Flatscapes

I will make it all flat, flatter, flattest, pancake…

Piece by piece, smoothing out the little nonsensical spikes, the high-rises with which we attempted to outsmart the soil that brought us forward, the trees that forever fail to get close enough to the sun to reach a photosynthetic high, the little humanoids who haven’t been kissing any ground for ages (except for maybe a pope or two, but flatten them too, I say – there shall be no exceptions!).

The iron core in the centre of the earth is about 5400 degrees hot, but still I have cold feet. Your hoyty-toyty scientists might tell you these facts are unrelated, but then again, they’re insanely sexually frustrated, so they would say anything to get into your pants (or in this case, my socks! Damn those feet-fetishist physicists!).

I supplied the Board of Destructors with the idea of using the earth’s metal core to help speed up the flattening process. The idea was well received, because it would allow for a modern-day, planet-sized version of Pompeii, with all sorts of people caught in embarrassing positions. It could be a huge tourist attraction for visitors from other planets… Why? Well, the flattening process wouldn’t leave many of you alive, I’m afraid, and certainly not as potential tourists – but you guys had a good run, it was just turning a bit repetitive, so we’ve decided to go in a different direction.

For now, we’re still flattening everything manually. Filling up holes, waltzing over them with our bulldozers, pouring fresh concrete into every little gap we find. We’re craftsmen anyway. It might take us a little longer to flatten a city, but on the resulting flatscape, (which you won’t even get to see, you silly little mortal ones!) we’ve planned a massive game of billiards. That’s also something to look forward to for the next billion years or so.

If we get the OK to use the metal core (shareholders still need to approve it – formalities; you know the drill…), you will lie underneath the crispiest and smoothest eternal metal sheet. It’ll be the most perfect bed for all of you!

And I know what you’re thinking: “If you’re going to play billiard on top of our flattened cities, how could I then even be seen in my eternal pose by tourists visiting from outer space?”

The answer is simple: we’ll only keep the funniest and most embarrassing poses for eternity. So yeah, game on! Want eternal fame? Surprise me, bitches!

The Tickle

It’s quiet out. All the wants and needs of today have been filled, ignored, or postponed.
A slow wind crawls its way through the streets, bowing down before me, and I watch as it moves along, unphased by our brief and indifferent meeting.

A neutrino bangs against one of my particles, something it was never meant to do, a spark is ignited, and I am overcome.

And then my mind wanders away, unsure of where the journey will take me.

You’re a mess. Look at yourself. I can’t even count the holes you have in your socks any more! And why aren’t you wearing any trousers? Did you lose them again?! You’d lose your sorry excuse for a head if it weren’t so glued to your neck!

I never dreamt of working as someone who would tickle horses for a living. I actually don’t even know if horses are ticklish or not. Why someone would pay good money for it, is obvious: it’s a dangerous task – hoof to the head and you have a concussion for years – but, if successful, it must provide endless entertainment to the audience of tickle enthusiasts (who would also be into horse tickling – I dare you, Google it, and you’ll see it’s a fetish… Hmmm… Is that a bet I’d put money on? Guess not… I mean, I even found out why my cat gags and acts funny when she sees a metal tape measure – if that’s online… well…). They’re probably a sick bunch of people anyway. You wouldn’t want to associate with them. And it’s a tough job, don’t get me wrong! Respect for those who might do it! Eight hours bent over underneath a massive armpit basically sounds like the job of an average street worker. I guess you could also call that service “tickling”. I hope I’d get paid more as a horse tickler though, and NO, for my job description, the tickling is not of the same nature as the street worker’s kind (I know how you think). I’d never rape a horse, not for all the money in the world. That’s where I draw the line. Actually, the line is probably already clearly drawn way before that, but I’ll never tell. It’s best to let my audience think I might be some kind of menace. With principles, that goes without saying.

They may be reading along anyway. Or listening in on me when I talk to my distorted reflection in the shower. I do talk distorted as well, so my distorted Other can understand me, but I’m sure that They have some dedistortification equipment to translate my gargling. What if an alien race contacted us, and they all just gargled all the time. That would just be annoying.

Empty words control the territory. Plundering stopped because we chopped off their heads and sold the horses to a big farm in the country where they could live the rest of their lives in peace. I liked to believe that when I was still wearing nappies (after the accident last week… sad story, really).

Could you sell horses to a pig farm? Dress them up, dye them pink, scoop out the farmer’s eyes, then run away and take the money. Or tickle the farmer into submission.

Hi there, fellow traveller! Come back home with me – I’ll make you a fresh hot cup of mud!

Our kind, we have to stick together, you know…