny yellow stuff all over the face of Toronto, back here in 2009. The health clerics had scrambled all night trying to find my buddy, (name deleted), but they failed and failed and failed in heaps. Despite all their cool recon, they couldn’t ferret out any clues. My damn suit was low on power and that meant that I had to find a source of shame, and soon. Perhaps if I could just find some catholic, I would be able to probe the suit’s apparently endless fact modules for some explanation of (name deleted)’s disappearance.
What was most unusual about it was that he didn’t vanish all at once. The clerics and their servile ones kept checking up on him throughout the night. At first, one of them noticed that his foot had been missing, and described a very frown-like sensation in the room. The doctors seemed puzzled, but not overly concerned. However, once a leg had vanished they began to change their tunes to much lower pitched and whispered ones. After a brief conclave, they assured me that he was just doing a little disappearing, which was to be expected after a traumatic bullet party of the bodymass he was made from, and that I shouldn’t be too concerned. Despite knowing that his was in no way typical, and that I could easily prevent it from continuing by shaming someone and using the sharms to erect a glinting crystal hug of safety around my buddy, somehow te fact that the doctor was wearing a white coat prevented me from doing that. Later that night, when the doublelegs of the man and his unibody were all vanished, the doctors reiterated that a bit of total vanishing was to be expected in situations like these. When I asked what situations these were like, I was told that they were like individual non-comparable situations in which nothing was predictable and anything could potentially take place. Those kinds of situations. And again, white coat, I complied. Later, all that was left was an anus shadow, seeping out grave concern in the form of muted jazz trumpet solos. It was only when the hot sounds of Louis Armstrong ceased that the medicos became theoreticos and began a mad postulation frenzy, the like of which had not been seen since Postulon and his Cogni-sharks had first encountered Conundrus the Baffler and his three conflicting truths, Destinarius, Volitius, and The 5 sided Octagon.
There were guesstimations of every shape and size. Some belived it was somehow related to over-prescripton of antibiotics, while others still believed that too. Some suggested that he wasn’t actually gone, but infact, was simply resting more efficiently than anyone in history. He was a prodigy at not being there while resting. According to this theory, he was “mad resting, mega in bed, but his bod was hella unnecessary for such killer restage. So his bod just vanished to scope new vistas while his resting progressed sans supervision, dudes.” This theory gained many adherents throughout the decades to come, but none during that first meeting.
An entire wing of the hospital was closed as doctors exhausted all the sodas in dispensers, and chirped out fascinating and quaint means by which a body might vanish. Some kind of trick, I heard one say. Yeah right, like the Vanishing Act of 55939 CZM was somehow not in force anymore. Give me a break.
When it became clear that my buddy was not returning, I did the only sensible thing. I gathered my thoughts and found a healing space where I could center myself, and then absolved myself of all responsibility, both orally and through infusions of tea tree oil, which naturally was self defeating as my own shame might have powered my suit enough to locate my buddy. Still, it wasn’t my problem any more, I had shouted at anyone who was wearing red or who had bad glasses. “Bad old glasses!” I also sometimes yelled, but not recently. It was just something I tried as a teenager, one assumed. Not that I was ever a teenager, but I feel like had I been one, it would have been inevitable, and thus, despite being created a full grown man, the inevitability of my existence as a shouty teen was fact.
If only I had one of those white coats, I extracted from my surmiser. Then I could command anyone to be ashamed, just by telling them simple facts about things. But where could I get one? Where in this hospital might a man such as myself, free of obligation, find a white coat, free of clams? Where do you go to get away from the clams who always claimed ownership of anything you liked before you could get your hands on it. I feel like its just to stop you from having anything you like; the clams don’t even do anything with all those things!
I’m going to stop writing now, and spread my fledgling wings and attempt to grab hold of a white coat somewhere in this building. If I’m successful, you’ll hear from me again shortly.
A long time later, i still have not returned. What the hell happened to me? WHy am i not writing any more?
To be continued…
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