Mason Corbishley nodded.
“Sacrifices must be made to save the world from the scourge of Post-Modernism!”
* * *
A month later, Mason Corbishley walked towards his art preview at the Spooky Megadrive Gallery. He was wearing his widest pantaloons.
“I will finally receive the recognition I deserve.”
On arriving at his exhibition, everyone pointed and laughed at him.
His paintings were up on the walls but projected on top of them was film footage of Mason performing sexual acts for Jimmy Flat.
“I call my latest work,” said Jimmy Flat from atop a podium. “A Post-Modern Deconstruction Of Classicism!”
Saatchi clapped, Hirst clapped, Emin clapped and the television scientist, Brian Cox, was there too, crying at the beauty of it all.
ROLEX
Even though the world is going wrong I still look cool. I walk slowly toward the camera, like James Bond, for every upsetting news report. I walk through natural disasters, riots and holocausts. In expensive suits and ties, often sunglasses, my hair voluminous. I swagger towards the viewers in slow motion. Debris and bits of body flying around me. I check the time on my Rolex, it's almost Doomsday.
I offer reassurance, the situation is now sexy and controlled.
I pause and I light up a cigarette. I give the horizon a James Dean gaze. I wistfully turn my lips. I dreamily contemplate the rotting corpses and burning buildings.
I guide humanity towards greater excellence. I am a new ideology for the end times. It's almost Doomsday.
PRICKS BURN
Murmer Shoecat launched her holoshop into the Local Collective Psychosphere. Within two hours twelve citizens from across the Eighth-Parsec had purchased items from her stock of molecule friendly products. She twirled her dyed pink hair and smiled at her tumour boyfriend.
“Looks like we'll be able to get you the Consciousness Implants you need,” she said to the growth on her arm. “We're going to be able to talk for real.”
Fifteen percent of her sales would go to the Tumour Consciousness Awareness Group (TCAG).
On her vidscreen, Edip Berkul, war correspondent, was touring a War Brick.
“The design of War Bricks has altered considerably since the dawn of the Third Purge and now the weapon systems of War Bricks are forty percent larger. This was in response to Empress Garsix III's historic announcement that the alien menace did not deserve slavery or exploitation. In her immortal words: 'We need to make those pricks burn!'”
Murmer Shoecat turned away from the vidscreen in disgust.
She resumed her hobbies.
“I can’t believe that we are still destroying alien civilisations,” she said to her boyfriend tumour. “It’s not right. So many of our industries were built on the blood of alien slaves. How soon people forget. We should be making them our slaves again for the good of the economy. Perhaps I should start a petition? I could send it out into the Local Collective Psychosphere. What do you think?”
The tumour remained silent and bumpy on her arm.
She picked up a pen and drew a beard on it.
“I don’t like you clean-shaven.”
* * *
Grand Spearhead Solarii clomped his cloven boots down the command wing of his War Brick. He paused at a painting of a War Brick blasting apart the cockhead world of Balfax.
“Such vibrant colours,” he said with a finger to his asphalt chin. “The painter, Tang Jaguarson, captures the overwhelming fear of the alien freak. The looming blue shadow of our War Brick. The brush strokes of those glorious flames. The floating embers of their heathen architecture. Art should bring the ideals of our society to a definitive and focused point of intent. Don’t you agree?”
His wart dwarf servant ambled bashfully from foot to foot.
“Well, I wouldn’t be knowing much about art, my lord.”
“I wasn’t asking you,” said Grand Spearhead Solarii. “I was asking me.”
They carried on down the corridor.
“Would you like to go to the viewing port and watch those savages burn for real?” asked Grand Spearhead Solarii.
“Well of course I would,” answered Grand Spearhead Solarii.
At the view port he watched burnt alien limbs floating around the core of a destructed planet. His wart dwarf servant poured him a glass of skaggi.
“Do you sometimes feel that our work has become barbaric?” said Grand Spearhead Solarii.
The wart dwarf servant handed him his glass but remained silent.
Grand Spearhead Solarii slapped his wart dwarf servant.
“I asked you a question!” shouted Grand Spearhead Solarii.
The glass smashed on the floor.
“You spilt my drink!”
Grand Spearhead Solarii repeatedly kicked the snap-necked corpse of his wart dwarf servant.
Grand Spearhead Solarii propped up the wart dwarf's body and straightened the wart dwarf's head.
“Even your death was sudden and brutal, I remember the old days, when pain was prolonged from generation to generation. Such beautiful humiliation.”
He stroked the wart dwarf's hair.
“Don't worry, you'll be replaced.”
Grand Spearhead Solarii looked out the window at the drifting and charred body parts. A tear rolled down his cheek.
COUPLES
Richard and Nicola are given a table for two.
"Thank you," said Richard.
"Thank you," said Nicola.
"I'll just get you your menus," said the waitress.
"Thank you," said Richard.
"Thank you," said Nicola.
Richard and Nicola sat and looked at each other.
"Happy five-year anniversary," said Richard.
"Happy five-year anniversary," said Nicola.
The waitress came back and handed them their menus.
"Are you ready to order?" asked the waitress.
"Just a moment," said Richard. "Can I ask if dish#498 has any allergens?"
"Richard please," hushed Nicola. "You are embarrassing."
* * *
The couples all orbit a compartmentalised obedience.
They were happy in their way.
* * *
“Have you seen all the couples out there?” said the waitress to the chef. “You'd think it was Valentine's Day.”
The war veteran chef sighed.
“Fuck them. We'll take their money and they'll eat our shit."
PUNCH GOD IN THE FACE
“I don’t want to go out with someone like that anymore!” said the patient.
“What do you want from a relationship?” asked CounsellBot
