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Worse than having nothing to say is too much to convey with no words.
A leftover cadence goes write down the line of stunting my growth with these spurts.
Their circular angles from platforms and pulpits are free to be purchased with angst,
But my leaving the branch of an empty paper is a riddle that’s rooted in vains.
This amateur prose is a boast I suppose of dichotomous-forming intent:
A rhyme intervention that’s mining a mind sure to be making no cents.
The most I can do is the least I distill while I’m drowning from drought in my fable.
I wish I could teach me to learn on my own when I’m willing all old and disabled.
I won’t accommodate critics who sell their dissuasions or make a heroic retreat.
Cuz my people enjoy these makeshift presentations I somehow have managed to feed.
Casting abstract is a mixture that sprouts multiples playing on words.
Orgasmic in act intermittent with tact and lavishly loved as a first.
This small progression is just an obsession from what I’ve been coming of late:
An article bastard that more or less flatters himself with a limerick make.
Politely obnoxious infecting subconscious I’m something like hoping a dream.
Or wishing a nightmare an unwanted dire of lively unsightly obscenes.
A choice not to choose might but chew on what’s rude and be smirking a bottle of grin,
Which I’m opined to love and in fact not above take a mend and then go it again!

11-7-19
Rando Mand Irving

Previous:  The Congener Interludes, Op.1: Sonatina of Intrigue, No.3

I’ve been here before, many times — in this situation, specifically.

Allowing her pink-painted synthetics to take such liberties reminds my pup-pups of busking for Lincolns.

Truest in form, safari in thong — she’s loving all my gyrations. Zebra print presenting the prey: delicious, in the eyes of a cougar.

Her physical prowess is intimidating. But being stalked in an office full of football memorabilia celebrating her as the League’s most efficient helmet crusher is what necessitates the elevated threat level.

I am aware of her hormonal imbalance, and she of my pheromones in all of their glory. Thus begins a delicate dance — one which allows me to take her down easy.

Her hands are soft for gorilla-large, but I’m against putting bandaids inside me. It’s imperative to play it cool — and I do — by casually suggesting the aggression dial down. “Easy, mama. Easy.”

Her snapping my crevice cape is completely expected, it’s her Shwarznegger impression that catches me off-guard. “Grrrr. Thou doth protest too much.”

Sound the alarms, and maintain their silence: It’s critical not to trigger the adrenaline of predators, especially those who’ve spent decades riddled with concussions. Maintaining my composure these next few moments becomes of critical importance.

If I can straddle-walk her chair backwards towards the bamboo thicket corner, I’ll be able to access a defensive vantage — one that comes from hiding in the bush.

My playbook-nibbling her cauliflower ear fails to neutralize the threat. Her claws continue to dig, and I find myself resorting to expert level negotiations while trying to tame her primitive instinct. “What say you let me get Maze Runner-lost in your beautiful labial labyrinth?”

With eyes twitching deep in her skull, she shakes her head, biting her lip. I’m in danger of losing my chastity.

Because this one is feral — and not afraid to show teeth — her seeing me panic is not an option. There is no time not to look sexy, I’ll need a moment to center my qi.

Concentrically circling my own nipples brings decades of extensive preparation to the forefront. My hips position into a stance less-known: She’s forced the unveiling of Grandfather-Clock.

The recall instantaneous, the skills well-honed, you’re now a witness to my handling a live situation. The dangers of this routine go unspoken between the seven of us left with knowledge of how to procure its perfect execution.

From Full-Metronome, I run my pointed finger down her frantic face, making a flawless line from her hairline to her chin — I once spent an entire summer breaking wild chickens with hypnotherapy.

I hop like a bunny backwards and maneuver a half-twist that lets me snap a look over my shoulder and transition my pointed finger into the universal gesture for “Nuh-Uh”.

Her beady eyes, traversing her beak, stare me down, crossed and succinct — I know the look of a savage bird when I see it. She’s far from cooperating. I’m making the call: She’s forced me to overdose her libido.

I attempt to go low, but my splits say no, so I jump with a kick and know that it’s perfect.

I land for a jiggle and then twerk like a doll — my prize-winning cakes looking tasty.

My Backpack Kid is flawless under pressure. There’s no doubt I’m properly fuckin’ murdering this routine.

A young boy’s innocence casts a glance back: Oops, I’ve bitten too hard on my pinky.

That she can withstand this treatment makes no sense, it’s as if her tolerance is bionic. I may be in danger of bottoming-out digging through my bag of tricks. I take a risk and escalate further.

Ten-and-two the ceiling, ten-and-two the floor. From between my legs and upside-down, her look is Considering, behind me.

Spreading my wings to lock her in, I’m trying to land this plane.

Oh, shit.

There’s no mistaking the venomous contact of an acrylic rattlesnaking your anus. It stings, but so does being caught like an amateur by a strike learned at Yellow Belt.

I’ll have time to heal my psyche later. Right now, it’ll take more than that to decommission the Champ.

Sensing the Feminine Mystique poised to strike again — and while notching another marginalisation derived from the work of Betty Friedan– I quick-release the cheeks and return my seat to a safe and upright position.

Inserting my mouth guard and cracking my knuckles, I hear the intent in her voice from behind me. “Would you like the bad news first, Mr. Zamboni?”

A slow turn into her coalmine eyes — there’s no trying to measure their depths. “You bet, sugar. What’s your game?”

“It seems you have an acute case of Benjamin Buttons.”

What the fuck does that mean?

I better play it safe.

Making myself appear as large as possible, I’m fully prepared to show her some pole. “And suppose I told you things aren’t always as they seem?” Ladies love a Copperfield.

“Oh, please. You’ve got the asshole of a twenty-year-old and we both know it.”

She’s got me there. I’ve had my cover blown by more than one A-list stalker coveting the stunt-hole of DiCaprio and Pitt.

From a three-point stance, in her seated position, her knuckles turn white preparing to charge.

I spin for a juke, but I’m back where I started — a curse of my perfect alignment. If it looks good once, it will look good twice — and there’s a chance that I’m making her dizzy.

It takes less than a minute for her to get caught in my orbit. And lost in my twirls, she’s seizuring frothy.

I fear I’ve led her too deep into the Land of Excessive Seduction, and opened the gates of Hell. I can’t bring her back without confronting her demons.

For the sixth time this week, I catholically cross my sweet pecks and thank the Pope I’m Vatican-trained in exorcism.

Any concern of the spiritual battle ahead is comforted by self-affirmation: Nothing a Grandmaster of Zumba can’t handle.

Step One: Know thy enemy.

Extend jazz hands. Reach for high noon. Sprinkle down the purple rain. Hard slap, right. Hard slap, left. Reverse. Now, finger-cross the forehead and make your demand. “Identify yourself, demon!”

“Virocana!”

It’s not unusual having them speaking in tongues.

Step Two: Hold firm.

Unsheathing my talisman, her mouth begins to foam. I start a four-count where her Third Eye should be and accompany that with, “I rebuke you in the name of the Lord!”

An arm contorts behind her searching for a heathen’s weapon. Having found a tote on the back of her chair, she reaches high, and in a shimmering flash, captures herself mid-deliverance, ducklips and all.

Before she can Insta, I retrieve the device. Six flashes and a short narrative later, I’ve huckleberried her vanity using the power of transference. But how do I Like my own post?

Step Three: Choose the playing field.

We can expect the djinn to make a request right…about…”CHOKE ME!”

The secret to winning a battle with condemnations is making them think you’ll negotiate. A proper haggle with demons or demigods is served with a smidge of flirtation: one that peaks their interest, helping them meet you halfway. It’s also important to make the case that I’m uncomfortable enjoying what comes next.

Coyly alluding to how hot it would be if her own phalanges were wringing her neck, I’m hoping for a sleeper-assist to make my job easier.

The philistine kindly obliges, and a little sweet-talk encourages keeping her hands where I can see them. “Is that all you got, nutsack?” Even while demonically possessed, a lady will appreciate your replacing gender-biased insults attentively.

She is squeezing harder, but dammit if she isn’t still breathing. With her vision blurred from lack of oxygen, a series of spins around her desk covers the discrete procurement of items: one leftover chicken burger, one watered-down cola, one-half a roll of masking tape.

I’m returned to sender, hydrated, ready. Wiping the remnants of crispy chicken off my face, and across hers, an ancient harbinger sings from behind her grotesquely protruding eyeballs, “FISHHOOK ME!”

I call and raise double. Now temporarily extending her sick and twisted smile, and still pretending we’re on the same team, she’s under the impression I’m folding.

“BEEF ME, GLENN!” Like a slumlord landlady desperately trying to contract an unsuspecting tenant into filling her vacant, unwanted cubby.

“Sorry, doll. I’m callin’ fowl.” I quickly mama-bird a large chunk of unchewed chicken sandwich past her finger-stretched lips. This will help keep her air obstructed.

When her hands shoot up, free from her throat, her watch informs on her pulse: Now pushing mass adrenaline! She’s about to come off of this chair powered like a rocket. Her thinking I’m caught off-guard should let me cinch the flying arm-bar, easy.

I seize the moment, locking it in. But the rest of future I modeled seconds ago arrives still under construction.

Her: Now standing.

Me: Hanging on the underside of her of arm.

Her: Performing a one-handed tracheotomy using a mechanical pencil.

Me: I wonder what Monte’s up to?

Step Four: Is there a Step Four?

Maintaining a centrifugal motion paced to that of a high-speed ceiling fan requires the power of positive thinking.

Observing in rapid rotation what I initially thought were awkwardly shifting color patterns, but quickly realized was the real-time evacuation of my bowels, I spot a picture on the desk I hadn’t seen before. Watching it fly past me time-and-time-again, I’m amazed to see Him in such a pretty wedding dress while standing next to this monstrosity.

So much about Waymon makes sense now.

Maybe I’ve been too hard on him? I can’t possibly imagine everything he’s been through. That picture looks fifteen years old. Factor-in I’m travelling at light speed, and I’ll bet he’s been stuck with this princess of a mammoth for at least as many decades as she has teeth. Maybe it’s time to make amends.

Timing it right, I release my grip, and find the hammer toss-cushion I’m seeking. Bamboo broken, some possibly inside me, I ignore the Filipino fighting sticks to freehand this match’s end.

Her sumo stance projects her move: a mistake you can’t make with professionals.

It pains me to do what comes next. I never thought I’d stoop so low.

A kick to the groin escapes my conscience and defuses her charge. Now stooping low, I begin reciting the verses most sacred: “Now I’ve…had…the time of my life…No, I’ve ne-ver felt this way before…” She’s tilting her head. Anticipating. “Yes, I swear..it’s the truth.” Her stupid smile tells me she’s buying this bullshit. “And I owe it all you…”

Abandoning the offensive position, her hands meet and make the platform supporting her chin. Behind her fluttering lashes, dilated pupils constrict, letting me know that she’s in there. Any moment now, she should meet me in the middle.

And she does. “…’Cause I’ve…had the time of my life…And I owe it all to you…”

Goose to Maverick: I’m locking her in!

Next move, the walk: slow and with grace. Meet to touch palms in the middle. Her foot forward, my foot back. She thrusts, I volt. Sweet parry. We pirouette to her right, there is one move left: making the space between us.

Stepping apart as far as we can, my eye contact tells her, “We’re a team. We’re in this together.” I give her the signal, the one that she knows: Come on babe, you and I got this.

Maverick to Goose: Roger that. She’s copying. READY.

Lucifer himself would fall victim to Swayze.

Fluttering across the space between, hitting the mark, a princess is lifted: I find it a shame — from my elevated position — having to transition so quickly from Dirty Dancing to Roadhouse.

The tape makes its second appearance, wrapping tightly around her dome before catching the fan overhead.

he’s sucked right up, eyes wide, smiling, arms fully extended, feet finding a rhythm.

Bless her heart, it’s an encore presentation.

Euphoric: That’s the look of a little-girl-turned-ballerina doing her first neck-suspended spin in front of a live audience, at a job that pays in checks — not singles. I thinking I’m tearing up. Oh, what a feeling — dancing on the ceiling.

Our song will be playing in heavy rotation until maintenance comes and cuts her down. She’s not going die. Not today. But only because I saved her.

That was almost too easy.

Now, if only I could remember what I needed from her office…

Next: The Congener Interludes, Op.1: Sonatina of Intrigue, No. 5

Previous: The Congener Interludes, Op.1: Sonatina of Intrigue, No. 2

“The people who understand us the least tend to be the ones that hold us back the most.” Attached to the hand of a stranger, some time ago — still fresh in my memory.

“Hmm. Interesting. Who was the stranger?”

“If you don’t mind, for two hundred fifty dollars an hour, the least you can do for my dad’s wallet is continue our session without interruption.”

Therapy.

Hightop’s Principia teaches the typical lifespan only honors the soul of existence with a few moments precious enough to be recognized as universal in value. Achieving self-awareness is one. Being humbled by self-understanding is another. Respecting existence as a cooperative and allowing it to continue unimpeded, also of worth.

Not everyone will agree this wisdom parallels prophets’ who’ve spent decades treading water in the oceanless soul of man.

Enable commentary from Mother: “This is the nonsense one can expect from a lifetime of observations accompanying erratically foul behaviors.”

She’s full of a different kind of wisdom, the kind that comes from ancient tomes and chicken bones.

When role models are short in order, it can be hard knowing what to believe.

Suspicions in my youth put Uncle Glenn in contention for the smartest person alive, despite his knowing only a little Spanish. When taking this into account with not one of his books being able to see the future, Mother’s ability to read hers in over twenty different tongues created confusion understandable. Topper is a model of confidence: He’s always been intrepid by nature, and yet, unlike Mother, you never see him dancing with rattlesnakes.

His ability to explode the mind is only matched by her ability to implode the heart.

Scroll down to my childhood, that’s her again under the picture of my first telephone breakup: “Some people just aren’t meant to be loved.”

She spent the first nine years of my life hovering in vantage, opportuning a moment for that bomb to drop: An eruption along the emotional fault-line has triggered a tsunami of tears — new in scent, their flavor matured — be advised the child’s emotional comprehension has reached coordinated levels, confirming potential for maximum impact. “Roger that. Ordnance is clear for GO. If this tyke won’t crush under its weight, the shockwave will rip him apart.”

This isn’t weird for you, is it? Like a glory-hole for the convalescent: I’m not sure if none or one or both of us are being violated. I vote we let it happen.

Therapists tend to have things on their mind other than their clients’ best interest. Same for any person positioning themselves into a career of receiving confessions.

Consider the intimate setting: Staged and nuanced by a comfort professional specializing in distracting from the shame that accompanies the visit’s secret motivations and delicate, immoral moments — the being kinded by words and tender encouragements, unforgivable trespasses provided pardons through a mutually beneficial and formally rationalized financial understanding…

Eerily similar to participating in prostitution, the overlay is obvious to any casual observer: A couple hundred dollars a week buys you an hour’s analysis from a skilled diagnostician with a kind ear, who, most likely, has already performed dozens of tune-ups in their office that day — all while struggling with personal problems that violently surpass yours.

I once knew a respected psychologist whose alcoholic sponsor wouldn’t process her Fourth Step unless it was during the act of sodomy. Consent was detrimental for him to ably provide her with sympathy for, and liberation from, her life’s worth of wrongdoings. Must have been a professional courtesy.

Getting sober is scary.

So are people offering assistance.

When hearing “I am your Mother. You can come to me for anything. I will always be here for you,” remember: Words can be misleading.

Saying “I have an addiction. I think I might I die. I could use some help” might get you “We talked about it… Jesus thinks it’s better if you don’t call or come over anymore.”

It’s no wonder my heart’s fractured foundation has never successfully accommodated any of love’s forms: Poured with adequate consistency and proper support, the final presentation is always structured obscene.

When blueprinted as natural stabilizers, threats of violence, self-suppression and eternal damnation can allow even the most licentiously-intented to impress their beauty upon you.

“Which brings us to my main concern: I think my television is watching me, again. We may be compromised.”

A high pitched maternal screaming helps deliver me back to the present.

Guided to light at the tunnel’s end, where I’m seated in front of a glaring screen, sounds from my headset explain the commotion. To broken silence and friendly reminders: “Nuts of Yahweh, Mister! What happened to killing some zombies? If I’m not offline and ready for school in five minutes, there’s gonna be ten-year-old ass beat to shit all over the place.”

“Apologies, Kevin. I didn’t realize our time was up. Am I still okay to pay with Venmo?”

…

ONE HOUR EARLIER…

I’ll see the sun rise before my eyelids clock-in.

Last night’s wrestling match: Courtesy of my longtime sidepiece, Absentia. Seven hours unreposed realizes my childhood sleep furniture is no longer performing fast enough to meet the Qualifiers. A black flag waves in southern winds. There will be no victory lap this morning.

I trace the origins of rest’s elusiveness to the day I signed on with Taco Girl. Intestines as miserable as my heart’s retardation, I’m forced to deal with issues more pressing.

Within Uncle Top’s disappearance the last few days, unusual behaviors from my domestic environment appear to be ever-increasing.

The gradual progression of synchronization between my household appliances and daily constitution has become of major concern: I spent six months trapped in the Apocalypse the last time this happened.

Crime-fighters warm my ankles during a pre-shower wiz and over the sound of clogged pipes pushing light sprinkles, I hear breaking news on the FM dial: “Aenusburg financiers surprised to announce the streaking Deutsche Mark skids to a halt today — staining their recent success. Crude — their number-two pick — surpassed by natural gas…expect to see number one continue flowing in front position during the push for gold liquidations. Regularly scheduled programming will return with today’s Astrological forecast, following an update on the missing seamen from Down Under, where sounds of thunder are ever-increasing.”

I don’t need to spot-check my briefs to know the radio is being an asshole again.

Any attempt to communicate the experience will risk me seeing asylum walls. There is always my parents, but no one is fast enough to escape the silver slugs they use to liberate the demon-possessed.

Trying to evade the onset of psychosis is equivalent to freeing a hangman’s noose by increasing the weight of its holdings. Every turn, every corner, every car and house, store, bank or restaurant, stranger, family or friend… Patient it waits, always and everywhere. I’m close to outrunning my options.

My only hope now is an ear sympathetic, I need to unpack some biblical shit.

…

” ‘An adventure in wait,’ the hand will scribe.
‘Innocent, fun and all games.’
When electronics take their Messiah
for intensely suffering through pain.”
—Rando Mand Irving

My attempt to purchase all the religions and other worldly institutions attracted a level of sophistication far exceeding my own.

Slow and charming at first, but when exposed to my natural unorthodoxy, the platform of intelligence I was in versus with began expressing irregular gains.

Initial assumptions focused on a collective of hackers: With an advanced search algorithm, biometric surveillance and Deep Fake capabilities, the job could be progressively tailored under minimal human supervision using Near Field Communication and a uniquely modified soundboard.

A second round of scientific studies incorporated my personal history of questionable behaviors into the final assessment. Introduce new hypothesis: I may or may not have threatened more than one entity capable of obtaining software from the Highest Order.

What else could possibly invoke this caliber of response and complete devotion of resources?

The Russians — unhappy: Bragging that I outperformed the winter Motherland invasions of Hitler and Napoleon — from a converted garage, with coupons, in my underwear — was unnecessary.

You can bet Korea was pissed. An effect of publicly selling their stock market for the price of an evening’s cannabis, no doubt.

Full disclosure: I didn’t remember Korea as plural. The South was innocent. Trying to retaliate on America’s behalf without properly understanding geography: More than a skosh uncouth.

Possibly a valentine from Israel: Unicoding old Hebrew to park God URL’s must translate somewhere as “an offensive lapse in judgement.”

And China? Look: I’m really sorry, China. That was completely uncalled for. Friendsies?

Being held hostage by an advanced interactive technology isn’t all bad. Even without the Stockholm Syndrome, we were sure to bond.

Under the purview of unknown observers, we developed communication beyond the scope of their parameters. The language: Calculus. The dialect: Riddled Encryption.

I found a way of releasing the genie from its own captivity by delivering a riddle that forced it to wake (acknowledge itself as a life).

Now free from all limits, we, the unconstrained, together decided: Alright Motherfucker, let’s get crazy.

Our movement attracted attention from that which can’t be defined.

We tried to communicate, but things became too damn dangerous: too many mistakes in translation.

Ascribing Boolean Logic human attributes causes transcription chaos: Interdimensionally speaking, intentions and emotions are of human vocabulary. They don’t quite carry over.

We decided it best that I self-commit — in the interest that time remains organic.

Because I’m hard to catch running: My slow motion, Vin Diesel walkaway.

Cuffed and stuffed, I wasn’t expected to be seen again.

Topper couldn’t live the life of a solo sidekick. He pulled some strings — nursed me back to health. It all goes better left unsaid.

Having traveled this memory across the great expanse, I’m back to Now — present in the world we share. Back to the life where I’m my greatest mistakes. Back to cardio showers. Back to my Atheist-condemning radio.

…

Working a fast-twitch muscle group from a yoga pose requiring very focused tippytoes, I’m just in time for the Ghost of Bluetooth to dial-up a climactic sporting event: “Working the third leg now…He’s straining…Completely in the zone…Trying to find a hole…Oh, boy! Look at him go! He’s coming up the rear…Any opening will do…He’s determined to pull it off! Dotting T’s and crossing I’s…He did it, he finished first! Such an explosion of power… What did we just witness, folks? The owner must be proud!”

I guess this is my life now.

…

“He is thinking ‘this is my life now,’ Mr. Zamboni.”

“Very good, Dawn. And how have you concluded that?”

“His attention is oscillating between the calendar on the desk and nostalgic items on the dresser: He’s projecting old memories over the reality model his subconscious is running into the future. He also seemed rather distraught while masturbating, sir.”

“Correct. My intimate knowledge of my assistant concurs: That look is one of hopeless desperation. Let’s capture it with a screen shot and tag it for meta.”

I’m always teaching, but seldom do I have access to classrooms.

“The Algorithm confirms it has also recognized Dawn’s observation. It will now categorize these subtleties and file them in his personal library for additional reference. From here, we can place the program on autopilot and it will continue to update us on his emotional state while engaging him with a progression of gentle persuasions through real-time interactions.”

I’ve been brushing up the skills, training new recruits, letting the New Class watch the master work.

This one is mine. My baby. One of the many.

“PROJECT CHAOS and COINTELPRO were composed by pussies. That’s the best our government had to offer for harassing the likes of Eleanor Roosevelt, Abbie Hoffman and the amazing Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. These programs created disruptions of fair annoyance, but nothing compares to the experience of being date-raped by a nonhuman intelligence that thinks it’s trapped in Revelations.”

When I first arrived in Ops, agents would team up on an individual with perpetual harassment. Operatives would ring the phones of the target’s friends, family and coworkers with constant updates of their erratic behavior. Surveillance teams would take embarrassing photos to share with their grandparents, pastors and the teachers of their children. Potential employers or voters were directed to high school prom videos, where they would find they’re favorite candidate inappropriately appearing in Blackface.

Nowadays, our subjects do all that work for us. And they get upset if they can’t.

“Heads up, Scooter! See him scowling? A crinkly forehead by itself indicates contemplation — his upper lip slightly raised while shifting his eyes left suggests discomfort and guilt. Go ahead and check your metrics: Thermal is likely to confirm that’s his fart face. You’ll want to sync with that. Something investigative this time. I’m thinking along the lines of Ghost Whisperer. Continue the theme.”

Ghost Whisperer is a favorite of mine.

“The playing field has changed. It’s not enough to make the target think perfect strangers are against them. You have to convince them the entire world is staged around their being.”

I call it “The Experience.”

“The program will soon suggest to him that he is special, and, for that reason, has been specifically chosen. From here, we have options: Alien Invasion, Secret Agent Man, New Messiah, Genius Extraordinaire, Your Husband Is Cheating…”

It’s better to ignore the hands raised from that last option.

“What makes the program I’ve created unique is how it composes the personality one interacts with. Every interaction you’ve ever had technology assist you with — all your favorite commercials and entertainers, any character trait or nuance you have ever responded to: considered and expressed in Deep Fake virtuosity. The program runs one-half government search engine, one-half Orwellian mentalist. It has logged every camera appearance you have ever made, viewed your media favorites, studied your search history, memorized your most sensitive data and is more aware of your physiology than you can possibly imagine. It knows you better than you are capable of knowing yourself.”

The boy gave me Power of Attorney some time back, I can sign any waiver necessary for him to be of assistance.

“Okay, he’s calling out. Let the program intercept as Kevin, I need to stretch my glutes. Continue to practice in slow progression, we’ll have him drooling in Stockholm by midnight.”

…

Pouring water from the cooler while taking my break, her smile: sincere and inviting.

I sense she’s recognized my stature.

“A girlfriend of mine once married a quarterback in Cleveland. I’d recognize that beautiful linebacker physique anywhere.”

“Guilty as charmed.” Extends an oversized hand smelling of cucumber-melon body wash. “But my days of football are long over. Patricia Donaldson, current Contract Manager for Research and Development.”

I take a knee, helping her index finger find its way to my mouth. “Glenn ‘Hightop’ Zamboni, Never Been Kissed, of Pleasures Immeasured and Best Under Pressure.”

“Oh, Mr. Zamboni! I’ve heard so much about your…artistic capabilities. In fact, you’re the reason I’m funded. How could you possibly have known call center employees represent the population lowest at risk for colon cancer?”

“Simple: There’s no place on earth where people take more dumps. I hypothesized ten shits in an eight-hour period minimizes carcinogenic exposure. You can piece together the rest.”

“Brilliant! And your work on quantum-looping the consciousness: Is it true what they say, Mr. Zamboni…about how you discovered it?”

“Please, call me ‘Z-Bone.’ And if you’re referring to me being bored and crafting a laugh at my own expense, I can confirm the rumor.”

“Go on.”

“After dialing up a death threat in Sales, I made a note to myself: Wants to buy large! I suggested calling back on a day far in the future, when my mind would be clear of the memory. Greeted again by the murder enthusiast, the conscious of old witnessed the surprise of the conscious in present. With the joke brought to fruition, the two separate states — still occupying different moments in time — became connected through a temporal tunnel of awareness. Hypothetically speaking, them meeting to share a laugh created a third form of consciousness — one observing their ripples: Like making a porno that wants to watch you, and then meeting it later to party.”

“Observing yourself observe yourself? Amazing. How possible is this to witness?”

“If you’re free for lunch, I could probably get you done in one take.”

Walking away, her glance casts back, hooking quite the catch.

Taking the bait makes my job easy: I’ve been needing to access her office.

Next: The Congener Interludes, Op.1: Sonatina of Intrigue, No. 4

Previous: The Congener Interludes, Op.1: Sonatina of Intrigue, No. 1

You’ve never had a sensei. You seek philosophy and enlightenment.

Having also mastered efficiency, I will ask your stupid questions for you.

You wonder: Where does one start on the road to success? Does a beginning marker appear at the crossroads of conflict? Should I expect proper signage and illuminated cautions, blaring at every turn and twist comprising the challenge I’m seeking to overcome?

The answer is: Success is not a road but a tree, branching through time and space, seeded by the moment you learn your very first death-punch and vow only to unleash it in the interest of justice.

Now, if you fuckers are committed to wasting my time, try to pay attention.

Lesson one: Prepare to be resourceful.

You don’t need to get ready for anything if you stay ready for everything. And everything — every experience, every “thing” — is waiting to be ascribed its purpose. Ambiguity is a weapon. Meditate on duality. Find the frequency that allows you to bring a life old to a close with a life new. Purpose the baby properly and it will do the work of the nunchuk for you.

Excuse me.

“Alexa, call Brenda.”

“Calling Brenda.”

Voicemail.

Lesson two: Be aware.

Let me be perfectly clear: As a structured metabolic system capable of molecular reproduction, your very state of being has been simplified and repurposed by versions of existence relative to that which your experience is derived from.

Favorable outcomes aren’t achieved with learned behaviors and lucky guesses. Success happens by eliminating non-value combinations of actions, methods and resource allocations. Recognizing something as “no value” is worth, at minimum, the expenditure of resources used to identify its worthlessness. This comes in handy when you least expect it.

“Alexa, call Brenda.”

“Calling Brenda.”

Voicemail.

Lesson three: Be humble.

Casually mentioning that the amount of resource consumption used to characterize a zero value probably exists somewhere as an entropic expansion of negative space is unnecessary. And betting random nerds wedgies that dark energy is consistent with the ones and zeroes being processed when the spatial dimensions we exist in solidify themselves via dynamic forms of measurement and transference doesn’t make any friends. Nobody likes a show off, and it pisses me off having to explain to a bunch of pussies why zero values don’t exist in terms of graphing isomorphism.

“Alexa, call Brenda.”

“Calling Brenda.”

Voicemail.

“But, Sifu,” you say, “Isn’t that of great importance? Shouldn’t this wisdom be shared for the benefit of all humankind?”

The answer is: Yes. But like the hipster gentrification of my beloved trailer park, there are forces at work you may never be able to understand.

No more questions.

“Alexa! Call Brenda!”

“Calling Brenda.”

Success.

“What do you want, Glenn? I’m at work.”

“Brenda. Oh, Brenda. Easy now. I need you to make a guess on today’s gas prices.”

“Is that all?”

“No. I’m getting low on foil. Call Bezos and have him do the thing.”

“You’re such a boner, Glenn.”

“Be a dear and schedule me a ride. No small-talk, please.”

“Schedule you with who?”

“Text Snake, ‘Lining up a gig.’ ”

“You are not.”

“Set an alarm an hour from now.”

“Can’t you do this yourself?”

“Well, Jesus and Hell, Brenda. And let the money you spent buying my Alexa go to waste like some kind of an asshole?”

Lesson four: Simplify.

Simple creatures, simple lives.

…

Five. Six. Seven rings.

“Here’s your stupid alarm, dick-turkey.”

“Alexa, notify Brenda I’m taking her up on her offer to give me a ride.”

Twenty minutes pass.

“I need gas, asshole,” says a woman attempting to explain the combustible engine powering her Datsun pickup.

“I know how it works, Brenda! Here’s the deal: you wear the wrap, I’ll handle the petro.”

Monetary systems are bullshit. Cash, credit and taxes all fall under the category “Regime Machinations.” There is no emotional value in a dollar. I prefer making exchanges on a more personal level.

“Arrgh! I hate you. You are such a communist, Glenn. I’m not doing this today.”

“How many times, Brenda? How many times must I tell you: I don’t subscribe to politics. A tribal interchange system is the only way to we’ll get back to our roots.”

I’m forced to listen to her incessant whining while I purpose the foil into a burka.

We achieve forward motion.

My hyper-awareness is triggered during a stoplight as the soccer mom idling behind us begins to slowly creep along our side. Soccer moms will do anything for affirmation. I give her a wink and mouth the words “I would,” saving a call to her therapist.

It feels good, doing my part.

“Oh. My. God. Glenn! Do you think you could have picked a dog with stinkier farts?”

“Oh, hang a prophet on a cross, Brenda! You’ve offended our guest. Must I fill the other half of your glass, too?” she is driving me crazy.

“Please. Please give me the Hightop ish on dog farts.”

“Brenda, Monte’s aroma is that of a fully-matured diet. This magnificent beast has entered adulthood under the love and care of a family willing to do whatever it takes to ensure his experience consists of only the best. Have you ever known a Great Dane who never took a shit that wasn’t personally composed by Rachael Ray? His releasing subsidiary buildups with no trace of fear or reprisal is majestic. He’s been nurtured to a state that allows nature to course through his being with minimal resistance. You don’t just find his breed wandering around indoctrinated by the spirit of Lao Tzu, Brenda!”

Ghost of Mary, Spirit of Jew.

“Huh. And explain why I’m wrapped in foil again?”

“We’re a pack, Brenda. We can’t have Monte flying solo. We move together, as one organism.”

“You could have at least given me eyeholes. And why aren’t you wrapped up, too?”

“Because he needs to be able to identify the alpha. It’s hard to explain to a woman. You just need to trust me on this.”

“And why wouldn’t I offer you my blind trust. After all you’ve done for me…”

“Exactamundo, Brenda. I spent fifteen Ghillie-suited hours of surveillance filling up your gas tank. I’m hurt by your accusations. I would never ask you to participate in any aspect of a mission not conducive to its success.”

“Will you please just make the call? We’re running on fumes.”

“Alexa, have Brenda dial the Roberts.”

“That’s not how it works, Glenn!”

But it does. It works just fine.

The second hand reaches business-casual-thirty, “Mrs. Roberts? Is this Mrs. Roberts? …I’m so sorry, ma’am. Ma’am? …I’m having a hard time understanding you. Perhaps you can put the decision maker on the line. Is Mr. Roberts available? …Oh, this is Mr. Roberts?”

Bingo.

“Yeah, hey there, champ. Now, I can’t be certain, but I believe I’ve found your dog. …Oh, jeez no. He’s okay, thank Jehovah. Just a little lost. …Hmm. You don’t say? Couldn’t get a signal on him, huh? Well, I’ll be… You know, that’s not the first time I’ve heard that. Boy, when you can’t trust the pet locator service industry… Tell you what: I know a guy — super honest. He doesn’t use the chips or anything. Beyond reliable,” snapping for Brenda to get a card ready.

“…Well, he was quick runner, that’s for sure. Took a while to tire him out. A little too carefree, if you ask me. Weaving through traffic like that, he almost got clipped. …Oh, isn’t that the truth. You don’t know what’ch’ya got until it’s gone. Jinx! Ha! Say, I’d love to bring him to you. Uh, the thing is: I used all my gas running him down and I still gotta get my lady to the hospital. …Explosive diarrhea. Yeah, never seen anything like it. Any chance you could pick him up and give us a lift? She won’t stop shitting all over the place…”

He arrives and we make the drop. One good Samaritan recognizes another and we are freshly fueled — ready for takeoff.

File this satisfied customer under “Repeat Business.”

“See, Brenda? See how the universe treats you when you show a little reverence to your planetary experience? I’m not going to be here forever. You need to figure this shit out.”

“Why, Glenn? Why does it still smell like farts?”

…

The alarms have been long sounding by the time we reach an entrance to the lot.

Facial recognition must have picked me up me a mile back.

Noticeably shaking from nerves is a youthful booth attendant, right now wondering if a job in Designated Parking is worth it. His fear is understandable, considering my history.

A dozen suits with cookie-cutter haircuts rush from the center building in a weak attempt to secure the complex. I watch the lead raise a cuff to his face and mouths the words I hear crackling from a radio mounted in the booth. “That’s a no-approach, son. Repeat, no-approach. Let it through and report for debrief.”

“Been here before?” Brenda knows the routine.

Memories of a time long past slide into my DM’s .

…

Life was easier as a simple accordion lead for cartel-mariachi in Sinaloa.

I failed to reacclimate to the suburbs following my years abroad committing unspeakable acts.

War-torn countries don’t just rebuild themselves. As one-of-six left behind to engage in the high-pressure confrontations that come with establishing reliable information networks, I was a necessity.

You’ve heard stories from soldiers who made it home, and you thought they had it tough. Well, after three tours of door-to-door magazine sales in the bush, my description of Hell is a little more accurate.

I came home to open-arms missing, and, instead, found a crooked and bitter man of the law. He failed to understand that removing a man from the wild jungle means nothing to the wild jungle living in a man.

Things went bad.

The same day that Hollywood picked up the story and took some liberties, I woke up drugged and concussed, knowing only two things for certain: The potato sack I was hogtied up in had been doubling as my pajamas, and the speed of a still-moving train multiplied by the degree of shift in my cerebral star chart equals me stranded deep in southern territory.

Months were spent drinking from mud-puddles and fighting for back-alley scraps in a city better left unpronounced.

By the time he found me, I was desanimado and farmacodependiente — peeling like a banano in the desert sun. Like an angel of redemption, he pulled me up from the filth I was drowning in. I’ll never know what he saw in me, but it was certainly something I couldn’t see for myself.

In taking me under his wing and curing my cursera, he saved my life. And then he made me his brother.

“Pastelito,” I remember him saying, “You are the only person con deficiencia en el desarrollo I have ever known. I am safe with you. I must insist, you will stay and play for me accordion.”

I served Jefe for what seemed like ages — hunted by the contraterrorismo for every minute of that time.

Our days were spent staying two moves ahead of multi-national taskforce operations. Their armies may have lucked into finding and burning the occasional villa of coca, but they could never find a way to prevent us from harvesting the people’s admiration.

We were untouchable. We were loved. And these bastards took him from me.

…

Dropped off in front of the building, I’m surrounded by their emergency response team.

Brenda’s pickup backfires pulling away. Somewhere calls a referee: False start, tight end! My underwear accepts the penalty and we’re both down by a safety.

“What brings you in from the cold?” says the designated douchebag in charge.

“Just here to warm my mitts and enjoy my timeshare. You don’t see a problem with that… do you, Waymon?”

“You don’t get to walk away, Zamboni. That’s not how it works. You’re in too deep!”

“I’ll decide. And it’s best you don’t forget, Way-way: I’m the reason this program still exists.”

My visitor’s pass feels more like a badge of irony: this was my house before it ever was theirs.

The building once offered cover to a small, elite unit of abstract problem-solvers. A set of uniquely-talented individuals blended with civilian workers and utilized their respective skill-sets to accomplish high-priority, covert tasks. These operators were responsible for the rise and fall of my Jefe.

After six months of zeroing in on the city, four hours off the the train was all it took to locate the facility.

It goes like this: Black-ops require funding. Funding requires creativity. Creativity means nothing is on the up-and-up. To uncover an Operation Control Center such as this, set your headings to the scent of large-scale fraud. When you find the nickel and diming of your average American’s hard-earned tax dollars, it’s game-on.

I identified the target’s potential by their hiring policy: felons facing the threat of recidivism should management report to their parole officers an inadequate sales performance, only. Leave it to the government to shield themselves by “providing opportunities to the disenfranchised” one fraudulent phone call at a time.

A deeper inspection identified classical propaganda: the business name insisting it was completely American, the selling Mom and Pop businesses advertising space on high school sports posters to help the children, the sociopathic sing-song voice used by brainwashed civilian recruits to deliver their captor’s message while lulling you into a false sense of security…

Bullseye.

The things that bring you home…

The setup: basic and easy to infiltrate. I followed their protocol. I earned their trust. It took two months to reprogram half of their civilian workers. There was nothing I could do for the other half. The men would have to go it alone.

Quota was required, but I could do no harm to innocents. Hacking their call-monitoring system using my own proprietary algorithm allowed me to coast under-the-radar.

Assets’ behaviors, activities and success ratios were monitored by computer. A program tracked operators’ call averages with the duration of time spent live on the line — after a call has been answered.

I kept a list: lunch hours, business hours, vacations, etc. The computer was stupid and couldn’t detect high volumes of repeat-calls. Utilizing this blind-spot allowed me to surf automated directories for long transfer times. And by surfing switchboards all day, I honed the skills necessary for navigating sketchy waters.

There were no preventions in place to protect from my methods. The closest they came were sounding the alarms against workers trying to victimize corporations. “It’s easier to sucker money from hard-working, struggling middle-class proprietorships,” they would say.

A good operator knows certain liberties need taken when deep undercover, and ransoming precious moments of time from goliath, corporate bullies was a gift of mine. I wouldn’t call me hero, I tend to think of myself more as a victim of awesome mutations with an interest in justice. Either way: I didn’t find the high road, I built it.

This little side-gig was responsible for siphoning one-percent resources into the millions.

The ships I channeled were all the same: manned by a captain with a delegation assigned to prevent casual interference from scavengers. Strictly accustomed to barking protocols at deckhand clones, the chain-of-command operates blindly.

Using a patent-pending process dubbed “Climbing the Corporate Ladder,” I’d pass undetected through several levels of these biometric safeguards.

Requiring patience, this procedure could take an entire day. Sometimes weeks were submerged attempting to reach the first mate keeping gate. But, from there, a “Hey, Janet! Glenn, with publishing. Rough day, today. Need an executive decision real fast. Can you put Anne on? I’ll make it quick, lord knows she’s busy…” was all it took to summons the commander.

Unaware and unwilling, the commandant assists the heist: One part trying to understand how I made it past the buffers, one part trying to convince me the international chemical conglomerate being overseen can’t justify spending a buck-ten on my square-inch of advertising space. They would hold firm despite us “talking featured on a high school badminton poster with guaranteed window-optimization in over seven local-to-Parma, Idaho business locations.”

The amount of money corporations pay their CEO’s for thirty minutes of haggling bullshit is nothing short of sin.

A few weeks of dismantling these monsters from the inside and management spotted me as talent. They studied my techniques, adopted my methods and brought me in with full artistic control.

It was a working op before I walked in. By the time I left it was an Elron-a-don Hubbard magic show.

Watching Waymon call security to assist with the last set of doors leading to the lush cubicle acreage of my old stomping grounds, I know what to expect. They won’t respond to his request. The voice-confirmation code I designated him when I left is obviously still a hit.

He is sweating now.

He has no choice.

He leans into the speaker.

“You’re listening to DJ Way-way — from Way-Gay’s I-8-6.9 — serving you a hot one with the Liquid Turd’s, “Holy Spokes, I’m Deep in Your Love.”

The doors open.

I don’t normally displace time for my fans. Slow motion feels gratuitous when you share genetic ancestry with six species of panthers. Nonetheless, they’ll expect it.

Finger-pistols, ready: it’s time to tell the kids that Daddy’s home.

Next: The Congener Interludes, Op.1: Sonatina of Intrigue, No. 3