Contributor: George Sparling
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The Man first entered through my nose after he had waited outside the doctor’s office in his truck. I had seen him from the waiting room’s window for 30 minutes, then had a procedure done, and 60 minutes later, The Man’s truck was still parked outside. Clearly, as I soon found out, he was the culmination of extensive surveillance developments, a thug utilizing advances in neuro-technology. My paranoia proved true.
I walked past his empty truck and found him smoking on the sidewalk. The Man, scrawny, in his mid-fifties, casually sucked nicotine, then blew it my way as I jabbed my four-pronged aluminum cane at him. “Get the hell away from me. I’ve had enough of you working-class chumps thinking you’re civic-minded now that you get paid by the cops to track me.” The Man said, “I’m only doing my job.” I wanted to walk to the bus stop but I couldn’t, and stood still like a frozen computer. I stopped operating and would never go through the steps to restart.
The Man’s proboscis, the olfactory nerves traveled from his nose to mine, and I hadn’t power to stop it, his nose goblins, boogers, thickened mucous crept into my nasal passage. I inhaled the odor of hamburger and onion rings he had eaten behind the wheel of the truck. Call it olfactory memory. I now lost my own sensory neurons, my life’s worth of smell erased, The Man replaced it. I saw him waft fetid sulphur to his nose, like the Devil, meaning my nose also. Bright sunshine, blue skies, yet there stood the Prince of Darkness.
Traffic played discordant death metal on the street inches away from us. The Man then raped my mouth, his tobacco, liquor, cunnilingus stench, chewing gum, foul gases and the like disappeared my tongue, teeth, soft and hard palates as he quickly ground down my nubbins and inserted everything of his mouth into my mine. Worse than replacing my teeth with his was that my tongue began to form the very words he spoke to me. “Bret Trumbo’s shit,” I said, that my name. His digitalized voice, sounding as an owl’s call but it was just another surveillance technique I previously heard that bounced off houses, telephone poles, trees, the air in my town 7 miles north…I had become my worst enemy. “What an ugly puss, take a look at him,” I said, mimicking the mimickers who derided me, even the minutest, trivial things I did within my house these terrorists’ voices harangued me.
The Man smirked, his insolence, contempt and mockery towards me shaped his sneer as it wiped across my lips. Though I tried hard to maintain my wrath towards The Man, I hated myself for miming his lips’ expression, its sphincters shaped just as his.
I heard a loud engine pass me, my bus’s noise so fierce as if I wore headphones with the volume turned to 100%, the blare traveling through my brain. The Man had transferred his nerve impulses from both his ears through a cranial nerve and into the temporal lobe in my cerebral cortex. His hearing was as good as an owl’s. I also heard from The Man’s tiny implanted device, now embed in my ear, receiving another’s words, instructions about how best to complete replacement, technical jargon, instructions to complete the steps. It was the 21st century’s version of hanged, drawn and quartered, the medieval victim disemboweled, watching (I believed the dead can feel pain greater than the living.) his entrails burn.
Next: the infiltration of my eyes. That tiny accessory I now heard signaled my coming destruction. My hazel irises now colored gray, his eyes. “The eye sees more than the heart knows,” wrote William Blake: he was partly right, but my heart knew, too. I saw through The Man’s eyes and penetrated his clothes, finding a small caliber handgun concealed in a shoulder holster. I wanted to grab the machete from my backpack and mutilate him, but that was so old fashioned. “It is the human that is the alien,” wrote Wallace Stevens, literally, not philosophically.
Other points of entry: anus and penis. My rectum’s memory ( Don’t all parts of the body have consciousness, recollection and retention? ), now his. I felt all the butt-shafting by convicts while he did time for child molestation. Damn, it hurt. Blood seeped from my underpants and down my thigh. His cock, smaller than mine but with larger balls, had had intercourse with many females and males. The Man psychically castrated me, replacing my genitalia with his. Quite a few Filipino “psychic surgeons” performed operations. Perhaps The Man trained there and equipped himself with better ways to thwart my life, make it unbearable and impossible, my enemies’ by-any-means-necessary policy of murder. A cleaner death awaited me rather than bullets, surveillers selecting The Man to rid the community and the world of me.
He pushed himself forward and grasped his arms around me, all points of his body touched mine, then the final touch, he scooched closer, tighter, and drove himself into me and my mind nearly clicked off, except for my final utterance, “Cops eat shit”: 3 of the most inconsequential words in the history of language. The Man walloped my skull with a sledgehammer, then, groping until he found my amygdala, squeezed it as I released a screamless scream, and I was gone. The Man entered all the hollows and crevices of my body and brain until I no longer existed.
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The Man first entered through my nose after he had waited outside the doctor’s office in his truck. I had seen him from the waiting room’s window for 30 minutes, then had a procedure done, and 60 minutes later, The Man’s truck was still parked outside. Clearly, as I soon found out, he was the culmination of extensive surveillance developments, a thug utilizing advances in neuro-technology. My paranoia proved true.
I walked past his empty truck and found him smoking on the sidewalk. The Man, scrawny, in his mid-fifties, casually sucked nicotine, then blew it my way as I jabbed my four-pronged aluminum cane at him. “Get the hell away from me. I’ve had enough of you working-class chumps thinking you’re civic-minded now that you get paid by the cops to track me.” The Man said, “I’m only doing my job.” I wanted to walk to the bus stop but I couldn’t, and stood still like a frozen computer. I stopped operating and would never go through the steps to restart.
The Man’s proboscis, the olfactory nerves traveled from his nose to mine, and I hadn’t power to stop it, his nose goblins, boogers, thickened mucous crept into my nasal passage. I inhaled the odor of hamburger and onion rings he had eaten behind the wheel of the truck. Call it olfactory memory. I now lost my own sensory neurons, my life’s worth of smell erased, The Man replaced it. I saw him waft fetid sulphur to his nose, like the Devil, meaning my nose also. Bright sunshine, blue skies, yet there stood the Prince of Darkness.
Traffic played discordant death metal on the street inches away from us. The Man then raped my mouth, his tobacco, liquor, cunnilingus stench, chewing gum, foul gases and the like disappeared my tongue, teeth, soft and hard palates as he quickly ground down my nubbins and inserted everything of his mouth into my mine. Worse than replacing my teeth with his was that my tongue began to form the very words he spoke to me. “Bret Trumbo’s shit,” I said, that my name. His digitalized voice, sounding as an owl’s call but it was just another surveillance technique I previously heard that bounced off houses, telephone poles, trees, the air in my town 7 miles north…I had become my worst enemy. “What an ugly puss, take a look at him,” I said, mimicking the mimickers who derided me, even the minutest, trivial things I did within my house these terrorists’ voices harangued me.
The Man smirked, his insolence, contempt and mockery towards me shaped his sneer as it wiped across my lips. Though I tried hard to maintain my wrath towards The Man, I hated myself for miming his lips’ expression, its sphincters shaped just as his.
I heard a loud engine pass me, my bus’s noise so fierce as if I wore headphones with the volume turned to 100%, the blare traveling through my brain. The Man had transferred his nerve impulses from both his ears through a cranial nerve and into the temporal lobe in my cerebral cortex. His hearing was as good as an owl’s. I also heard from The Man’s tiny implanted device, now embed in my ear, receiving another’s words, instructions about how best to complete replacement, technical jargon, instructions to complete the steps. It was the 21st century’s version of hanged, drawn and quartered, the medieval victim disemboweled, watching (I believed the dead can feel pain greater than the living.) his entrails burn.
Next: the infiltration of my eyes. That tiny accessory I now heard signaled my coming destruction. My hazel irises now colored gray, his eyes. “The eye sees more than the heart knows,” wrote William Blake: he was partly right, but my heart knew, too. I saw through The Man’s eyes and penetrated his clothes, finding a small caliber handgun concealed in a shoulder holster. I wanted to grab the machete from my backpack and mutilate him, but that was so old fashioned. “It is the human that is the alien,” wrote Wallace Stevens, literally, not philosophically.
Other points of entry: anus and penis. My rectum’s memory ( Don’t all parts of the body have consciousness, recollection and retention? ), now his. I felt all the butt-shafting by convicts while he did time for child molestation. Damn, it hurt. Blood seeped from my underpants and down my thigh. His cock, smaller than mine but with larger balls, had had intercourse with many females and males. The Man psychically castrated me, replacing my genitalia with his. Quite a few Filipino “psychic surgeons” performed operations. Perhaps The Man trained there and equipped himself with better ways to thwart my life, make it unbearable and impossible, my enemies’ by-any-means-necessary policy of murder. A cleaner death awaited me rather than bullets, surveillers selecting The Man to rid the community and the world of me.
He pushed himself forward and grasped his arms around me, all points of his body touched mine, then the final touch, he scooched closer, tighter, and drove himself into me and my mind nearly clicked off, except for my final utterance, “Cops eat shit”: 3 of the most inconsequential words in the history of language. The Man walloped my skull with a sledgehammer, then, groping until he found my amygdala, squeezed it as I released a screamless scream, and I was gone. The Man entered all the hollows and crevices of my body and brain until I no longer existed.
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Author:
George Sparling
