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| Opening the door to the small office, tucked away in the bowels of a
grey industrial park at the edge of the Crossroads, I immediantly
stumble into a younger woman. She is thin and pale, embracing some
sort of rodent-looking canine, staring at me as she strokes its wirey mane.
Seated next to her is a forgettable young man, deep in the workings of an
outdated version of Windows on his decrepid PC. A mere foot away from
them, another desk, blanketed in indistinguishable clutter. The small,
weathered, woman perched behind the desk stands to greet me with a
confused look on her face. I shimmy past the first couple to shake her
leathery hand and introduce myself. I inform her that I am here for
some sort of interview. Still slightly puzzled, she beckons one of the
other servants to let Maria know that I have arrived, and apparently
have an appointment scheduled. I am instructed to follow one of the
servants through the corridors to meet my interviewer. As she leads me
through the inner-workings of the duplication room, I casually gaze at
the workers. Their faces covered with dark ink, their clothes grey and
dirty, and their faces vacant and tired. The noise in here is heavy and
intimidating. As we weave past various other workers, who appear
unaware of our existance, I am lead through a series of dark, empty
rooms. Finally, we reach a smaller, more cluttered room glowing with
the green hum of flourescent lights. I am introduced to Maria, the head
of the talent around here. We sit and try to begin our discussion, only
to be interrupted and shifted over a few feet by some angry thug. We
have a brief discussion about the demands of the available position.
During our interaction she looks at me with wide eyes, almost
frightened, and shakes her head as to warn me of the captors around who
have her volunterily trapped here. The two weasles assigned to work
with her pay no attention to our exchange, or the contents thereof. A
brief while later, she informs me that our discussion is over and that
she has to go. She frantically grabs some items, leads me back
through the small maze of bustle, deposits me back where I started,
then scurries away. Another woman, with whom I had met over the phone
lines, hands me a form to fill out and directs me to a vacant seat at a
large desk located in the adjacent room. Seated across from me is whom
I perceive to be the owner of this sweatshop. Seated next to him is
another weasle, his translator I believe. Scribbling my information on
the form, incorrectly remembering dates and numbers, I am interrupted
by the relic of a man that has just awoken before me. He leans
forward in his dying chair scrounging his desk for some morsels.
Successful in finding a brown paper bag filled with something, he
shovels debris into his mouth, drooling on himself in the process.
Another servant enters and mistakenly greets me as the legal counsel of
the sloth seated at the head of the company. He is quickly rebuked by
the ancient man, and inspires a rambling about the british legal system
acompanied with a unintelligable synapsis of an unknown film
which portrays this system. I juggle the task of listening politely to
the sloth, filling out my form, and reading the various letters and
accolades from a notorious cult, framed and dispalyed on the walls.
Making use of a gap in the mans coherency, I grab my belongings, hand
in my form, and thank the strange woman for her time. For a brief
moment, I pause, stare at the artists rendition of Jesus on a glazed
chunk of wood, and swiftly make my escape.
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| " When the whole world is bored with automated, mass-distributed, video music, our descendents will despise us for throwing away the best of our culture."
- Alan Lomax
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| As I waited in the storage container, Raymond finally approached. His delay largely due to the constant ringing of his phone. Queries into the route in which he plans to take to escape northward, where to stop, and who to rob. We dig through Howard's belongings, confiscating whatever fancies our eyes. Raymond, at first, is reluctant to leave with anything. I quickly remind him that if Howard really needed this crap, it wouldn't be a storage unit way out here in the Wastelands, and I certainly wouldn't have the key and code if it were really sacred to him. We fill our vehicles with loot, then move on to the dumpsters. Sifting through the dead bodies of retired entertainers and forgotten furniture. We happen upon a unfamiliar tool nestled next to a laminated photo collage. After briefly studying these oddities, Ray realizes that the stench is far too powerful to continue down the stairs into the bowels of the refuse. Closing the hatch, we silently escape past the dwellings of the lizard guards and swiftly flee the Wastelands. | | |
| Xanga
As space gets saturated with words, colors, sounds, and Ideas, I wonder if there will come a time when that space becomes oversaturated like an old, dirty sponge and simply rip open and disentegrate. Swallow all those floating thoughts and pictures, and stab them into another dimension. There they can begin to rot, awaiting our arrival. Upon which we shall fall to our knees, reach into the muck of disposed brain waves, and summon out some kind of mutated blob. Wipe the juice of the blob across our face, indulge in the entrails of forefathers and absorb all that was with the hopes that we can once again give rise to something new and wonderful. We must begin research for the interdimensional sidewalk at once. There, perhaps, exist beneficial combinations of words which ferment in the brine of 4-D. Sounds which have long been forgotten. Colors whose inspiring hues need to be seen by human eyes once again. Ideas which need to be spoken aloud once more. Maybe there is only crap. And quite possibly, that one sock which dissappeared in the wash.
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