Samsa makes his move and doses on more stimulation. In all his dreams he’s being happily nullified by the forces outside himself. His polymorphous perversity entitles him to multi-orgasmic experiences full of gushing organic juices filling the mouths of babes. These sexual proclivities are being broadcast live via satellite to all free countries around the globe. Sometimes he sees himself in old reruns playing the role of preeminent rock and roller who gets any chick he wants. Right now his latest music video is being seguewayed into the MTV rock-around-the-clock rotation. He’s a Love God, a carefully created icon who knows how to manage his entrepreneurial hustle.
All of a sudden the simulated experience of being someone who he’s not becomes too much to handle. He wakes up and finds himself strapped to the bed. CIA bugs inserted in all his organs he’s being read by every amateur critic the bureaucracy produces. An authoritarian voice comes blaring through the multi-national superstate’s implanted speakers. It says:
“Wake up Samsa, it’s time to go to work!”
His whole body shakes as the new pop anthem plays its catchy phrases and unforgettable hooks forcing him to get his ass out of bed so that he can crawl to the shower.
“This early morning wake-up call is being sponsored by . . .”
The daily news comes blasting from the speakers in perfect comedy shtick delivery although the announcer (whose voice may not be real) doesn’t wait for his laughs:
“The swollen slobbering hierarchy rams its pusillanimous predator into her automotive concave and bureaucratic love codes get tapped on her nymphomaniacal wires.
The frequency rate increases exponentially as she goes down on me and then after swallowing the entire Big Board immediately opens up her legs allowing all potential USA-dollars to get distributed throughout the fiber optic network.
According to The State Department, the reactivation of certain buzzwords in cellular biophonetic theory will now lead to an epidemic of epidermic needle infiltration inside most GM cars despite earnest attempts by GM to recall all hairy ignition switches and flaming clit revolvers that have been known to rev up potentially explosive pseudo-political transmissions.
In Tokyo, lubricants of total immersion cause labia lips to squeeze.
U.N. Peace Command sanctions fossil fuels while antediluvian tongue spills its Bedouin drool. As black spittle seeps out from her cut gums, a call to war has apparently recast the rhetoric of appearance.
Meanwhile, inflation slips inside the back door and brutally drills her ass for more crude. An expert on continental cornholing says domestic reproduction is at an all-time low and that all turtle-snappin’ pussy wasting away in the Texas region is now on alert for possible remission. Dormant Dora Denaturally was quoted as saying ‘all you boys better git ya selves on down here cuz I’m achin’ for the takin’ . . .’
Gushing diarrhea at the mouth leads mad dictator astray while laymen spray chemical by-products all over the Situationist’s anarchic exhibition. The National Council On the Arts claims 45 casualties and says ‘if this doesn’t effect Dow, nothing will.’
An apocalypse of orgasms beads the air while the flames of femme-fatales flee in terror.”
Gregor simulated his death by going back to the typewriter and making things up as he went along. He spontaneously created himself while simultaneously undoing himself so that what you had left was a transient glow, a wafer thin line of desire dressed up in the latest perspiration-wicking athletic wear Amerikan money could buy. He was no longer an outcast. He was Down and In, Up and Coming, Off and Running. He was all Presence. A thought was rolling through his head: let it be first of all by their presence that objects and gestures establish themselves . . . He took a deep breath. The typewriter was buzzing with action, inviting him to join in the fun.
Technology was shooting him right between the eyes. Christmas was just around the corner and his mother was going insane trying to light the menorah candles. She ended up setting the Hanukkah bush on fire and Gregor, watching old reruns of The Sonny and Cher show, ran to her assistance.
“Oh God,” said Gregor.
The burning Hanukkah bush spoke back to him.
“Please,” said the bush, “don’t give me that God crap, just get the fire extinguisher and put me out of my misery.”
Gregor went in search of the readily accessible fire extinguisher but it was nowhere to be found. His mother, meanwhile, had run from the Miami Beach condo in hysterics. She was in a tattered peach bathrobe with an ancient schmata on her head. Gregor, looking out the sliding glass door at the back entrance to the condo, saw his mom run uncontrollably toward the swimming pool. She was picking up speed as she approached the water and for some ungodly reason, she kept going at full speed when she hit the water so that she ended up running across half the pool’s length before allowing the better part of herself to take over and sink her into the deep end.
She didn’t know how to swim. She had lived in Miami Bitch all her life but swimming was out of the question. Are you kidding? That would mean she’d have to get wet. Why get wet when you have showers for that? Or so the logic went. But there was no logic gonna save the yenta from drowning so Gregor, forgetting about the burning bush as it spread to the sofa and the Lay-Z-Boy chair, ran out to save his mom from a death spiked with chlorine.
He dove into the pool but his mom was gone. There was a floating life-size mom made of plastic. He pulled the dummy mommy out of the water and without thinking ran with it back to the condo. His adrenalin was flowing so intensely that it started slowly seeping out of his penis hole. Soon his adrenalin was literally pouring out of his penis hole so he pulled off his shorts and on instinct forced the gushing penishead into the dummy mommy’s mouth where an opening the size of a wooden nickel suddenly appeared. Once the dummy mommy was filled with his adrenalin he then started spraying it on the fire. He didn’t put the fire out but he did manage to contain it until the firemen came bursting through the front door and finished the job.
“What exactly happened,” asked the fire chief once the fire was completely out and the charred remains of Gregor’s existence blew around the place in a warm sea breeze.
“I don’t have any idea,” said Gregor, “I don’t even know where this place is.”
Transient hypestar feeding off the quick-change scenery of somebody else’s memory gone blank, G left the typewriter and went out for a swim. Later he’d go to the mall and finish his Xmas shopping.
Somewhere in Boulder, Colorado, his sweet sister, the tainted Barbarella, painted her way back onto his canvas-mind and he told her her timing was perfect. She seemed less timid then the last time he saw her. Apparently she had just gone to see his experiential psychologist. When Gregor asked her if Quasar, the experiential psychologist, assisted her in finding her roots, Barb simply stated that Quasar was emphatically doing nothing of the sort and had, in fact, deregulated the level playing field so that Barb could create a whole new network of underground wiring to feed off of. Gregor nodded in understanding.
She was lush and lucid. The snow she dripped in was glistening on her face, God’s icy come melting both in her mouth and in her hands. She wasn’t really dressed for the weather. Some unforeseen arctic blast had collided with Gulf of Mexico moisture causing severe upslope conditions. It was one of those days when you wondered what the fuck you were doing in such an unpredictable environment and cursed the day you moved here. But Barb’s barbaric beauty and easygoing headtrip made things better. Much better.
“My eyes hurt,” she said to her older bro. “Would you gently massage them for me?”
Gregor’s response was ineffable. An erotic sign language using only the tip of his tongue. Running through the letters of the alphabet, he flicked his budding red nerve over her eyes. In this senseless tracing of instantaneous ecstasy, he purveyed enough love-energy to ignite the surface tension laced across her body. The near-fractal lacework that had somehow made her entrance seem so strong and stable was now coming apart at the seams. Seems as though his sensual dynamic, totally out of his control and part of his physical make-up, was conscientiously turning her aura of aggression into an endless string of orgasmic opportunities. The pin-plug method wasn’t out of the question but they both preferred utilizing the mechanism on batteries. It was good practice. In case of emergencies. Was this an emergency?
Gypsy mouth traversing the parent culture in absentia.
Immediate realignment with previous vestige of erroneous self zoning out on liquid dementia.
Psychopharmokinetic reaction to the sun reflecting off the snow while he simulates a rock and roll self catching rays inside the beach of her viscous fluid.
THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT FRANZ BUILT.
Psychotic energy transforming the self into a living pest.
Indigents indigenous to the area being scrawled on the wall.
He crawls on top of her.
Mutters the words gimme shelter.