Architectural Ficciones III – Manhattan Christmas 2235

I – Blue Skies in Bad Weather

“You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? Then who the hell else are you talking.. you talking to me? Well, I’m the only one here…”

Schism/interrupt, “What the fuck are you doing?” “Phishing…” “Funny… We have a situation.”

Some hacker thought it’d be funny to switch the annual ‘Holiday Cheer’ ambiance of Macy’s Square to ‘Arizona Summer.’ Now, a bunch of Black Friday freaks are bitching at the precinct for a beheading. Ya, a situation, just don’t care much.

“I’m on it.” “You better be.”

Pre-programmed weather, simulating seasonal cycles, so predictable you can sync your calendar to it. Beyond, the dome, already 7/8th consumed by the advancing Atlantic, a halo of sky hidden behind the artificial climate, visible only to tourists and the well-healed willing and able enough to pay for the real thing. Take the kids out to Elizabeth, NJ, through aquatic wastelands, Jersey City, Newark, succumbed for want of finance or care, to the beach, the sunset, a breath of unfiltered air.

II – Snow Globe

Vitamin E injector tubes and a sun room, cell filled with snow globes, old lead prints of fall leaves; test-tube seedlings, anticipating artificial spring. Reach out to touch cherry blossom, mid-cycle, pink and pliable, suspended labia, waiting… “What the fuck are you doing?” “Sorry.” “Don’t touch anything… Jesus! What the fuck is your problem?” “I said I’m sorry.” “Doesn’t matter. Say, say, say… What do you want,?” “I need information.” “Don’t care, not interested, go fuck yourself, and stop touching my shit, kapisch?” “Okay, how’s this. Give me information, or I touch everything in sight.” “Very funny.” Dangling ornate snow globe, drop, catch.

The tired eyes of the nominally sane, a futile anger with the world, no release, only the abasement of resignation, acquiescent impotence. “Fuck you.” “Information.” “I don’t know who done it… Maybe…” “???” “Maybe, scarier than you… you want it, take it. I’ll find more.” The snow globe falls, timeless, a collector’s piece, invaluable, water and metallic fleck skitter across the floor, fluvia of kitsch memorabilia. Falls to the ground, hands cupped to clasp what will not be caught.

“Nobodaddy,” more a whimper than a word; a sigh of inchoate acceptance.

III – Dirigibles Moring

Wind, the problem was the wind; when they tried to more, the wind was so strong, it struck their tethers. Brave new world, air ships, climbing towers, smashed with the twist of a wrist, in a subterranean loft, in a subaquatic city. No more might airships loft above the errant gaze of street bound peepers than the wind whistle through Manhattan’s handmade canyons. Nobodaddy, the not-so-gentle reminder that gods in human guise are little more than people pretending divinity.

Reinvent, adapt. Shedding, in an oceanic muck, fecund with rejected life. The old Empire, Woolworth, Flatiron; mythological buildings, warp and woof of the city. Crystalline towers, interconnected through roof-ways and mid-rift tubes, touching heaven’s open oculus, closing, like a pupil to sun’s light. Encased, awaiting drowning

IV – A Hard Rain

Monsoon season, esoteric riff, code. The Rockettes Christmas Extravaganza, fifth year running the old under-the-sea theme; fish-bowls on their heads, and the subsumed eroticism of flashing limbs, red leotards, with a fringe of white fluff and snappy smiles, suffocating. All mid-town waist-deep in rain run-off. Nobadaddy’s escalating.

Radical reincarnation of the old Anonymous network; manifestoes read like an incoherent mash-ups of Marx, anarchism, and digital populism, tempered with a hefty dose of bat-shit insanity; indecipherable; malcontent & pure contempt, garnished with a healthy smattering of ancient ideals, borrowed for legitimacy. A bestiary of esoteria. There is no end, but mayhem.

Last hacker rat got run down with a denial of service attack on his neural net; full frontal lobotomy. Unfortunate soul’s still drooling in some psych ward, spoon-fed and diapered, in a sea-foam green gown and bathrobe. Nobody’s talking; short straw, bad hand, shit luck, que serra serra; sobeit

V – The Idiot

Gabriel Dibbitts, 34, Caucasian, Eyes: Blue/Brown; Hair: Blond; Height: 6’2”; Weight: 172 lbs., looks twice as old and half as tall, crumpled up in a hospital chair, tubes running all through him, the vacant gaze of the recently departed. Hearsay, his eye went dark with his mind. “Hello Gabe, can you hear me?” “His hearing is fine,” says fat attending physician, plucking nose hairs. “Fuck. Off.”

“Look Gabe, we’ve got a situation.” “…” “Nobodaddy’s active again.” “…” “You’re the only connection.” “…” Fucking useless. Turns his head, slightly, like looking at two people, eyes akimbo. Bathrobe pocket, a fragile hand, bright red notebook. “Rr, rrhe, rea,” his thumping hand, haranguing the hard pages, a seizure of will.

The notebook is inscribed with the same symbols, over and over again, pages and pages. Gibberish, the psychic ghosts of the deranged; phantasmagoric utterings, a cypher of incommunicability. “It’s time for his nap.”

VI – Paradise Lost

“It’s Enochian.” “What the fuck is that?” “Angelic, so to speak.” “Can you read it?” “No, not yet, but it’s an alphabet, so in a day or two…” “We don’t have a day or two.” “Okay, give me a day, let me see what I can do.” “One day – one fucking day, that’s all you get. Got it?” “Yeah, no problem.

CEO Santas Pluck Their Own Eyes Out; catchy, muckrakers; bad press, police incompetent; horror show on 5th avenue, children screaming, all caught in Jacob Riis realism. Elves, assistants, store managers, a bad year for Wall Street swells and retailers. Cloisters within cloisters, all captors. Curfews, start unending, pending resolution.

“Noah.” “What?” “Noah’s ark, a world of sin drowned in the flood, the righteous, male and female of every kind. You know, Noah.” “What about it?” “That’s the translation, Old Testament shit. Noah.” “Clever.”

VII – NOAA’s Ark

That’s the protocol, the access point, old satellite networks, long dark, almost untraceable. Symbolic, discrete. Alchemical coders, messianic; Angelic script, old testament justice, whatever. Nobodaddy.

A slow snow descends, blanketing, deafening, buffering, expected. A Norman Rockwell Christmas, picturesque, behind all, a stage-set, the play going on, and an artificial sun beaming behind. Our own private snow-globe. Merry Christmas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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