Wednesday, November 7

who gets to die first?

well thank fuck all the boring expository set-up of the rest of my pointless life is finally over! i can't tell you how excruciating it is to have some encyclopedic setup... historical narrative... a narrator... some pompous bastard explaining to me what it is i have to get to getting done. from now on, i'm my own man. because what just occurred to me is that, if i have to kill an infinite number of other me's (minus 2, that is) is that it will take just shy of an infinite amount of time. woohoo... i've got most of eternity to spending perfecting my art. so no more interruptions of side missions or nested stories or nothing. unless of course i happen to come across a mathematics text about recursive time travel functions and end-up accidentally causing all the other me's (minus 2 that is) to spend the rest of their infinite time killing each other.

haha... i bet that never happens.

'so spajjy... how do we start?' i ask him.

'i gotta get inside you again.'

he stares at me,unblinking. the top right corner of his body puffs out a little gas.

it stinks.

'damn it.'
'would you rather i come in your mouth or your ass?' he asks.


'how do you want me to enter your body? i have to fill up your quantum interstices, and you only have two holes big enough for me to get in there... mouth and ass. frankly, i can't tell them apart, from the shit your spew.' spajjy says.

he giggles. more weirdly colored puffs of gas.

'fucking comedian. i've had enough of you raping my mouth. just climb up my ass. at least that way i can berate you while you do it.'

i see spajjy start to contort himself into a cone shape, compressing and compressing himself until he's barely the size of a fist. granted, the size of flapjack's fist, but still, better than eight feet of sponge ramming itself into your behind.

somewhere i hear the universe laugh so hard it sharts itself. 

it isn't so bad, really. i think back to a malfunctioning robo-doc and a childhood case of some exotic virus...i think it was when the spacemonkeys first showed up. the robodoc insisted that it couldn't take my temperature the normal way... with an infrared sensor. it kept forcing its probe into my behind. childhood. fuck it.

anyway... spajjy is in now. a voice rattles every fluid in my body. my sacs are singing.
'you ready... we're going to jump. randomly. let's see what's on the other side.'

i had hoped i'd have something really profound to say. something inspirational. something grand.
instead it's 'wait... wait... i don't want to...'

the first thing i notice is the sun. there is one. and it's overhead. directly overhead.

that means we are not on the station. we're on a planet

the second thing i notice is that it stinks of dog shit.

the third thing is that nobody is paying attention to me.

well... that's not that unusual.

the fourth thing i notice before i fully regain my composure is that i am in a city. a noisy, ugly, sunny, cold, dog-shit stinking city.

a brief jaunt through my poor knowledge of history let's me know i can only be in one place.

new york city.

sometime in the early 21st century before it became a tropical paradise of palm trees, sandy beaches, bankers and creative types thanks to the divine miracle of global warming.


'spajjy!' i think to my innards. 'are you there? it's me... me!'

'yes. what's up?' i hear from my bladder.

'whats up? what's up is why are we in the past?' i shout. as much as you can shout silently into your own quantum guts.

'i told you time and space are meaningless contrivances. in an infinite-minus-two recombobulations of the universe, there's bound to be a couple of them where you show up not in your own time, right?'

you can't fight logic. especially if you don't understand it.

'so i gotta find me here?'

'you got it. get moving.'

i start walking down the street. despite being attired for what would be their future, nobody gives a fuck about what i'm wearing. compared to most of them, i'm dressed normally. and judging by the fair number of people mumbling to themselves, i don't have to worry about accidentally speaking out loud to spajjy.

'where am i supposed to go?' i ask.

'just keep walking. i can't bring us to the exact right place, but you should be somewhere around you. take a look around. see if there are any places where you'd want to go yourself. that's where you'll be.'

i looked at the shops around me. some restaurants. some places with pictures of shitty apartments in the windows. and right next to it was a shop selling primitive sex toys.


i walk in. surprisingly cheery. a nice mixed crowd of perverts. good folk. i go up to the counter.

'excuse me. have i been in here today?' i inquire.

the guy behind the counter ignores me.

'hey... shitspazz. have i been in here today?' i re-inquire, politely this time.

the dude looks down from his stool and eyes me.

'you're hilarious,' he says, looking back to whatever he was reading. 'get the fuck out.'

i swipe a couple of dildos on my way out.

i stand on the corner with the dildos in the air, marvelling at the detail of the 21st century manufacturing process that creates such life-like veins on the things when, in a window across the street, i see myself.


a contemporary me.
which is to say a me from my time.
not a me from now
that is to say in the past.
if you see what i mean
and you probably don't
because i don't really understand it either.

but there i am, standing in some sad little apartment room, window wide open, drinking something.

good looking fella, i must admit.

i pocket the dildos and walk across the street, to find the entrance to the building.
there's a gate. and some crude panel with buttons on it and numbers. and names.

i look for my name on the list.

it's not there.


a little man on a bicycle, with a plastic bag full of something or other,  pushes past me and hits a button on the buzzer. he mumbles something into it that can only be code, and a garbled response from the speaker, followed by a short horrible squawking sound , the gate opens.

i have no idea what i witnessed.

in a minute, another little man, also on a bicycle, shows up, his own plastic bag in hand. the opera repeats itself.

then another. and another.

within 10 minutes, i've seen 30 men enter the building this way. all little men, all be-plastic-bagged, all on bicycles.

this gives me an idea.

'so i can do pretty much whatever i want here?' i ask spajjy, nestled deep in my duodenum.

'yup. this version of reality will cease to exist, so have a ball.' he replies.

just the answer i was looking for.

of the three dildos i swiped, one is tiny. the other unwieldy. but the third... the third is just right.
for what?
for knocking out the next poor bastard who has to deliver something to this building.
which is right about now.

he crumples. i take his bag and start jamming buttons and gargling into the speaker.

it works. i'm in.

i go up to the next door. i try again.

a cacophony ejaculates from the speaker. lots of profanity. lots of confused mumbles and shouts.

'glaglrjoiwhvorshshshshs' i say into the microphone

the door magically unlocks.

open sesame indeed.

the apartment was on the second floor. there's a staircase. i climb it.

people used to live like this? poor fuckers. i don't envy the me who is the me here. poor him. poor me.

by process of elimination i figure out which door is the door i need. because the first man who answers is dressed entirely in leather and looks like a serial killer. he was not happy about seeing me.

he also had a magnificent moustache which he was not happy about me commenting on.

the other door had no answer.

so it's door number two, ladies and gentlemen.

i knock.
behind the door i hear muffles, chairs moving, and a 'shut the fuck up if you know what's good for you.'

'who is it?' i hear my self say.

'uh... delivery?' i reply.

sliding deadbolts and scraping doors and i'm staring myself in the face. one of me, the other me, is very very surprised.
he's even more surprised when i smack him good in the face with my trusty phallus.

he's down.

i look at myself, lying unconscious on the floor of this shabby apartment. rubbed pale dirty wood floors, reeking slightly of old onions and stale beer. i look so peaceful down there.

for a moment i wonder if one day this is going to happen to me. open the door, see your doppelganger, a dildo to the face and the big sleep.

i suppose if you have to go, that's one way. not a very pleasant way. but a way, definitely.

'did you get it? ' i hear a shout from the other room. it's a man's voice.

'fuck spajjy... what do i do?' i think.

'that guy thinks you are you. kill the guy, hide the body and go talk to him.'

'where's the fucking food asshole?' the man in the apartment is screaming.

'shut the fuck up. i'm talking to the little man with the plastic bag.' i shout back.

'asshole.' is all i hear then some music gets a lot louder.

'how do i kill him?' i ask spajjy.

'strangle him. break his neck. love him to death. just hurry up.'

i kneel down and put my hands around my neck. this feels really really weird. this feels wrong.

but it's either me, or the universe. sort of.

his eyes open as i try to strangle him. i panic and thunk him in the head with the dildo again. his eyes close.

'spajjy i can't do it. i can't kill him.'

'fucking coward.' he rumbles inside of me. 'open your mouth.'

i comply. and spajjy erupts, projectile vomit style, out of me and covers the head of the other me. who starts to shake and convulse, as he suffocates. it looks awful. i'm not a big fan of this process.

he's still now. spajjy shimmers off his head and covers his entire body, absorbing the liquid into himself. i slurp my spongy buddy back into my mouth.

what's left on the floor is a dusty patch, pale grey,with little dune-ripples from the receding tide of our mutual absorbent friend. a tiny desert of my other self.

'where's the fucking food, you bastard?' comes gently floating in from the other room.

i try to speak, but it sounds like i'm gargling mud. i clear my throat.

'coming. coming.' i cough back.

plastic bag in hand, i go into the room. there's a man sitting in there, mid 30s, bearded. normal looking. he's sitting at what they hilariously used to call a computer.

he looks familiar.

'what took you so long?' he says, still staring at his screen.

there's electronics all over his long wooden desk. some posters, mostly obscene, hang on the walls. it's more like a nest than a room. cables are everywhere. the windows are dirty, greased and tarred from the endless exhaust off the street. he's sitting on a dining chair.

class act. but damn, this guy looks familiar.

'dunno. here's the food.' i hand him the bag. but something on a little piece of paper catches me eye. the name.

'thanks.' he says

i know the name. i know the face.

it's the fucking name of the bastard who's responsible for so much of the misery of my life.

and the face is mine.

'you ok? you look a bit fucked up. what's wrong with you?' the man asks.

'you're frizzant skint?' i ask, stupidly.

he looks up. and smiles.

'you're new here, aren't you?' he says. 'sit down. let's have some lunch.'

fuck. me.

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