An Over the Edge tribute

He had become dependent upon a network of ageing computers to calculate the numerological significance of this and that. He feared the inevitable day they would all crash simultaneously (as the numbers had showed him).

She’d bought the sunglasses in a vintage store. It was only when she got out on the street and put them on she discovered that they allowed her to peer into the past. Street scenes from Al Amarja twenty years ago. Scenes from the 40’s and the coup against the fascists. It was pretty far out.

The ritual seemed to have failed. No one showed. No treasures or new personal qualities were distributed. It didn’t smell of sulphur. The lights in the room didn’t dim slightly. Nothing manifested in the mirror. The temperature didn’t fall. What Lina didn’t notice was the large, red flower that was growing on her back. She just noticed an infernal itching.

They made love in the shadow of the columns. Drank wine to the sound of harps. Contemplated the waves of the Mediterranean from a white porch with a view across Skylla. Told each other’s fortunes in the tarot cards and gazed at each other with frightened glances at the precision of the fortunes told. Whispered of The Temple of Love, a labyrinthine structure that in ancient times lay here, luring hapless wanderers in and devouring their bodies and souls.

The telepathy lamp has a bright light which may damage the retina. Leaves the eyes cold and grey after exposure.

The Devil was captured a long time ago. He is kept in a basement below Freedom City, where he is regularly tortured. His blood is kept in vials on the shelves, and sold to the highest bidder. Getting high on devil’s blood is said to be the ultimate in drugs. I wouldn’t know.

Quirk is a new social media of the web 3.0 variety which runneth over with rants, flamewars, metaphysical speculation and wild conspiracy theories. Most of the population on the island are members, and access the network from their smartphones or other, more advanced, gadgets.

A wave of sufi terrorism swept across the island in the early ‘00s. Mystic bombs going off in the shopping malls, spreading madness and confusion. The «powder letters» enthralling people, hypnotizing them into the service of the Black Hand terrorist organization. The Genie massacre of 2001. The Evil Eye Incident of 2005. The scars run deep, and the parapsychological and occult surveillance has been heavily increased as a result of these events.

The new bookstore specialized in apocryphal literature. The Letters of the Antichrist were especially popular these days.

He received a Snapchat from his favorite girl, only to discover that it depicted a hideous demon from the abyss. «How quaint», he thought to himself.

Only the richest, most elegant guests were invited to the screenings of Pandora’s dreams, in the ancient Cinema down by the harbor. She was hooked up to the thought projector, and then the show would start, her fantasies, memories, dreams and imaginings projected on the silver screen.

Ron Jeremy’s astral body was caught in the stasis forcefield surrounding the Crypt of Tomorrow. Only his cock had penetrated the barrier, and he tried in vain to use it to manipulate the ancient machinery within.

The Voodoo doctor approached the task of cursing the businessman with his usual thoroughness. He went to the market and bought hens, rum, flour and a sacrificial bowl. Banished the evil spirits. Waited until darkness by the Tree of the Slaves. Went to work.

The burly Viking Warriors at the back of the bar were always reciting the fucking Haavamaal. Leif was the worst. Lars was more of a quiet type. Lasse knew the verses by heart. Leopold, the gay Viking, seemed to make the verses up as he went.

Buzz is the latest drug-craze in The Edge. It’s like injecting yourself with a pop melody. Symptoms can be «twerking» while your head is filled with the sounds of baby-love, baby-love, baby-love.

 

Advertisements
Dette innlegget ble publisert i Lektyre, Rollespill, Skriveri, Tanker. Bokmerk permalenken.

Ett svar til An Over the Edge tribute

  1. Matthijs sier:

    They thought there was nothing she could do. They had memed her, and now she was all over the Quirk, in different versions. SmilingPenguin version. HonestMonique version. It was true that she could no longer control the actions of all her avatar nodes, each of them a simple copy of her personality. But the virus she’d put inside herself was spreading, too. Mutating. She could feel the Quirk around herself. She was in it.

    She was looking at him through cheap sunglasses. Judging when it was time to drop the bomb. But he just kept talking on and on, and there was little time. «Listen», she said, «I’m pregnant.» He tensed. «Really?» She leaned forward. «No», she said. «Sorry. I just needed a reading from you to give to the K.» She smiled. «Really, sorry about that. But you know how it is.» He looked down into his coffee. «Every goddamn month», he murmured. «Every month.»

    There were five of them, slouching on the couches, sharing the controllers. Playing NP5 on the box. The censored version, of course. D’Aubainne didn’t like the violence and the blatant U. S. propaganda inherent in the original. The Department of Historical Defense had re-skinned the whole thing. Each player got a Freedom Fighter, defending the island from Nazi invaders using Dim-scramblers. Fictional technology. But a friend of Fakhra claimed she’d seen a Dim-scrambler in her father’s apartment once, when he was drunk. «It was just lying there», she said, «on the floor.»

    «Oh yes», the long-haired guy says, «we were something back then. A lot of them were afraid of us, mostly because we used to confuse the hell out of them.» He sips his vegetable juice, squints at the sun through his glasses. Aging hippie, she thinks. Way past his prime. «But you know, that was then. Now it’s all and and back three up over by ground aura experience…» His words go on. Just a guy talking. Saying words. Suddenly she ‘s aware she has to go. She writes the password with a thin finger in the ketchup on her plate. Walks out. Tries to tip the waiter with one of her shoes. Hails a stray cat, yelling «Taxi!» The long-haired guy rises, calls out to his dogs, walks away slowly. Squinting at the sun.

    The middle-aged Indian woman is staring at the sea, where a storm is forming. Her secretary is taking notes; her bodyguard is looking scary, tough, dangerous. «We need to stop this», the woman says in a calm voice, hardly audible over the sound of the wind. «Can’t have all this change. Contact Mrs. Callisti and ask her for access.» The secretary, a young and eager man, nods. «Access to…?» The woman sighs. «The weather satellites. We need control, Robert. This rising chaos is no good.» The secretary nods again. «Control, got it.»

Legg igjen en kommentar

Fyll inn i feltene under, eller klikk på et ikon for å logge inn:

WordPress.com-logo

Du kommenterer med bruk av din WordPress.com konto. Logg ut / Endre )

Twitter picture

Du kommenterer med bruk av din Twitter konto. Logg ut / Endre )

Facebookbilde

Du kommenterer med bruk av din Facebook konto. Logg ut / Endre )

Google+ photo

Du kommenterer med bruk av din Google+ konto. Logg ut / Endre )

Kobler til %s