Missive From ‘Merica: Well ‘Aunted

UA9 Cover.jpg

*Oh that looks lush, Clicky! …/lights up… Has Leggy loaded it yet? …/drags… Excellent! Ooh look, a ‘237’ sync… /plumes smoke… So, £2.37 equates to dollars, three? …/smokes… Marvelous value!* 

Dear Reader, the LoL is pleased to announce that Underdog Anthology IX: Well Haunted…

innit tho.gif

*Yes, Clicky…*

… Is now available for you to enjoy.  It’s the third Halloween volume Leg Iron Books has published…

*/flicks ash…*

… And will be sure to make you…

… Soil yourself, which is why we’re delighted today to host a new missive from the Okie Devil of Text US, who’s thoughtfully provided some handy toilet tips…

*Aye, Clicky, it’s good stuff…*

… Meet you at the bottom, Dear Reader… 😉

*******

giphy

Kinda weird stumbling across that image. Just the other day I was working on my own “two-fold and cross” method. Meaning, the method for folding the paper prior to contact with the soiled crack.

Six to eight sheets

join ends of entire length

join ends of entire length a second time

join two corners at 45° angle.

This gives enough coverage + enough padding without risk of breakthrough. Best part, is that with this configuration, you can wipe/fold, wipe/fold, wipe/dispose. Usually at least three good wipes out of 8 sheets, and it folds nice so there’s little risk of….trauma.

The resulting wad of soiled paper that goes in the toilet can be thick tho. If you just had chili or curry, and you have to use multiple wads, a flush might be in order. A clogged toilet when you’ve got runny poops almost seems to go against nature. And it could get messy quick if you don’t have a plunger handy.

That defeats the purpose of attempting to be efficient with the paper
^Fergal Freeman / Call of the Mystic (Enchanted Mix)^

Another pro-toilet tip?

Never mix fluids/discharge(s)

Like, never blow your nose with toilet paper whilst shitting. You may get confused as to which end has been wiped, and which has not. Would suck to wipe your ass then blow your nose with the same paper because you were multitasking. Not everything “efficient” is worth the risk.

FYI
^deadmau5 – Bad Selection^

Summer is over. Just thought you should know in the event you weren’t paying attention.

And yes, summer is also over for you folks in the Southern Hemisphere too, even tho it hasn’t even started yet. Sorry, but this year you’re just gonna have to tough out winter like us normal humans in the north.

Merry Christmas
^Summer Breeze Seals and Croft^

You spend most of your time in a rectangular room. You’re surrounded by rectangular walls with rectangular doors and rectangular windows, and you move upon and about a rectangular floor, with a rectangular roof above you. Your brain is likely to get somewhat accustomed to processing rectangular geometric information(s). When you venture away from that environment, your being is likely to be somewhat flooded with all kinds of new and interesting stuff.

Q: What if you are blind? Deaf?

A: Gotta get you away from those eyes of yours

Not permanently, just a temporary vacation. Your ears are likely to process a good deal of spacial information. Gonna be kind of a passive thing, but density, distance and relative position is also going to be processed by those big-assed ears of yours. Yes, your ears are fucking huge.

Sorry, someone had to tell you, so it may as well be me

Anyway, the topic of processing spacial information came up today, and the basis was the processing of contextual geometric information(s). Making distinctions as to what should and should not be in a certain somewhere, peculiarities, anomalies, etc.. Maybe even those things that can be in a certain somewhere, but these things themselves contain embedded information that is out of place. How we process geometric information, and what “geometric” even means with respect to processing shape data and/or shaped information.

Let's break out to elaborate
^Hotknife / Time to Party (Original Mix)^
You may recognize this shape



But what about this variant?

Now, before I go too much further, those two images have some very specific meaning(s). One appears to mean “Jesus Freak”, and the other appears to mean “Semi-Woke Jesus Freak”. I would imagine the second is an “answer”…

to this shape



Or maybe this shape

The first image gave us a base of geometric understanding…

and things mutated 



and evolved



from there

So with respect to processing information, it’s prolly not just/only a matter of learning to make a distinction between known and unknown. We need to make considerations for uncertainty, irregularity, one-off(s), intentionals, unintentuals, mutative/change(s), all kinds of strangeness(es), and of course…time(s).

What does any of that have to do with processing shape information and/or shaped information? I dunno. Guess it depends on what you are looking at/for, and why. Maybe also what you are not looking at/for and why. Yeah…prolly both of those.

Just a matter of time(s)
^Avoure – Aura^

Strange way for two parties to have a conversation, eh? Back and forth over who is right/wrong based on what is basically a preschool drawing of a fish.

At least they're talking
^3/10 Lollercoaster – Melleefresh vs. deadmau5 @ Traffik, Montreal, 25-11-2006^

Lets say that you are looking at a planet, and you are looking for signs of life.

Where to start? 

Mirrors? Mirrors suck. What you personally see in the mirror on a daily basis is in no way, shape or form anything like life. Certainly not representative of life as a whole. Just you and your whole life. You aren’t the center of the universe.

Where was I? 

Oh yeah, looking for life on another planet. Nothing good going on here on Earth/Terra, so we gotta look elsewhere. With that in mind, chances are good that you are looking for something foreign to this planet. But what would that look like? When was the last time you went walking in an open field, completely unfettered, unhinged, and totally off the hook?

Have you ever? 

Don’t get too reliant upon that television if you don’t have to. That thing misses a lot of nuance. Shaped information. Only so much you can see because whatever you are watching has passed through many filters before getting to you. Maybe you aren’t thinking correctly with respect to searching for something that doesn’t appear to be there. Maybe it’s there, and you just aren’t seeing it. Or hearing it. Or feeling it.

^Saltwater (Original) by Chicane^

Hey, I’m just trying to maybe get you to think about how you think, and especially as thinking relates to the processing of geometric shapes. Might keep you safe if you’re running naked through a field, and the shape of a bus suddenly appears in your FOV. If the bus-shape is blurry, stop running. If the bus-shape/image stays blurry, you might want to take evasive action/start running away from this shape.

Don’t ask me what in the fuck a bus in doing in the middle of a field. There’s a naked person running through this field, so this particular field appears to be a field that attracts some weird shit.

^Hotknife vs Mister Tee / Take A Stand (Orignal Mix)^

I must pee. The bathroom…

the door is pulled to, but not closed.

The light…off.                                                            The exhaust fan…on.

Something horrible has happened in there, and it happened only recently.

Q: Do you wish to proceed?

A: ???

Life is a story-book adventure, all day, every day, whether you realize it or not.

^Tiny Dancer – Deadmou5 Remix (Elton John)^
I'm getting old in my old age
^Melleefresh vs DJ Kez & Karol N / Pussy (Original Mix)^

Is a looping echo of charitable sentiments indicative of a failure of past benevolent processes? Perhaps even an indication that no real attempts have been made to permanently resolve the need for a certain philanthropic something? I’ll give an example of what I’m thinking here…

The United Way raised $21,700 in its first year of operation. The year? 1887.

The United Way raised $3.919 billion in 2018 (fiscal year ended June 2019).

That's an increase of 18,059,907% in 132 years

Now, adjusted for inflation, that 1887 money is supposedly $586,491.61 in 2019 dollars. But I have to wonder what 2019 dollars will be valued at in the year 2151, which is 132 years from now. Did some reading, and the US GDP was $12.6 billion in 1887, which means that one single US charity in 2018CE raised around 1/3 of the entire country’s 1887CE GDP. Let’s see what $3.919 billion was worth in 1887.

$105,919,844,315.79

Is it possible that $3.919 billion in today’s money is going to be worth almost $106 billion in 2151CE? I have no idea, and I guess it would depend on who you ask. Don’t ask anyone from a local church or anyone from Extinction Rebellion. Pretty sure they’re all convinced everyone and everything will be dead in 2151CE. Oh, and to add some additional perspective to those numbers, the current US President is said to have a net worth of around $3.1 billion as of March 2019CE.

^cube v3 – 5 days + nights with the LA horde^

From the United Way website…

“United Way fights for the health, education, and financial stability of every person in every community.”

United Way fights. United Way...fights

Not only are you and yours fighting, looks like you’re fighting anyone and everyone, everywhere. Prolly would be considered “PC” of me to suggest that you remove “fight”. Prolly more important that you lose the fighting mentality. Who and what are these forces you are fighting? What is driving them? Big corporations? Big interests? Big dollars?

It's easy to pick on the big dogs
^Chris Brown & Benny Benassi – Beautiful People^

We treat you like “this” because you are a woman.

We treat you like “this” because you are a man.

We treat you like “this” because you are…a human?

Is it the ordering?

Watched a doc earlier this week that kinda touched on a lot of the peculiarities that I wrestle with regarding nomenclatures and the implied behavioral protocols that they can sometimes imply.

But, you’re free to watch the doc then make up your own determinations as to how you treat someone and why. Or not.

Whatevz
^Intersex – redefining gender | DW Documentary^

I’m not sure what to think about this. Had some thoughts recently about who can utilize infrastructure(s) to make money and why…

...but yeah, not sure what to think about this

Cept maybe that the à la carte model is being forced via any and all means.

^Demonetization by You Tube of Technical Content on the Blancolirio Channel^

Does steam “open the pores”? Open the pores of the skin. I would assume “heat” does this/helps this, so a hot bath or shower opens the pores.

Is this really a good idea tho?

Open the pores, slather on soap(s), scrub it in, embed bits of these “cleansers” and their different pieces and parts, then cool off and trap that shit in the pores of the skin? Lemme guess…

”it doesn't work like that”

Was thinking about washing in cold water, and it occurred to me that maybe perhaps the skin contracting and getting all those goose-bumps because you’re freezing your ass off, might be a design consideration. As it pertains to functionality. We’re trying to get stuff off our bodies, not get stuff in our bodies.

Or something
^Deadmau5 – Jaded || HD^

Well this is quite the eye opener. I only recently was pondering/wrote about arrays of aircraft because of some things that I saw back in 2013 and again in 2015, but I had no idea “they” were actually doing it. Makes sense that they are tho.

After watching the video below, it’s no fucking wonder that the UFO community has been shitting their pants lately. Trying to stay on the radar. Trying to stay relevant.

Things are about to get muddier in that area

You could bury all kinds of shit behind all kinds of crazy curtains with technology like this. It’s just too bad that the video has that dumb music on top. Would be interesting to hear what all those drones sound like.

^100-Drone Stock Show | Firefly Drone Shows^

That vid tickled my brain-ish type thingie, so I went to YouTube and searched for “drone array” (without quotes) and found this thing below from 7 years ago.

^A Swarm of Nano Quadrotors^

There actually wasn’t much at all on YouTube under “drone array”. In fact, pretty much nothing. There was a light show, and that swarm one above, and synchronized drone show, and MICRO DRONES KILLER ARMS ROBOTS – AUTONOMOUS ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE, and drone flight over the Very Large Array, a mention of a drone tracking array, but only one mention of “array” with respect to drones.

Hrm...

Why is it that arrays of drones don’t seem to be referred to as “drone arrays”?

Also, on the vid about the drone tracking array, I noticed in the description that they

“had difficulty getting the DJI drones to work at 5.8 GHz”.

Someone only recently asked me about “5G” and what it is. But somewhat off on that topic, I’m wondering if maybe some military projects are lagging a bit, and maybe that’s why cell providers are having fits with getting “upgraded” to 5G? As far as I know, 4G is still a pipe dream, and it was “introduced” in 2009. Gotta get the important stuff out of that/those band(s), and at the same time make sure you remain well-entrenched in that band so you can keep track of who is doing what. Lots of data is pumping through the lower bands already, and I can imagine that cresting each band can be a challenge. Especially if you are simultaneously trying to monitor anyone who is cresting bands above your own capabilities.

Can't let the competition get too far ahead of you
^Kaskade & Felix Cartal – More (Shuffle Video)^

You made me.

You’re still making me.

You’re trying to anyway.

No idea what I’m talking about?
Making
Making
Making
Make
Make
1
7
How To Make Spells
10 Ways To Get Legislation Passed
7 Ways To Build Influence In The Workplace
Five Principles To Follow If You Want To Influence Others
24 Ways To Influence Even The Most Resistant People
8 Ways to Read Someone’s Body Language
50 Ways To Tell Someone You Like Them (Without Just Telling Them)
Impose One’s Will

If it’s still not clear, maybe think on the concept of “making” a bit.

Make it personal

What you make, when, where, how…all that good stuff.

^Boy Pussy / Unisex (Jackin’ Mix 2019 Remaster)^

I started this back on September 26th. It’s now October 12th. I rearranged some of the sections, which means you did not read them in the chronological order in which they were written. Time to stop this madness.

Heh
^deadmau5 / Vanishing Point [full version]^

cYacFa

^S_PAT / Tomorrow (Original Mix)^

*******

*Yep, Parsons knows, Clicky…/stubs butt…*

Thanks for stopping by, Dear Reader, we hope you have enjoyed the visit, and don’t forget to check out Underdog Anthology 9: Well Haunted. Before you know it, the Xmasterpeace will be upon us. Have a Song ❤

Playing Devil’s Avocado

‘You’ve been actively participating in discovering “meaningful coincidence” for longer than I in some of the realms that we both swim.

‘Q: Do you ever stop and reflect on what you are doing and why?’

caec09fff460b87e59b5a0030601f6e1

*It’s my own fault, Clicky… /lights up… I did ask… /drags… It was really late… /plumes smoke… Or really early…*

Cade accepts Roobs offer

*Not sure, Clicky… /smokes… should I go for the long or short answer?*

*Fair enough…*

The short answer is ‘Yes’ and as to why, perhaps an example of ‘meaningful coincidence’ may be helpful in this regard, Dear Reader. It happened today, in fact whilst I was writing this post. I’ll describe in bullet point form:

  • I am currently on a long weekend from work, which I booked off back in the summer because the date coincides with the deadline for submissions to Underdog Anthology 9;

  • Thoughtful Man had other ideas and planned on hiring a skip, so that I could spend part of my long weekend clearing the accumulated crap from the garden this weekend;

  • Boo! I was not looking forward to clearing the crap from the garden;

  • Earlier this week Thoughtful had to spend the skip money on emergency reupholstery on back seat of his taxi;

  • Yay! I didn’t have to spend time this weekend removing the crap from the garden;

  • Yesterday a skip appeared on our next door neighbour’s drive;

  • Thoughtful Man comes home from work this afternoon, whilst I am writing this post, and tells me that our next door neighbour had just offered us use of his skip;

  • The garden is cleared and its accumulated crap is now sitting in next door neighbour’s skip.

105077920-acvodad

*Holy guacamole, Clicky… /flicks ash… A toast?*

*Blimey! Cade knows about my fondness for drummers…*

Dear Reader, have a Song ❤

 

Click5: Eat The What Now?!

Nein, Nein, Nein

Before I start this here Brexit shambles, Dear Reader, I’d just like to point out that there is still time to submit a short story for the Halloween Underdog Anthology, if you are of a creative writing bent. To date, 7 authors have supplied tales for the book, but I’m sure Leggy would like to get the author count up to 9 if possible, to sync with the number of the volume in the series…

*Ooh that’s apt, Clicky… /lights up… My first story’s about misadventures in trepanation… /drags… I’m still working on the second…*

*Yep… /streams smoke… It’s a ‘Harry’ story, Clicky, and the first half of a two parter… /smokes… The second story will be in the Christmas Anthology. Touch wood…*

*Hear Hear, Clicky…*

Dear Reader, it seems we have a Zombie Parliament in session, here, in the UK. It appears that Remainer MPs – a.k.a. ‘The Far Wrong’ – in their crazed desperation to prevent us from leaving the Eewww!, are prepared to go to any lengths…

SOTD Channel 4

*/flicks ash… Except fight a General Election and bloody well secure a mandate to cancel Brexit… /final drag… Too risky…

zombie headshots.gif

*’No, we’re not allowed to shoot them, Clicky…*

Neil deGrasse Tyson on how to kill zombies.gif

*Yeah, they already know they’re dead meat… /stubs butt… *

The story continues, Dear Reader. Have a Song…

 

 

Story Time: The Imagination Virus

LAST TIME AT THE LOL

*Apt image, Clicky, considering this is my second Stranger Things post… /pats snout… well done…*

As promised, Dear Reader, a second post about the hit TV show ‘Stranger Things’, but this time in regards to a short story by my friend Leggy. H.K Hillman has a rare talent for writing tales that linger long after you’ve finished reading them. His tale ‘The Imagination Virus’ also ‘synced’ with an experience I had in 1985 when I was 17. I mentioned it to him when we first became friends in 2014…

Roob emails Legs of her experience

… So it was weird to see something similar played out on ‘Stranger Things’. Another ‘sync’…

Will Sync Stranger Things

*Yeah, it was like that, except purple, Clicky…/lights up…*

… Another ‘reality’ appears…

Will Sync Stranger Things Upside Down Reality

*/drags… Yeah, I could smell the difference, butt couldn’t see it… /stream smoke… And it was strange when JLL decoded ‘tonsils’ in his Mandela Effect investigation…*

tonsil terror.gif

… So I asked Leggy if we could reproduce his story here at the LoL. He agreed, so settle back, Dear Reader, and enjoy ‘The Imagination Virus’. Meet you for a Song at the bottom 😉

*******

The Imagination Virus

by H.K. Hillman

As Dale walked beside Julie, his nurse, he saw the other world again. The crisp, white hospital walls faded into the damp, mould-encrusted bricks he had come to know well. The flicker of tallow candles replaced the bright fluorescent lighting, their odour wiping out the smell of disinfectant. He didn’t want to look at Julie. He knew what he’d see; he knew how she would look to him now.

“Dale, are you all right?”

He stopped walking, the muscles in his face twisted in disgust. Julie put her hand on his shoulder.

“Dale,” she said. “What is it? Are you seeing it again?”

“Yes. It’s awful.” He couldn’t help looking at her. He shuddered at the patchy grey hair, the hunched shoulders, the sore-ridden, wasted body clad in soiled brown cloth.

She smiled, showing her few remaining teeth, black and rotting, and he could smell her graveyard breath, the breath of something that had feasted on decay. He closed his eyes, tight. “I don’t want to see this anymore,” he said. “I want to see the real world, the clean world. Not this – this monstrosity!”

Julie took his arm. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll guide you the rest of the way to the doctor’s office. It’s just a little further. The doctor will know what to do.” She led him as if he was blind, slowly moving forward until she stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Dale,” she said, “open your eyes. What do you see now?”

“I don’t need to look,” he said. “I can smell the candles, feel the damp. I know I’m still hallucinating.”

“Look anyway. For me.”

Dale opened his eyes. “I can see a doorway, in a wall of cracked plaster, showing bare bricks. A battered door is hanging in the frame and I can see light through the gaps in the boards. There’s a symbol, a cross, drawn in red on the centre of the door and some markings below it, which I can’t quite see…”

Then, abruptly, everything changed. He was facing a white-painted door with a frosted glass panel. The light showing through the panel wasn’t flickering, it was the focused light of a reading lamp. The tallow-smell had gone, replaced with the ubiquitous disinfectant smell of the hospital. He looked at Julie and smiled. “You can see the hospital now?” she said. He paused before replying, savouring her long black hair and perfect smile, the crisp white uniform that showed off her shape so well.

“Yes,” he said. “Everything is fine now. I see the door as it really is, clean and white with a frosted window.” He drew a long breath as Julie knocked, then released it slowly as she opened the door.

The doctor stood, smiling, then walked across to Dale, his hand outstretched. “Dale,” he said. “How are you today? How’s that other world of yours?”

Dale winced. These attempts at humour always sounded flippant to him, as though his condition were some kind of joke. He knew the doctor meant well, but sometimes Dale wondered if the doctor believed a word he said.

“The other world is Hell,” he said, not accepting the doctor’s handshake.

The doctor’s brow creased into a frown. “Had another visit recently?”

Dale nodded.

“Just a moment ago,” Julie said. “His hallucination is consistent, he always sees the same things in the same places. Where there’s a door, Dale sees a door, but it looks very different to him.”

The doctor looked at Dale. “And it’s always the same?” he said.

“It depends where I am,” Dale said. “It’s always the same for a particular place. It’s as if the hallucination is overlaid on reality, permanently, and sometimes I can see it.”

He thought for a moment. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been trying to remember what things were like outside. Before I came to the hospital. I can’t. I can’t even remember what I used to do or where I used to live. It’s as if I never existed outside here.” He buried his face in his hands.

“Relax, Dale,” the doctor said. “You did have a life, you know. You lived over on the West Side, alone, and you had a job. I’m afraid it wasn’t glamorous. You were a cook in a small cafe. It’s the virus. It’s affecting your brain, causing these hallucinations and amnesia about your previous life.”

“Can it be cured?”

The doctor smiled an indulgent smile. “We’re doing everything we can.”

“But can it be cured, or not? How long will I be here?”

“When you see the hospital all the time, and don’t see your Hell at all, then you’ll be ready to leave,” the doctor said. “You’re already seeing it less often. Only once today.”

“So far,” Dale said, curling his lip.

“That’s good enough,” Julie said. “The day’s nearly over.”

“That’s right,” the doctor said. “Time for Nurse Davis to take you off to bed. We’ll meet again tomorrow.”

Dale started to rise, but stopped halfway. He looked at the doctor. “Is it contagious?” he said. “It’s just that Julie – I mean Nurse Davis – and the other nurses spend a lot of time around me. Are they at risk?”

“Not at all,” the doctor said. “The virus is very hard to catch. The nurses are safe with you. Now, off to sleep with you.”

Julie led Dale back to his room. He climbed into bed, and she handed him his sleeping tablets and water. He had taken them every night without question, but tonight he felt like a change. He wanted to think, not to sleep. Dale didn’t want to offend the nurse so he put the tablets into his mouth and took the water. Instead of swallowing, he trapped both tablets between his cheek and gum, throwing the mouthful of water back as usual.

“Well done, Dale,” Julie said. After her routine of fussing with his bedclothes, she left the room, turning down the light.

Dale picked out the tablets with a finger and put them under his pillow. Sure, the staff would find them in the morning and they’d be annoyed with him, but so what? He was a patient, not a prisoner, after all. He lay back, enjoying the warm, clean sheets of the bed, and tried to remember his life before the hospital. He had been a cook, so if he could think of something, a recipe perhaps, maybe something would come back. Still trying to think, he drifted into sleep.

***

He was woken by the creak of a door opening. His bed was uncomfortable and his sheets felt rough and dirty. He could hear voices, talking quietly as if to avoid waking him. He opened one eye, just a little, and saw the doctor and another man. Both were wearing rough sheets of brown cloth which were draped around them like cerements.

Both were hunched and looked malnourished, both were covered in sores and stinking of decay. Oh great, he thought, another hallucination. He closed his eye and pretended to be asleep.

The doctor was speaking. “He’s making good progress. He sees the clean world most of the time now, he only sees the decaying world intermittently.”

“Good,” the other man said. “When will he be ready?”

“A matter of days.”

“The fundamentalists haven’t found out?”

“No. As far as I know, they don’t even know about our work.”

The unknown man grunted. “We have to be careful. They have spies everywhere. They won’t approve of what we’re trying to do here, they would consider our work blasphemy. Interference with God’s punishment, or something like that.”

“I know,” the doctor said. “Our staff are carefully checked, and no visitors are allowed.”

“Very good. What about the others, are they seeing the same things?”

“Yes,” the doctor said. “The other patients all show the same hallucinations as Dale here. We’ve kept them separate so we can be sure they’re not comparing notes. They all report exactly the same visions. The virus, it seems, works the same way on everyone.”

There are others, Dale thought. Others like me, with the same virus, the same hallucinations. Dale squirmed on his bed. It felt as though he was lying on a coarse sheet laid directly on the bedframe.

“Careful,” the doctor said. “Best not wake him.” The two men left, closing the door quietly.

Dale opened one eye. All clear. He opened the other. Bare-brick walls surrounded him, lit by a single guttering candle on the far side of the room. He put a hand onto the mattress – there was no mattress! He sat up, examined the bed, and found that it was no more than a few planks of wood with a coarse blanket thrown over it. A similar blanket covered him. His pillow was a sack stuffed with straw. On an impulse, he lifted it, and saw the two sleeping tablets he had put there earlier. So they were still

there, even in his hallucination. He hoped that was a sign he was getting better, that small pieces of reality were filtering through his nightmares.

As he held the pillow, Dale noticed his arms, bare in his filthy, coarse night-shirt. His skin was grey, his muscles wasted, and red sores oozed pus that dripped onto the bed. His left hand was missing two fingers, their stumps black with infection. Feeling an itch on his right forearm, he turned his arm to look at it and screamed. A large sore had burst, purple flesh was exposed and maggots wriggled in the wound. Still screaming, he beat his arm against the bed.

The door opened and the hag he knew was really Julie came into the room, followed by the doctor. Pushing him back on the bed, the doctor held him still while Julie tried to calm him. “Think, Dale,” she said. “Think of the hospital. Try to see it.”

“Why is he awake?” the doctor said. “Didn’t he take his pills?”

“Yes. I saw him take them. Dale, come on, concentrate.”

“Maggots,” Dale said, his voice a childish whine. “In my arm. Maggots eating me.”

“No,” Julie said “Don’t see them. Look at me, Dale. You can do it.”

“Yes,” Dale said. “Hallucination. Virus. Not real.” He stopped struggling, closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. He waited until he could smell disinfectant, then opened them. Julie smiled down at him, long black hair covering part of her face. The doctor released him and stood up.

“Feeling better now?” the doctor said.

“Yes,” Dale said. “It’s gone.”

Julie was looking at him, her brow furrowed. “What happened to your pills?”

With a sheepish expression, Dale lifted his pillow and brought out the two white pills. Saying nothing, he handed them to Julie.

“I thought as much,” she said. “I’ll get you some more.” She left the room.

“You really should take the pills,” the doctor said. “We can’t have you screaming all night, you know. You have to get some rest, and so do the staff.”

“I know,” Dale said. “I haven’t done this before. I don’t think I’ll do it again.”

The doctor smiled. “With luck, you shouldn’t need to for much longer. We think you should be okay within a week.”

Dale looked up, hopeful.

“There are other patients with your virus. Some of them haven’t seen the terrible world in days. If you follow the same pattern, one more week should do it.”

“That’s great news. So I just have to hold on for a week?”

“No guarantees, but I hope so.”

Dale lay back on the bed, grinning, just as Julie returned with a plastic cup and a glass of water. “Here you are,” she said, holding out the rusted tin mug. No! Plastic cup, plastic cup, concentrate! The mug wavered, became the cup again. Dale took it and swallowed the pills even before Julie handed him the wooden goblet. Glass! Glass of water!

“It’s starting again,” Dale said.

“Don’t worry,” Julie said. “The pills will take effect in a moment.”

Dale looked into her clouded red eyes and fell asleep.

When he woke, Doreen sat beside his bed. With her red hair in a tight bun, her lips in a tight smile, she was pretty, but nowhere near as pretty as Julie. Still, at least he could see her, at least he wasn’t seeing some rag-clad monstrosity.

“Good morning, Doreen,” he said.

“So you’re awake. I’ll get your breakfast sent in,” she said, standing and walking to the door. She paused as she opened it. “I hear you refused your medication last night. I hope there’ll be no such nonsense on my shift.”

As if he would dare. “No,” he said. “I’ve learned my lesson.” He had a fleeting vision of her as a twisted, infected horror as she left. Damn, he thought, the hallucinations are strange today, flashing in and out. That hasn’t happened before. He would have to ask the doctor about that, ask if it had happened to the other patients, the ones who had recovered. An orderly brought his breakfast and he sat up to eat.

Doreen returned just as he finished. “Up you get,” she said. “The doctor wants to see you.”

Dale’s eyebrows rose. “So early? He doesn’t usually see me until the afternoon or evening.”

Doreen pulled the sheets back. “Well, today it’s the morning,” she said. “Don’t ask me, I just do what I’m told.”

Dale slipped his legs off the wooden bed and climbed into the sackcloth garment. He clutched his head. Mattress. There is a mattress. I’m wearing jeans and a shirt. He took a deep breath and followed Doreen out of the room, along the white bare brick corridor. Gloss-white paint overlaid damp, mildew-covered stone. Fluorescent lights fought tallow candles for illumination. Dale shook his head.

“What is it?” Doreen said. “More hallucinations?”

“Worse. I’m seeing both now, one on top of the other, like a double exposure.”

“We’d better hurry along to the doctor.”

Doreen propelled him along the corridor, past white-uniformed staff with faces ravaged by infection, past roughly-made wooden doors with frosted glass panels, into the doctor’s room. She hadn’t knocked. The doctor looked up, surprised.

“He’s seeing both at once,” Doreen said, guiding Dale to a chair and pressing him into it.

“Oh dear,” the doctor said. “This could be serious. You’d better get a sedative ready.” Doreen nodded and left the room.

“What?” said Dale. “What’s serious? What’s happening to me?”

The doctor frowned. “Stay calm,” he said. “It’s the virus. Your body is rejecting it, cleaning itself. How are you feeling?”

“Scared. And confused. You said I used to be a cook. I wasn’t. I remember – something. I remember a laboratory. I was a scientist, wasn’t I?”

The doctor played with a pencil then put it down abruptly. “Yes, Dale, you were.”

“I worked with viruses. This virus. I was infected. What was it, an accident?”

The doctor stood, his crisply-ironed sackcloth flashing white, then brown, his strong, wasted frame striding, limping, to the window. “It wasn’t an accident.”

“What do you mean?”

“It wasn’t an accident, Dale. You infected yourself deliberately.” The doctor turned to face him. “You infected the others first, then yourself.”

“No!” Dale stood, knocking over the wooden box he had been sitting on. “No. You’re lying.” His hands bunched into fists as he faced the doctor, then he felt a sharp pain in his back. Turning, he saw Doreen holding a syringe, her red hair becoming a mottled grey as his consciousness fled.

He could smell iodine. Forcing his eyes open, he saw that he was lying on straw, damp and foetid, in a bare room. With a groan, he stood and walked to the door. It was barred from the outside. “Hey,” Dale shouted, banging on the door. “Let me out.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” The doctor’s voice came through the door.

“Doctor? Is that you?” Dale paused. “I remember. You’re Simon.” He spoke slowly, dragging the words from the deepest pits of his memory. “Doctor Simon Morgan.”

“Yes, Dale, it’s me.” The voice wavered.

“You’re my brother.” Dale leaned against the door. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It would have interfered with your treatment. Your memories have to recover on their own.”

“Why am I locked up like this?”

“For your own safety.” The last word was choked off by a sob.

Dale could still smell iodine. He looked at his arms. They were thin and grey, the red welts oozing pus. The wound on his right arm, which had been full of maggots, had been cleaned and was stained yellow. That was where the iodine smell was coming from. Why had they treated it? It wasn’t real. He banged on the door again.

“Let me out, Simon,” he said, “I’m hallucinating again.”

There was a long silence. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes I am. I’m covered in sores and this room is vile. There’s only stinking straw to sleep on.”

Another long silence. “It’s not an hallucination, Dale. This is the real world.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is the rotten world of my hallucination. The virus—”

“The virus causes illusion and forgetfulness. Those infected don’t see the real world any more, and don’t remember it. They see the world as it was before the war.”

“What war?” There had been a war, he remembered vaguely.

“The final war. The chemical and biological weapons war. You were working on antidotes for the weapons, but you were too late. The war took us all by surprise. So you worked on a new virus. This one.”

“Yes, yes, I know. The hallucinations are all my fault. I need help now, Simon. I’m stuck in my hallucination.”

“No, Dale, you’ve lost your hallucination. Your body has rejected the virus, so you don’t have hallucinations any more. You’ll start remembering more soon.”

“What do you mean?”

There was a deep sigh from the other side of the door. “This is it, Dale. This is reality. The war killed most people and those few of us who survived are dying slowly, hideously deformed by the weapons that were used. Your virus is our only hope. It won’t cure us but it gives the illusion of normality, of cleanliness, of life before the war. The other patients are fine, they believe they’re in a clean, wonderful hospital in a beautiful world. We’ll begin injecting more people with the virus soon.”

“What about me? Why not just inject me again?”

“It won’t work, Dale. You’re immune now. The virus won’t work on you.”

Dale slumped against the door. “So what next?”

“Soon we’ll all be seeing the clean world of your hallucination. Thanks to you, your work, your virus, we’ll all be able to enjoy life again. Oh, life will still be short, but it’ll be better.”

“You mean everyone will see the illusion of a clean reality.”

“Yes. Well, almost everyone.”

“Almost?”

“Everyone but you, Dale. Everyone but you. That’s why I’ve hidden you here, to stop the authorities killing you as they did the others. Those who the virus failed to infect. I can never let you out. You represent too great a risk, the risk of remembrance.”

Dale sank to the floor, sobbing, as his brother’s footsteps echoed among the drips from the damp walls.

*******

fearcover

*That’s a cracking collection of short stories, Clicky… /smokes… sum times I fink the man’s on a nuvver plane…*

Dear Reader… Have a Song ❤

Adventures in Remote Viewing: Syncing Beasts

LAST TIME*No comments made yet on Cade’s missive, Clicky? …/flicks lighter…*

*Oh well… /lights up… we’d better get on with this shambles then… /drags…*

*/streams smoke… Leg-ion is a bit of a train a-fiction-ado, Clicky… /smirks…*

This week, Dear Reader, Cade and I remote viewed M. Night Shyamalan’s trilogy of movies, ‘Unbreakable’ from 2000, ‘Split’ from 2017 and ‘Glass’ which was released earlier this year…

I’d seen ‘Unbreakable’ back in the early Naughties on DVD. I thought it an entertaining enough flick, but nothing more. I admit I rolled my eyes back in January when I heard that a sequel was to be released, called ‘Glass’…

*Yeah, unbreakable glass, Clicky… /smokes…*

… But my ears pricked up earlier this week when I heard work colleagues discussing the performance of James McAvoy in a movie called ‘Split’…

… And I learned that not only is it set between ‘Unbreakable’ and ‘Glass’, but that it also succeeded as a “stand-alone movie”. That reminded me of a favourite book…

*No fucking way! …/flicks ash… That’s like a sync on steroids, Clicky…*

… Not the story told in the film itself, so much as the movie’s format and placement within the trilogy. Now, Dear Reader, I don’t know M. Night Shyamalan, but I do know the author H.K. Hillman…

Legs and Roob DM

… His first book, ‘Jessica’s Trap’, is about the construction of something unbreakable, and works as a complete, stand-alone story…

… Whereas his third book, ‘Norman’s House’, set 372 years later,  satisfyingly completes the tale. Glass is integral to it…

*/deep drag… Better get a Song ready to end on, Clicky… /stubs butt…*

… So, all in all, Dear Reader, I can thoroughly recommend the trilogies from M. Night Shyamalan and H.K. Hillman…

*Huh? …/scratches head… The Scottish play, Clicky? I suppose. James McAvoy comes from Scotland and Leggy lives there…*

… Have a Song…

*Ah, gotcha…*

 

Birthday LII: Sham and Shambollocker…

Today is my birthday, Dear Reader 😀 I am now officially 52…

Jack rolls ball to Danny

*That’s right, Clicky… /lights up… on the 25th… /drags… I got a fuckton of cards from the peeps at work… /streams smoke…*

* /smokes…*

… And that’s the number of letters in the English alphabet, if majuscules…

majuscule (n.)

1704, of a letter, “capital;” 1738 as a noun, “a capital letter,” from French majuscule (16c.), from Latin maiuscula (littera), fem. of maiusculus “somewhat larger, somewhat greater,” diminutive of maior (see major (adj.)).

*I love Pride & Prejudice, Clicky… /taps ASH…*

… are distinguished from minuscules…

minuscule (n.)

1705, “small (not capital) letter,” from French minuscule (17c.), from Latin minuscula, in minuscula littera “slightly smaller letter,” fem. of minusculus “rather less, rather small,” diminutive of minus “less” (from PIE root *mei- (2) “small”). It refers to the kind of reduced alphabetical character which arose 7c. and was from about 9c. substituted in writing for the large uncial. From it the small or lower-case letters of the modern Latin alphabet were derived.

As an adjective, from 1727 in printing, “not capital, of reduced form, small” (of letters); the general sense of “extremely small” is attested by 1893. Related: Minuscular.

*wait, what? …/squints…*

HHGTTG Towel

 */drags… Fanks, Clicky… /furrows brow… I fink… /blows smoke from side of mouth..*

*Okaaay…*

*Ha! Basically, that’s my story ‘BOGOF’ in Underdog Anthology Ate… /final drag… He’s lost a lot of capital this week… /plumes smoke…*

*The Ravin’ is all about Tessie Jackboots in Underdog Anthology Sics… /stubs butt… She threw in the towel, too… /yawns… Finally…*

*Minuscule sympathy felt for either…*

So, I’m not at all stressed at being 52, Dear Reader 😉

Her Be 53

*Shut up, Clicky…*

I’ll be home, on holiday all week, relaxing, so we’ll be dishing up more shambles and, hopefully, missives for your enjoyment 😀 Come back then and… Have a Song ❤