I bet we could turn this world into a 6 part sci fi web series with some green screens and some tinfoil. What say you?

The man from the hyper-future, Tyra Banks, stands amazed at the chest unleashed by his powerful super-suit’s chestmaker. With him are the nerd he recently met, and soeone who looks remarkably simlar to (name deleted). But it can’t be him, can it? (name deleted) is sleeping, dreaming, even now inside the frown of the universe… then who is this man? What is his plan? And his span? Fan.

The dials and knobs on my suit dialed down and knobbed down to the minimum. I was again allowed to utilize my own bodily limbs to control my directions and motions. how pleasing it was to regain that lost control.

The night air swelled with the rush if heat of the heaving breasts on the now breathing chest, and with the cries and yelps of the hapless Torontonians who had, understandably, not predicted this occurance. Torontonians are notably terrible at predicting the emergence of body parts in the middle of their city, as their future history would bear out time and time again. Old Shafty-Cocks of 2140 really springs to mind.

I turned my gaze proportionatly, following the golden ratio, towards the man who, until only an hour ago, had been my trusted companion. And yet, after vanishing into thin air at the hospital, and returning without much ado, he had seemed to be like another man who just looked like my friend. What had hapened to him? It was like taking the orange out of the orange skin and then putting some rags in the orange skin, and then saying ‘this is an orange, OR IS IT?” I’m saying this is my friend, or IS IT? You feel me?

I ji-HAD no time to find out (had no time to find out), as the blood pooling up in my suit from my recent interaction with bullets meant i had to gather my mind and hurl my body onward. Why had my friend shot into my body with his gun? It wasnt’ even a malicious gun, it was a kind looking gun. one of those little stubby guns, that you imagined the big guns always teased and that you just wanted to buy when you saw it at the gun shelter. In the age in which i come from, guns were large wooly creatures, barely resembling the primitive guns of today, but in that stubby little fellow I saw the Grintaur, the gun I had growing up. Not actually growing up, obviously, as I blinked into existence all at once due to m suit’s conclusion that it was inevitable, but nevertheless, i blinked into existence with a full life’s memory set. With a bonus expansion pack of half remembered possible victimizations.

“You’re a real dink for some reason,” i shouted, as i turned and hopped away. My suit’s inflective screens corrected my clearly pained intonations into those of a tough urban fellow. While i said “you’re a real dink for some reason”, what (name deleted) and the nerd heard was “Yo, ya’ll is total douche machine, white honkey ghost!” Cool, right? That’s pretty cool.

The suit’s wound augmenter kicked in, and my bullet wound began to feel like a scorpion bite in my hand. It wouldn’t interfere with me running, though my leg now liberated from pain, i was running awfully hard on it, and I could feel blood glooshing out. It was without a doubt the wettest my jeans had ever been thus far. I made amental note to add it to the big wet jeans scroll in the year 249,493 when i was next visiting that time.

In the dim light of king’s college circle, surrounded on all sides by venerable old buildings, universty College, a vast victorian edifice with tasteful ivy growing on every side, i could make out the nerd leaping on (name deleted) and wrestling away the gun. The starlit sky arched overhead like a threadbare shroud, permeated with vague light from beyond. There was something remarkably peaceful about this epoch, no lip-chives, scenting the night with their spicy salivas, no gontules, lobing your legs with their lobes. No scrimshaw pipes hanging from everyone’s hoary beards, drizzling out smoke into the blustering new england autumn nights. All three of the worst things in time were absent.

In the distance now echoed the sound of sirens, emergency vehicles rushing to disruptions in the city’s life. Probably the giant breasts, I’d imagine. I’d be willing to bet that that ws, by far, the biggest disruption. However, though i didn’t know it at the time… I mean, though i dno’t know it at the time, i don’t know what i’m about to say, the galgravolt had realized it was a galgravolt. The city, and everyone in it, was doomed. I dont’ know that yet though. I’m saying it with my fingers poked into my ears so i don’t’ hear myself say it.

To be continued.

Due to his self doubt, he decided to ask an objective third party if he were dead, or merely trapped within a paradigm that was like death (perhaps Hegelianism).  What follows is extracted from the protagoniser’s gleam screamer ™.

…

The other man was in the form of a Methodist, and as his opticulated my torso and limbs with his oculonts, I gleaned from my mood groaner that his was moaning out a strong sense of recognition.

“You!” The waves of his outburst gallopped across my delicate membranes.

“You know me?” I rejoindered.  What a fool, he didn’t know iw as going to do that, i bet.  10 Greevalt Lamb-coins says he’s not prescient!

“Of course, or rather, i will know you–” he paused for effect “–IN THE FUTURE!”  The latter part of his sentiment was expressed with ominous arm motions and a grim look on his face.   The ocean of his face (a metaphor) became like a grim ocean face.  You see how I’m able to make you see images?

“Old man, how can you recognize me if you will only know me in the future?”

He just laughed at me, and gave me twenty canadian dollars.  He then combed my hair, while still laughing.  He pulled out a range of ties that surprisingly rated over Four Hearts on the suitability scale, and chose a 4.8er and gingerly tied it around my neck.

“This is the first time i’ll meet you, but not the last.  The last time i meet you will be the first of the last times i meet you.  And because it’s a first of something, i’ve technically met you one first time already, long long years from now.  Since firsts carry forward, in the direction they are facing, a first last faces the reverse, you see?  So that first is carrying forward relative to its own frame of reference.  That forward is our backward.  Thus, I know you already because of our final meeting, years from now.”

The chasmic void which we inhabited began to blow with warm gusts of stale air.

“That’s remarkable.”

“Yes it is.  Purely by logical construct i am able know anything, for you see, I’m a Rativore, an eater of Reason.”

“Ahh,” i said knowingly.  he had no idea i didnt’ know what he was talking about, but i squared my shoudlers to his, and mimiced his bodily attitude, while maintaining eye contact. i was winning this conversation.

“That and i live in three directions in time at once.  Forward for you, backward for you, and forward for ex-girlfriends.”

“A third direction in time?” I asked, while touching his body in a dominant way, witha broad open handed motion.

“Have you ever wondered with ex-girlfriends never seem to move on?”

In many ways i had, but i wasn’t going to show my hand.

“Maybe.  Maybe not.”  Booya.

“Well, that’s because ex-girlfriends live in a perpendicular timeframe.  They don’t move forward in the timeframe that you do.  For me, obviously, ex girlfriends move on rather quickly.  We Rativores are the third luckiest race in the known universe.  Not me though, as I am stuck in here.”

“Ah, the afterlife.  Kind of an anuser, eh?”

“Bummer.  Not Anuser.  But uh.. what do you mean afterlife?”

“Well.  I died.  In the frown?”

“Ahahahahaha,” he said each Ha as a separate syllable in a dry monotone, whie inflating gas sacks on his neck.  When he was done storing his laughter, the gas bags compressed, shooting his jocularity fog into my face.  I must admit, the effect was very amusing. “We’re not dead.  You idiot.  You’re only dreaming.  You are asleep, right now, inside the frown, after successfully giving up some of your personality by twittering on your iphone.  None of this is even real.  Except me.  I moved into your dreams last week, while you were awake, because it seemed like you had basically given up on having any dreams.  Since you clearly are using them again, i could move into your aspirations.  That’s a far more tractless void than this cavern.  But uh.  I have all my shells arranged here.”  He indicated several rows of beautiful seashells which he had arranged from smallest to largest.  “It would be a shame to have to move them.”

“It would.  It would.  Still…”

“What?”

“nothing.  You know.  It’s just… ”

“Ugh, okay, i’ll move if you want.  But look around, there’s lots of space.  If you realy dont’ ahve that many dreams, i mean.  I could even put up some of my own.  My goals are pretty great.”

“Gimme an example.”

“I want to own a boat.  Nothing too fancy, a 12 footer. And maybe retire with my 2nd wife to smalltown Ontario, and integrate into the community by volunteering to help it’s local historical society.”

“Say, that’s not bad.  You ahve a deal.”

“Good, becuase you’re about to wake up.”

“Oh, wait, what’s your name, and tell me about my future!”

“I’m Phile Maven, and actually you asked me not to tell you anything.  You made that very clear at our final meeting, just years from now.  You can’t even imagine, time is nuts!”

“What?  Why!  tell me!”

But it was too late, he already had his earphones in and was listening to his sleek, 3Gs black iphone, available at apple stores across the country.

to be continued…

Shame. Shame. I had to find someone to shame. The suit’s power was running low, and if it ran out in its present invisible state, it would be stuck invisible forever. IT was not entirely a terrible proespect, but it meant that people would probably never understand how it was i was able to do all the marvellous things i could do, as they could not see the apparent explanation of the suit. Needless to say, taking credit for the work of a funny sci fi type suit was essentially one of the worst Sharms.

I scanned the waiting-room for anyone presenting signs of even minor shame. Numb faces and bored bodies slumped in uncomfortable chairs, ocasionally reaching up to distract a nurse long enough to find out where some loved one was on the Ronson-Hildegaard Wellness-Sickness scale. “Like, mondo a 4.8,” one of the nurses intoned. Poor bastard. No shame here. The nurses seemed totally inured to their own laziness and lack of quality customer service; making them embarassed for their shoddy work was unlikely. Think, man, think. What would a normal man of the past, such as yourself, do that would make them feel ashamed?

my answer came in, escorted by two copofficers, urban blue-men, soldiers of the local constabulary. “We utterly ravaged this bro while he throttled up the rage-jets to extreme Gs. He’s gotta get mega checked out, doctoroids.” Moments later, a rolling flatty came in with a lady all over its face. She was practicing blood spurting i guess. but the suit knew better. “she’s been injured by the captured man, the captured man.” Guilt?

I walked over to the two police misters and introduced myself cordially, bowing and curtsying. “How do? My name is Ms. Tyra Banks, and i want to shame your captive so that I can.. err…” I needed a plausible excuse; these men had no concept of deterministic time suits, set aside form the recent Spielberg film “Deterministic Time Suit Friends”, apparently quite a jolly romp. “I need to shame him in order to fill certain ambiguous power packs. Certain FUTURISTIC power packs.”

From my cell in the mental illness prison, in the west wing of the hospital, I was able to reevaluate my strategy. Apparently, officers of the law did not like power packs. Nuts to them. Still, now myself an inmate, my mood began its meteoric rise into sadness. One might even say, its Mesotoric Rise, the great rise of Mesotor’s mood. The mood that makes us sad, though not sadness. It’s an external mood, one we feel in the faces of other people, and allow ourselves to feel nothing. that way, everyone’s face is messed up. It’s a win win win win win win win situation.

“Hey guys of the hospital. It’s me, i’m in here. I was just thinking about how nice it would be to be let out of here.” The approach of a burly endoctored fellow proved that my strategems-bulb was full to “le maxe” with noble strategems, contained with in the strati-gems of the ruby raspberry i wore around my neck. What a lovely gift! Love had its benefits. i was in love, if i didnt’ mentoin that. In love with my ruby raspberry, in which i placed my strati-gems. Did i not mention that?

As the doctor came into the cell, i reminded him that he was under oath, and then that he was hypnotized. Whether or not he believed me is irrelevant, because he believed my fist when it said that it had hit him in the face. Belief is a funny thing, it can LITERALLY change you rbody. if you believe you dont’ ahve cancer, then the cancer doesn’t kill you, instead, it takes out a lot of loans and ruins your credit. but that’s better than dying. In this case, the doctor was convinced he had been punched upon a face, not just any face, his face. All because my first told him so, in fist-speak. Of course, fists speak by every so roughly rapping upon a face, so again, it was a win^6 situation. It was even a f(x)=2x^3 situation. “Line around” i said, to the function i was contemplating.

Scooping out my body from the inside of the cell, i sauntered jauntily through the halls, using my jaunters to saunt about, in a most casual and unsuspicious way. Perhaps it was my sauntiness that didn’t arouse suspicion, or perhaps it was the magic coat i took from the sleeping doctor in my former cell. Ah, at last, a nice white coat, with the power to tame the minds of even the great scrutinizers of the Outer Outer Outer Hebrides, in space (the outer outer Hebrides were the ones in the Earth’s core, whence, a few millenia from now, the Lava-Boys would launch their devastating PR campaign against the Rubik’s Empire (yes, an empire that was basically unsolvable, even by the Will Smith armada!)).

“Grant me your leave!” i entreated the doctors. And they genearlly granted it, as a kind of silent consensus. With that leave i begin my exit from the clutches of this primitive medical drome, sauntily jauntering my way doorwise, considering the dissapearance of old (name deleted), the friend i have in the world. Though, not technically in the world anymore. I guess he’s my only friend not in the world. Scooping out the main way, i heard a noisy boy shouting his noisy boy shouts. “Stop, one of the mental patients has blown the roost! He’s like, waaaay escaping!”

“i’m not that guy!” I shouted into a police, and then walked by, chuffed to the core with my declamation of my former life as a mental patient. i was a changed man, and awarded myself a trophy. But when a police began to say “hey what? What a minute!” i jumped into what can only be described as a room. And there, before me, sat someone I was to recognize for the rest of my life.

“Hey, buddy, what happened to you? did they give you those new clothes?” He asked, gaseously.

“Who cares about my clothes,” I replied in this room with him, “I just cant’ believe you are here. they think you’ve vanished. i should have known you’d be okay.”

< >

to be continued….

“I think Obama’s honey-moon is over.”

The firmament arched like a vast emptiness like the emptiness between Matrimonions, the married onions that act as surrogate married couples for people in love who dont’ want to ruin that good feeling. My plan wasn’t working. banality might be insufficient, like a clown with an egg. Yet I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

The Frown-life was dissolving my ever-intelli-jaunts, the little trips you take in your mind that provide you answers as if by magic. Hypo-cognizance was creeping up on me, and yet without succumbing to this “totally meta” situation, I was likely to be destroyed by the Frown, like some invading parasite. It was exactly the type of no-win environment where those naturally occuring CEO’s on Vega Beta would relish.

Funny little guys, those CEOs. They hatch from rock niches in Armani suits, and develop mission statements preternaturally. Before they recognize the usefulness of fire, or utter their first vocables, they can browbeat an underling and defraud a press conference at over 60 universilad ™ microlengths per pleasant secondulus. That’s extremely fast! If i had one here, he would be quite the formidable ally. No doubt he’d already be ordering me to do all kinds of things that I would perceive to be in some way helping me, but ultimately, would only serve his own goals and interests. GOD i wish i had one.

Again I tried: “I think the Leafs have a shot at the cup this year.” But the abridgement of my personal universe did not abate.

I went into frantictown, and fled my hospital room, throwing off my warm blankies and racing into the hallway. No one. Each corridor a perfect replica of the 21st century world i had abandoned, all for my benefit, to keep me unsuspectingly self-reducing, but it was not my time. Could the Grand Old Frown of Frown Hall possibly have known that I was a man of centuries yet unnumbered by the ordinal impulse of man’s inner bookkeeper? If it didn’t, it was not perfect. It could make mistakes. perhaps, much later, i could tell it “You made a mistake”, and my gloat-hope composite would shear a rift out of which I might find escape. But for now, my choice was between equally unpopulated corridors to find any person at all to which i could say “cold enough for you? Brrr. You’d think they’d turn of the AC once in a while” to.

If i had been in my natural form, with all my legs and slurpsliders intact, i could have traversed all options within a matter of moments(tm). But the changes made the Suit could only be unchanged by the Suit, or at least, that is what was written on the literature given to me by the Suit, entitled “So, your body is gone…”

Without a moment to spare, I chose left. As i processed down the tunnel, pattern of tiles and lamps became a pattern of tiles and flickering lamps. Then of no lamps at all. The frowniverse had already reached whatever facility powered this building. I was doomed.

Perhaps if i ran a bit faster, i could outpace the hopelessness i felt encroaching on me. So faster I ran. A large orange door marked “Total Exit, Man” lay at the end of the hall, dimly illuminated by the infrared my body gave off. At least my luminous tasters and sniffers were still functioning, despite my body’s unsightly assemblage of bilaterally symmetrical appendages and single-head. I gripped the cold metal handle and turned. Locked.

There was a window fortunately to my left. I tried to break it, perhaps i could climb or jump down, I hoped. But it was no use, it was unbreakable by the feeble means this body possessed. The grips of panic grippled me down. Without hope, I had only one place to turn: crime. My poverty of options lead me to an inability to expect a middle class life, and all its recumbant bycicles. Instead, i felt the urge to deal drugs and rob. And as if by magic, the frown provided me with drug paraphernalia. The classic diamond tipped crack pipe was among them. But would it be enough?

Scratching a rough circle on the window i ran my hands round and round, digging ever deeper into the reenforced gazing-space. There wasn’t enough body head to tasterape into the distance, and I was out of options. I had to use my bodymass to shovel through the window’s increasingly impermanent solidness. How high up was I? how strong are contemporary bones? I was out of options. With a final pause to contemplate how much I could get for a stolen X-Box 360, i heaved with all of my strength, and with apparently a bit extra i didn’t know I had.

The sensation of falling was peculiar, given the inner ears I was cursed with. An almost giddy weightlessness, a rush of heretofore unsuspected stomach blushing, and my cardio bulb palpatitating wildly. it was, for the moment it lasted, the first time I ever felt like a lady. But like most ladies, it was not to last.

Wet grass broke my fall, but ineffectively. It was the ground that finally finished the job the lazy grass had started. In the cool night air, I was now both nearly incapacitated by numerous insurmountable pains, and by a total lack of light with which to spray or gleanfuck a direction. Ever the optimist, I squeeled out a squeal.

“Halp! Halp!”

But it was no use. I was utterly alone in a collapsing tinyverse created to drain my individuality and then digest my fibrous organs. And yet, there must have been people at one point, or I would not have been able to banalify myself. Against what grinding averageness was i meant to bore my soul out, if not more people? Think! Think!

I could now hear the collapsing of buildings as their structures destabilized at the cusp of the frowniverse. It was only moments away. What did it want from me? What did it expect me to do? It was then that I smelled a faint glint of light, under my badly shatter legs. Without thought to pain, i reached for it, and felt a smooth plastic surface. With a touch it was illuminated, prompting my with a simple graphic to slide a slider to unlock it. Aquiescing to the domineering electronic, I used my thumb to slide the slider. At once, I was presented numerous genial icons in colors unnumbered and bright. Randomly, I depressed on, and the screen provided a small space and the words “140 characters left”. A keyboard interface was simulated at the bottom of the screen. I didn’t know wht to do. I could feel a hot wind as the cusp of the universe, now only meters away, digested the atmosphere. Panicked, I entered the first thing that seemed boring enough. I wrote exactly what I was doing right then.

“Lying on grass outside hospital” and hit send.

Something called a “twitter” occurred and my “status” was updated. The breeze blew hot and fast now, and a deafening roar of digestion was imbibed by my earthroats. The screen displayed a picture of me but with a funny 2d cartoony quality, and the words “Lying on grass outside hostpital” and in smaller text “less than 1 minute ago, from mobile.”

The tips of my hairs were vanishing, I curled my body into a ball, but all around me I felt blasts of streaming hotness, my flesh in pain and my bones diverted in strange ways they were not meant to be. I just sniffed that screen. Over and over. “Lying on grass outside hospital.” I couldn’t look away. I appreciated it. I wanted others to appreciate it. I fired off another.

“Appreciating own message, on grass.”

Twunt.

Then silence…

To be continued…