‘My dear Satellites—daughter-sons, son-daughters, sons and daughters—know that you’re not baseborn, I Efolk am your forcibly long-estranged daddy. I seek obedience. Your military disobedience!’ Efolk then came down the blasted field, dumped all the gathered IDs and flushed them down the World Commode.
Little girl wakes.
Weltgeist had once sailed ships, more often than not crashing against and into waves before it could trace shores. It also rode headless on horsebacks, from time to time sporting various head prosthetics, its horse blindfolded, falling into canyons and wells, often terrifying the daylights out of living dead, its head rolling and spinning as it rode. Then, it’d been flying aircrafts, often crashing into (of all places) residences. Lately, it’s been rather evasive.
Efolk permeates microwaves, germinates and materializes on monitors. He unmasks and his face is a collageal amalgam of a billion faces. ‘I’m terribly sorry it’s because of me, attempting to capture the me’s, Super O tripped, (falling multiple times) fell and demolished the air force and the eight Four Quarters. He the likes of whom never stay dead is not dead, only in comatose. I’ve never stood (or sat) so chapfallen as I do now.’
Super O is sleeping and experiencing rapid eye mo(ve)ments. [Place: World Minus First; Time: O Bright Irony] In the world of eternal night the Weltgeist, who’s now Mother Dominatrix whose one hand is a blunt feathered whip, whips once and it strikes a thousand gentle blows.
Tribefolks emerge from bunkers.
‘All the notified (remnants) of militants, military personnel, cops, scientists, strategists, priests, neo-atheists, godmen, domesticated Buddhas and Christs, unquestioning disciples, scientists, did I say net-evangelists, Twitterati, businessmen, leaders, advisers, policymakers, spectators, speakers, audience, readers, did I say writers, spectators, artists, entertainers, bureaucrats, militants and many, many more of mal-intent (guilty before McDhamma dictum, guilty by words and deeds, guilty more by words of consequence and deeds of consequence than mere words or deeds), I call all the listed and notified to submit yourselves immediately to your…our’ blip ‘respective representative lampposts before it…zzz’ beep ‘too late.’
The neo-tribefolks of all shapes and attire alongside tribefolks emerge from their bunkers holding on to their saws and axes. They take to streets and highways, every nook and corner, take positions, take charge and fell all the lampposts.
All the powerful line up backs to each other, into one another, in lines, nines of men, the fifth of whom facing one woman, beside, behind, all around her lines of nines of men backs to each other amid women, a zigzag assembly of tens and hundreds of thousands. Weltgeist whips once, hips thrust, and all that’s soft knead what’s stiff. With every whip, outside, the dim lights grow bright. Super O is sleeping, breaks into a sweat.
A little girl wakes (in a world where roosters have been long extinct) to the flushing of a commode, yawns ‘Ooommhm,’ and lights a lantern. She walks to the street and witnesses a commune of the left right (center up down north south) behind. ‘Are you by chance making tee, cofi or what?’ A woman withdraws from her anti-missionary position, hops and comes to the girl. ‘Just love, honey.’ ‘Can you…fly?’ ‘Oh! No,’ looking sideways and back, ‘they call this a no-clear mutation. To me, just a pointless extension.’ ‘Where’s your leg?’ ‘Same place your nose gone to!’ Little girl runs across the lane, claws up a tree, and tunes her walkie-toykie. ‘This is Nonose, Nonose…speaking.’
The blunt whip keeps blowing and the lights grow bright to blinding and then it again grows dim. Weltgeist realizes these much softer powerhouses get overcome by fatigue, notices sagging balls and failing hard-ons, sighs, says no worries, and deploys Mayagra shots. The whips strike, hips thrust, what’s stiff penetrates all that’s soft. The lights outside brightens and brightens. It grows blinding and then all the lights burst, clatter and smoke. The world of eternal night turns eternal darkness. Weltgeist bellows, Oh! Dark paradox. Super O is sleeping, coughs and profusely sweats.
The little girl woke up, came stumbling through the dark, and lit a candle.