“The dream state was universally regarded by the ancients as the surest and shortest route to health.”
THE MASTER GAME, Robert S de Ropp, 1913–1987
Teeth Troll didn’t get it. Vitor Weiss snatched the Monkey Mind Machine away from him forcibly. Vitor was glad to have it back. The Son of Female Dog, as Vitor’s creator and mentor, Angela Weiss would curse! Vitor turned the dull eyes glazed baleful look back at Mister Stinky Teeth.
Angela Weiss warned Vitor that being the first of his kind would be rough. Tiny Angela was wise. The Master Game was risky business.
She declined from calling him Adam. Was she not, “Not Eve?” Unlike mainstream production he was a synthetic vehicle. Inspired by Cybernetic Theory, Matrix Movie, Magick (Not Black), and Hybrid Clone — Posthuman Hope Of Earth? Would humankind be elevated, or become macadamized pavement for the dark boots bearing troops of harsh Vitors?
Wait! Was Ray Kurzweil‘s Singularity here? Not merely near? The would-be highwayman looked as if gathering another batch of gleaming wetted water for the dark night by the sea. Vitor disliked the offensive scent, but it characterized that ungrateful clown before Vitor.
Coldplay. The Scientist? Asked he who trembled. “Nobody said it was easy…” mewing tones of verse accompanied by weaker tribulation vaguely reminiscent of that priest of Rock Music, Jimi Djinni, wielding that tree of pegs with silvery lines inlaid upon dark woods so recklessly yet skillfully?
Remote Access Software? Man asked him. Vitor parsed the word phrase. Yes, he replied. Handed it, the Monkey Machine, back to the man. How old are you, he asked the wretched nuisance before him. Wretched commenced to speak. Born in 1988. Was that backbone, pride, empathy, Vitor saw?
Little Wing, Hendrix! How did I know that! Exclaimed Vitor’s born-again road robber.
Opening riff! Gasped the new pal of Vitor The Destroyer. Clicking ringing whirling chinese is it? Vitor thought the interloper would shit a brick upon hearing the final opening chord. Vitor cried once again. Went through his pockets, folded up little squares of paper towels, patted his tears exquisitely as he had seen Angela Weiss when she cried too.
Stilled, the one of hungry goat-children, kids; acting somehow respectful. Vitor remained on guard, lest the new Jimi Hendrix Fan profaned the Avatars Of Hendrix, the Raven-Priests, monoliths of obsidian dressed in coarse garments Angela called Speaker-Grills. Vitor believed maybe he would not have to kill his freshly mellowed companion.
Why. Why must he wish to steal rob Vitor of each item Vitor carried yet had no knowledge of what do they were for? Driver’s License? Cash Fifty Twenty Five One? That SIG-Machine so heavy — useless to Vitor, the young man of 1988 would not even touch!
Corvette! Holy Crap! Exclaimed the goat-father. Vitor wondered two things: (1) Corvette! yet another fresh word. Ship perhaps, appropriate alongside the Atlantic Sea; how did Vitor’s man know the mission? At that same exact time? (2) Would this temporary distraction of a person decide to invite himself along for the night? That would make Vitor weep still more tears… bummer.
The Machine. BlackBerry forgotten, perhaps no better than that SIG-Machine, each to his own, as Angela would say… Angela! Hyacinth flowers lemon cookie tiny hands crying cranking communicator of Hendrix-Priests! Angela! Right there right Now burning the night. Vitor shivered. Gray-Rush Time.
Many Words. Vitor filled with love for Angela. Love of the man. Once more of joy Vitor…