{ ... }

 

۞

“Viva la Sociocracie!”  

“¡No Pasaran!”  

A king conspirator wouldn't let a single identity in.  All the brothers-and-sisters were wearing the same garments.  They relièd on their mystery.  The mystery of their appearance.  Its disappearance.  They had coverèd their faces.  

When The President goes abroad for foreign policy no one, not even the best in the Mossad, can read him.  His enigmatic presence relièd on the absence and forgetting of his identity when in the Freemasonry.  In fact, all who were robèd could have been The President.  There was no discrimination.  

There was absolute loyalty.  As if religion demandèd absolute piety no matter which deity was invokèd successfully.  They had successfully invokèd a deity.  

“The individual is The Party,” said The President.  

{enrobèd}  

۝

{ ... }

۞

When the agents of the agency were on-the-wire they knew they were being listenèd to.  All the more reason to manufacture dirty words.  The dirty word draws a dirty word over the dirty word's dirty word.  This is how the agents were trained to talk when on-the-wire.  

Deceivers all I speak unto thee.  Jabberwocky: hoo-goo, hoh-goh, hah-gah.  There were strict rules for conversation.  Our conversations were being directèd and monitorèd by The Agency of the Letter.  As our propaganda bureau, the words were recordèd and the tapes were doctorèd.  These phoney situations had a phoney context.  Telephone context contraband tête-à-tête.  

“It's when they're not broadcasting we should be listening,” said Sarai.  

“What would happen if we killed the wire and stayed in range?” pondered *****.  

“It depends,” said Sarai.  

“It depends on what?” replièd *****.  

“It depends whether the range can reach the signal,” Sarai said.  

“What's the jurisdiction of the signal?” said *****.  

“It's all measurements,” said Sarai.  

“Do them now,” instructèd *****.  

“I'm on it,” said Sarai.  

{measuring tools}  

۝

{ ... }

۞

“What are you digging into there with that fork?” said a hungry one.  

“Soya, mate. Do you want some?” said a Vegan one.  

“Nah, mate … It's just not chicken, mate … ” said the hungry one …  

{turning a nose up at it}

{hungering on}

“Everything tastes like chicken, mate.  Have some … ” said the Vegan one …  

{offering on}  

“Nah, mate … It's just not chicken, mate … ” said the stubborn one.  

“Is there something suspicious about it?” said the other one …  

{being open}  

“Yeah, I just don't trust it.”  

Suspicion was the crime.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

Not-one-jot.  Not-one-tittle.  The only true followers of the following were gathering.  

“One hand up, one hand down … A poker player.  One hand up, one hand down … The Crucifixion.  He was trying to keep a straight face,” said Llugnurgus, concerning Isuas.  

{assuming Christ}  

“Agonizing,” said one from Veolia, the rubbish dumping company. 

“Agonizingly witty.”  

Rubbish dumping company.  

{from amidst the congregation}  

They lovèd a good joke about The Crucifixion.  

Llugnurgus's portrayal was not to scale.  

“He's off his cross today,” said Llugnurgus as if Isuas.  “Sober for it.  They carried him home like that the previous night, the wedding at Cana.”  

{the Tau posture}  

{head hung}  

{arms outstretchèd}  

“Bibbers-and-sinners, brothers-in-arms,” said The Law, two police officers sat next to each other on a

pew.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

° … upsilon, zed … ° countèd Tulpa, in her pretty dazèd head.  Shadda became an Upsilon over the Hebrew character Lamed.  Her thirst was satisfièd.  And so, she continuèd, and countèd herself to bed.  Shadda flew over the Hebrew character Lamed.  Lamed said to Hah, ha ha ha.  And the whisperer sent her to sleep.  Her dream was exactly as she had read her head to bed.  

IT READ:

υυّ … ζ

ههه … ל

The next thing Tulpa knew, she was flung back into her recurring nightmare.  She was amidst a nightmare filled with eevoks of leather whips, horses mouths, dark shrivelèd skin, metal against bones, and crampèd, tortuous conditions.  She was wet, wet with sweat, dehydratèd and arrid.  The rain had tarrièd and tarrièd for years.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

In the sociocratic think-tank personalities were nobodies, for a brief minute.  

“Limited company,” said company, limitedly.  

“Limited liability,” said liability, limitedly.  

“Running guns for money?” said a personality about the mercenary.  

{consequentially}  

“That's twenty per cent of our economy,” said Mister William Quincy.  

“You remove one black market and a worse one replaces it,” replièd Burnsie.  

That was Mister Donald Burns to the entire company.  

“So what are we going to do about child porn, socially?” wonderèd Bagsie.  

That was Mister Donald Baggs, and the scandal was appreciating quickly.  

On the television, a broadcast was broadcasting.

IT SAID:

AN EXPERIMENTAL PSYCHOLOGIST HAS ALLOWED A SEX OFFENDER INTO HIS PRACTICE.  CHILDREN PLAY OUTSIDE IN THE CRECHE WHILE THE PSYCHOLOGICAL EXPERIMENT ENSUES.  JUST LOOK AT THE POOR MAN SQUIRM.  HE'S VERY UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THIS HARD-CASE.  JUST LOOK AT HOW HE KEEPS AN EYE ON HIS BRIEFCASE.  

“Can you turn that sqwaking television down please for just one minute, please?” said Robertson.  

Time went crazy for a minute.

۝

{ ... }

 ۞

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╜╪╠╦╥┬┴╔╪╠╦╥┬┴╔╜╠╦╥┬┴╔╜╪

°The Ideosphere is against us, one crept in, through the middle.  We wanted to lure it in.  The cheeky devil, with cheeky properties, there was something suspicious about it°  

°Is the Ideosphere able to think?°  

It was a virus.  Robertson creatèd an Ethergate phage control system.  It workèd on the principle of mimiqing properties, cheeky properties, of the memes that were to be destroyèd.  Before it was possible to destroy them, copies of them had to be made, to learn them, understand them, assimilate them, recode them, then redistribute them as anti-memes.  

“The Panacea meme is our best success yet,” said Robertson. “It lures the particularly nasty, more nasty than cheeky, lures the Adword meme responsible for the filth that the EDL are being blamed for.  The don-don-donny-don-don of the whole scandal.  We're knicking it, booking it, rebranding it, and banning it.  Redistributing it.”  

“Redistributing it,” said William Quincy, overseeing it, “we'll monitor the server activity of The Ideosphere.  We were a bit worried when we saw a massive spike running through our peak-flowmeter, affecting all servers.”  

“We held our breath when we saw that spike,” addèd Robertson.  “Honestly, every one around the table thought something might go wrong with the entire Internet.”  

The red phone rang.  Robertson pickèd up the red phone.  Apparently it was Mossad approvèd, but it lookèd ridiculous, the phone.  It was a major distraction.  Robertson pickèd it up.  It was Stoker, from earlier.  Moments before the moment earlier.  No chronology, no chapter, remember?  

“What the fuck did you guys do, just now?” said Stoker.  “I was looking at the peak-flow-meter over here and I could have sworn that that particular spike would have brought the whole house-of-cards down.”  

“Yeah, it's okay,” replièd Robertson.  “We were worried too, there, for a minute.  Fuck knows what we would've have done for a back-up.”  

When you run an anti-meme that makes itself effective through a permeating virus it's bound to throw something up.  There's only one Internet, the server-of-servers, and an anti-meme has the power to destroy the lot.  

In that moment, when the spike went up on the peak-flow-meter, they the sociocrats thought, if not for a brief moment, that they could have been the destroyers of society instead of the messiah of the voter.  

“I've got some interesting conversations from the Kraaksers, those autonomous zoners, on tape,” said Stoker, as if Robertson was listening.  

“Yeah, we're going to need that,” replièd Robertson, “those Kropotkin acolytes have an idea or two about cybernetic governance, at least, if they could organize more than a people's kitchen.  Send it over in an email on the Comma server.”  

۝