I was woken up by a nightmare –
I was on an old bone white phone and down the other end was the pitiful screaming of a man being tortured. The man just screeched and wailed like a cow in a slaughterhouse waiting for its doom; bred to end its life consumed by fat adolescents who believe that meat is grown in a factory somewhere. One day, it will be, of course. And so, the man howled holy hell down the phone at me as if I could change anything, as if any of us could. I knew he was being tortured by the metallic background chuckles.
By who? Why? Am I being attacked by my subconscious? What have I ever done to him?
Okay, never mind.
I lay awake in bed, the echo of the man’s cries disappearing back from whence they came. The man’s bellowing had demolished my usual aching morning concrete erection, my own personal mediocre monument to vitality; to prove that I am not yet passed all hope and usefulness. Coffee. A large mug. I needed strong coffee with enough full fat cream to kill an anorexic at twenty paces. And honey. The last day’s work of a bee that has stung itself into extinction.
Shit, shower, shave; then wriggle into my black trousers, linen jacket and tie. Feed Tom, my perpetually angry and mewling cat; grab my bag and out the door to face the bastard day.
Above me I saw a cloudless sky giving birth to drones, spying on us while delivering a gadget or book or sex toy or all three combined into a sex gadget book toy thing with which to occupy the space and attention in the jungle of our limbic brains; keeping us from seeing the world falling apart over our obfuscating wearable technology.
On the train – a woman with a never ending cough – I just knew she had a government manufactured disease designed to manipulate our genes and keep us dumb enough to keep voting and perpetuating a system in its death throes, where every institution is stockpiling cash and financial assets in the hope that paper money will be worth more than tinder. Well, not me fuck face! I do not vote. Not until there is something damn well worth voting for. Genetic mutations, be damned!
It is no lie. These French people do stink. They stink of fear of inevitable change that is just around the corner; that they will no longer be able to rely on their government to solve their woes; that the nation of centralised bureaucrats that they have become will be swept away by technological tide edging over the corner of their phone screens.
Oh blockchain, save us from the turgid bureaucrats!, I mumble to no one in particular.