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….

“These are my snaps. I can just tear these pants away at any time. These snaps will undo.”

“My god, that’s amazing.”

“I know. For instance, let’s say we’re running from something, say, a galgravolt, and it’s like ‘oh no, we’re running so fast, and I’m sweating too much, what am I going to do’, you know? Probably get eaten by the galgravolt. But me? I just go ‘later, suckers,’ and with a quick tug of my pants, they just tear away. Then I’m running with all sorts of bare legs. Also, check this out.” He reached down towards his feet, which were all leathery and marked with the word REBOK. A flap of skin protruded from the top, out of a patch of lacework which seemed to hold his feet tightly together, and at its apex was a small circular blister. He pinched the blister between his thumb and forefinger, and I cringed. “You just pump this up, right here, and your shoes get all pumped up. And you run way faster. So I’m like ‘oh no!’, tear tear, pump pump, ‘see ya later, ass-holes!’” He began motionining like he was shooting a weapon over his shoulder, and mimed running for a while, then he was struck by a temporal displacement field! Apparently, he was stuck in an eddy in time that ran much slower than the rest of the flow of time around us, as his motions became quite slow, and even though he rolled across the ground and took cover behind a garbage can, shooting his invisible weapon and saying “goosh, goosh, goosh, BRWAAAAAA, oooh nooo, heeee’s gooot a guuuuun,” in a deep pitched and slow voice, he appeared not to notice.

I raced over to him and grasped the arms of his body with my handlers, yanking him out of the current. “YOU ARE EXPERIENCING DANGER!” I tried to alert him with a warning kiss, but my extruder had been replaced by some form of monotreme, a single mouth that I realized I was breathing out of, talking out of, and now, French kissing out of. How did men of this era live like this? With all their functions agglomerated into single holes! I didnt’ even want to GUESS what anus i was meant to sing from! A quick smear of my face with my hands illustrated that, at least, I had two nose holes: one likely for smelling, the other likely for receiving accolades.

My companion now resumed his normal speed of existence, fortunately, and we did a classic “stroll about” in the town. We weren’t certain what we were looking for, but The Suit was still in communication with him, indicating things and then he convayed them to me in turn. “Over on our right is the historic Royal York hotel, first opened on June 11, 1929, Jesus Years, and was for a time the tallest building in the England Global Domination Zone, until replaced by the Canadian Bank of Commerce tower. On our left, is historic Union Station, first opened on August 6, 1927, in a lavish ribbon severing occultation. The royal offspring of the England Global Dominators used a pair of valuable slicers to sever the ribbon. That ribbon was later preserved in memory, and passed down through the ages until the epoch of the Cognators, who revived the ribbon, coaxing it out of memory, and reincarnating it. They later considered that ribbon to be their king, but after a regicidal plague killed all the kings that were ribbons, they swore never to avenge its death, a custom that still persists today.”

I could not have been less interested in this boring, almost dadlike explanation of non-pertinence. Though, fortunately, I was to be spared further pain by my own ingenuity.
“So, what is your name?” I asked.

“Oh. It’s Banks.”

“Just banks?”

“Well. Tyra Banks. What’s yours?”

“Oh, its (name deleted).’

“Huh.”

“What…”

“Nothing, just, that’s a girl’s name,” he said.

“it’s a man’s name in my time,” I retorted. It was a retort I would regret for the rest of my life, as it was, as we say in the biz, the sort of retort that opens a locator array which vast and crucial enemies use to home in on your present location. Before we could continue our witty banter, one of these primitives blustered into our face with a pistol drawn. We weren’t scared, because it was drawn on a piece of paper, but it was a picture of the gun he had in his other hand, which we only then just noticed. What a bunch of guns’n’papers it was!

“Totally fork over all your mondo cash, broseph and broseph! These days of you having your own rad cash are WAY over, dwaynes!” He shoveled that gun into our pugs, and we reacted instinctively. I reached forward, and seized his gun, pressing it against my chest and began shooting, hoping to fire off all his bullets into me so that I could take control of the situation. If I fired all the bullets into myself, then it would rob him of his initiative, and take the wind out of his sails. It was a brilliant plan. Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, I shouted, to muffle the sound of the gun firing bullets into my soft body. Triumphantly I collapsed on the ground in a bloody heap, laughing and going into victory shock.

“Now what are you going to do, eh tough guy?” This guy was a total amateur. I showed him how committed I was, now he’s got nothing. What’s he going to do, pull the bullets out and shoot me with them again? He’s got NOTHING. “Yeah, I thought so. Got no more bullets left eh? Ooh, what’s wrong? They’re all in my body, THAT’s whats wrong. Huh? Huh? Yeah, i thought so.” And I really did think so. That, I might later realize, was my greatest strength, the ability to say I thought so, and to actually think so. It was the deftest type of lie, the type that even I was unaware of, because of how much the truth it turned out to be.
Screaming and running away, I watched this total amateur flee from our scene of triumph, as I victoriously coughed up a litre of blood and proudly felt cold and saw the world turning dark. Then, my life flashed before my eyes, froze still, and turned into a synaptic cube, as was our custom in my time to do just before dying. The little white cube of sweet tasting memories tumbled to the ground beside me like a bear rewinding a tape. “Uh oh, “ I thought privately, maintaining my smug facial expression, “that’s not a good sign.”
Tyra Banks shouted to the men and women who walked past, “Like, mega get this man a total ambulance, niggas!” Then such a frenzy did I observe, of circular forming crowds hanging overhead, of shouting and advice giving.

“You have to suck the poison out!” one said, “let me do it!” said a particularly effete man with pursed lips. Another took off his shirt and bewailed the rising tide of violence that modern life was cursed with, and shouted that he would retire to the forest, and no longer participate in a global economic culture that ravaged the individual human spirit and repressed personal expression, which I felt was an appropriate response. If you were retarded.

Ultimately, the amateurs and their medical thoughts were silenced by the arrival of some real pros, these ambulance men, these boys of summer, these sweaty lad lads that so feverishly forced tubes into me. They wanted me, I could smell it in their eyes. “Easy there, big guy, I don’t’ fuck on the first date, “ I said, totally playing hard to get in a major way. I could tell it was working, because he then inserted more tubes into me with some sweet salty vein water. Yeah, I was going to be just fine, and to prove it, I decided to lose consciousness, but really casually and still clearly gloating from my deft handling of the whole gun situation. What a babe I must appear to be, full of pipes and tubes and oozing holes. Just like J-Lo.

to be continued?