CHAPTER SIXTEEN

WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

“Welcome to the jungle,” said the service bot on the other end of the line, “We’ve got fun and games, we got everything you want.”

The bot paused for the player to acknowledge the transaction, then continued.

“Honey we know the names, we’re the people that can find whatever you may need.” The menu appeared before the player so they could make their optimum selection from the service, and transferred the credits.

“If you got the money honey, we got your disease. Welcome to the jungle.”

“Stupid fucking bot.” the player announced, before sending a high pitched frequency down the line.

“Bzzzzt” said the service bot.

“Would you like fries with that?” They yelled into the reciever, everyone had a great laugh about that one, she fell for it every time.

They pulled the van around to the front of the small black glass building, and let out a battle cry before the driver put his lead foot down. They crew had entered the jungle in style.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE RING

He must have had a hell of a night, his head was throbbing like a cheap creation from a sci-fi B-movie. What had he done to himself?

Come to think of it, where was he? He looked around the dingy apartment and took a deep breath of the rank smell he’d instilled in his bachelor pad.

“Man, I gotta get a maid.” Maybe a nice latina one, he pondered. With a kinky outfit. He put it on his list of things to do when he hit the big time.

Grabbing a glass of water, well an empty can of water, he collapsed back onto the couch. He had forgotten something, what was it.

Gazing blearily at the coffee table, he saw his trusty bong and a nice big bowl of chop. That was it, brekky bongs, can’t start the day without them.

After a brekky bong or two, or three, he relaxed comfortably into the shaggy old couch and switched on the TV. Nothing on, as usual. So many bloody ads, even on pay TV, it was ridiculous. Soon they’d be advertising in our sleep, he chuckled to himself.

Wait. Something was not right. Something fundamental. He lept up and ran to the bathroom. He was shocked to find a stranger in there who seemed just as shocked to see him. Then he was surprised to find that the intruder was some kind of mime. Had he woken up in Quebec?

Slapping his forehead for being such an idiot, he realised it was just the mirror. He did a double take. Who was that *in* the mirror?

He froze solid, like a statue that had just realised it is a statue.

Who was he?

And what was that awful ringing in his ears? No wait, it seemed to be coming from the couch. Fishing around between the cushions he pulled out an old black ceramic telephone, fumbling to pick it up before they gave up.

They might know who he is.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

YOUR NUMBER’S UP, MR. ANDERSON

…Do you think he can hear us?

…He’s clinging on to the connection, he won’t be with us for some time yet…

…Pathetic actor.

…It’s not his fault, he grew up like this, we’re supposed to be helping these people…

…Well, all I can say, is you make sure you clean up the mess afterwards, missy…

Don’t call me missy, asshole.

…Ok, I’m trying his number again.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

LUCKY NUMBERS

“…and that’s about all we can report from the scene, Clark, back to you in the studio.”

“Thanks Lois, I’m sure more of what exactly has happened today will become apparent in time. Now we must all mourn the loss of these beautiful people.”

He turned directly to the camera.

“This has been the greatest tragedy the web has seen since the trekkies exodus got pulled into the sun, greater still because these people were really beautiful and we loved them.” He appeared to wipe a tear from his eye.

“Internic has made an announcement that they will bring these terrorist disassociatives to justice and cleanse them from our collective memory.” He coughed.

“And I’m sure we’ll all get a good night’s sleep after this is resolved. Take care, and good night Earth.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

REMORSE

“We are gathered here today, to mourn the loss of a great man.” The preacher played the moment for effect, giving sermons was his speciality, “A great man, who left us before his time.”

The gathered mourners wailed in unison, each picked specifically for their ability to mourn. They were clearly very upset, and rightfully so. The sponsors of this event had paid well for their tears.

“He made us laugh, he made us cry, he made us wonder why…” A traditional message usually inserted at the outset.

“Whyyyy?! Oh why did he leave us?!” The mourners cried.

“It was his time.” The paradox did not affect the mourners, nor the billions attending via telepresence. Time meant nothing now, after all.

“We laughed with him, we cried with him, and now we know why.”

“…now we now why…”

The sermon had ended, and everyone switched channels. It was time to party.

Unfortunately, another timer had been ticking away in the church. An old fashioned clock, attached to primitive explosive materials.

Melody stood up at the back of the sermon, whispered something towards the casket, and left the church sobbing.

The mourners were momentarily baffled at this, had she been given an exclusive mystery line in the performance? It was an unpleasant thought and quickly deleted.

As she wandered amongst the monuments of lives’ past outside the church, an inner peace flowed from her. The mission was a success.

She threw herself behind a gravestone.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND

Something was wrong. He was attuned to everyone around him, continually taking cues and sending prompts to keep his position at the top of the acting world. But there was something wrong. Furtively, he broke cover for a moment to see what could be causing the people around him to act differently.

Must be something outside his peripheral vision. He looked up.

There was someone waving at him from the roof of the embassy. A girl, waving to him.

With a large gun. She took aim, waved again, and the last moment of his life was filled with a loud noise that tasted like metal.

CHAPTER TEN

LOGAN’S RUN

Melody sighed as she watched Backslash from the roof of the embassy. He had so much potential, if only he could learn to disconnect and go with the flow. She shook her head, he’d never understand what she was offering. She barely understood it herself.

Today he’d skinned up as Ernie Dingo, a well known aboriginal actor from the 1980′s. He looked fine in his black skin and seemed to be in tune with the environment around him. She marvelled at the extent to which he could immerse himself in a character without emulating. He was a natural.

Still, she’d learned it was a tough life in the real world and sacrifices had to be made.

Looking through the sight again she wondered if anyone would understand what she was about to do. It didn’t matter.

CHAPTER NINE

DINGO STOLE MY BABY

It was the opening of the new Australian Embassy on Mars, Backlash had prepared especially to honour the country of his origin. For today’s performance he’d chosen an iconic aussie actor of the 20th Century, the one before he sold out and spent the rest of his life hosting lifestyle shows.

“Mr. Dingo, we’re excited to have your presence at the opening of our new embassy, is there anything we can do to make your stay pleasant?”

Backslash thought his guy might be making an “Are you being served?” play at him, so he nipped it in the bud.

“Thanks, I’m just glad to be here fella, be a mate and get us a fosters will ya? Cheers.”

The ambassador glowed from the attention from such a renowned actor, and scuttled away in search of the cliche of bad taste aussie beer.

He slumped into the waiting room easy chair and focussed on the web. Of course he had millions of emails again today, his botler took care of that for him.

“Jeeves, bring me my papers.” This was his customary greeting to his AI spambot, it liked it if he played along.

“Certainly sir, would you like the day’s personal mail?”

Jeeves delivered the daily news and the few missives sifted out of the junk. He was surprised to see one from Janet, his wife of ten years. She rarely contacted him unless it had been storyboarded with their production companies some time in advance.

Subject: It’s a boy!
From: Janet <janet101011101@gmail.com>
Time: 4:20pm
To: /

My love,

Rejoice for we have recieved the gift of life, a bouncing baby boy!

He is 100% compatible with the web and will live a full and happy life.

We will all love and cherish him.

Yours Truly,

Janet

* this is an automated message sent by Gladice, if you would like to cease recieving communicae from Janet, please unsubscribe here *

Backslash paused for a moment and chuckled at Janet’s affection. Only she would think of sending an automated message at a time like this, she was so sweet. Life was good to them.

For just a second, he wondered who had given birth to their son.

Then he deleted the memory.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Breakfast at Tiffany’s

Life couldn’t be better. The previous day’s performance had guaranteed her a place in the upcoming reality epic, “All My Life”, and John was playing Ben Affleck for her. The affectionate and intelligent character, not the vacant talentless embarressment that the infamous actor became shortly after his career began.

“I love you so much.”, he blubbered, “You’ve brought another life into our family and I couldn’t be happier”. He put his arm around her and snuggled.

She was playing the midday movie satiated new mother, although she was seriously considering a jaunt into a post-natal depression play. That always went well in the ratings with her characters, and besides John’s Mickey Rourke bad guy just loved beating on her when she did that.

Life was good, everything was playing smoothly and life couldn’t be happier.

Tiffany fluttered her eyes at her beau and signalled for a pause.

“John… I know we’re doing so well with our work, and we’ve built up quite a nest egg for ourselves, hun…”

He knew where she was going with this, and fell into playing the goofy 1980′s new father.

“That’s right my love, we’re set to really make a life for ourselves now!”

Gazing off into the distance, it occurred to him that she hadn’t returned the play.

“My love?” He thought he might be actually worried. That was new.

“I… I’m not playing any more John.”

John became a young man again, she so rarely saw him naked now they were so successful.

“Tiff? We decided on our play when we got married, is something wrong?”

“John… I… I just can’t go on…” she wept uncontrollably, “It’s about the baby, John.”

The play was unsure, he didn’t know how to respond to this lack of common courtesy.

“Tiffany, you’re scaring me.”

She stops crying abruptly and looks red eyed directly at the eyes she’s loved since she first saw him at rehearsals so many years ago.

“It’s… yours.”

“Oh my… god.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

SLEEP

Drifting with the others through the expanse felt so natural it was as if humanity were meant to be living like this. There was an old joke that was passed around that you had to read in reverse to understand the feeling.

“It’s unpleasantly like being drunk.”
“What’s so unpleasant about being drunk?”
“You ask a glass of water.”

Disassociatives weren’t the antisocial subculture that was proclaimed on the news nets, far from it. They spent their spare time swimming through the backwaters of the web, the expanse affectionately named the interweb after the slang used by the underground internet culture of the naughties. At heart, they were old school hackers, but to be a hacker in a world where life itself is the web is to be an outcast from the norm.

So they flowed through time like krill in the ocean, barely paid attention to by the ego obsessed mainstream for the past several hundred years. To the average avatar the dissassociatives were an unpleasant smell at a sunday picnic. A picnic held as an after party to the biggest rave party in human history.

For these people had the unfortunate genetic flaw that caused them to think for themselves, to be creative, to be individuals. It would be hard to pick them from a crowd, yet meeting one face to face would be an experience that most have deleted from their memory. Ghosts in the game, playing for no-one except their childhood dreams, innocent yet without the naivete of the connected populace.

Despite this almost mutual seperation, the disconnected have become driven to free the mainstream from their shackles. The world is the oldest friend of the popular, it rejoices at their birth and mourns their death. It comforts them in times of hardship, congratulates them on their achievements, and helps them forget what they do not need to remember.

The disassociatives do not have the option of deleting their memories. They sleep. Dream. Plan for the new world order.

It was a pleasant dream.