Lesbians Demand More Responsible Films

Chama Tilly's turning 40 and won't come down from the sea wall cave. In the middle of getting her preen gland expressed, the fully-organic K turned on her certified technician, flinging her more than 300 feet into the cloud cover over Cliff Suites. PharmSupply's medically licensed glandular biotics rep known only as "Phyllis" is passing a hard convalescence at Thong Clinic over in Chalk Chank.

"She was saying all day how much she needed me, how my skills were all that made her sane, and then whoop, flips out. Maybe I got too close. My rescuer was a level-2 protection boss in a flying-F suit."

We asked Phyl if her feelings had changed at all about having real K's or K blood/K love/K rule still flying, suffering when everyone would prefer to drive their own false K with closed legs or recycled K meat with privacy screens sewn on.

"No, because K's are not the only ones who suffer. None of us up in this chank or the crack that runs through it gets to live in an environment most suited to our "natural habitat" except of course for all humans. On the other hand, if humans and their actions are considered to be part of the natural habitat, then everyone and everything is entirely natural. If curing K’s would mean a major culling of the species for commercial gain, that's not okay. On the other hand, there is the odor, emissions, the sounds."

The K is a re-emergent life form that was named for the way it flies with its legs spread eagle. Barely living K's were hooked up to muscular positioning outfits and wireless saline IV's and flown remotely first secretly, then as a silent swell of cash transactions, and finally the unlucky target of public outcry. Flakes can't afford a K implant or the kenneling. But they deeply value the patrimony of K lore/ love/ blood/ rule.

We asked Phyl about all the hoo-ha on ground below the Chama’s lair: balcony to the world, sea salt and moss tacky. Though we understand now there was normally no more no less than pounding waves down there, with a narrow spread of rocks close as a penguin’s foot and only accessible at the pleasure of the moon, and where every low tide documentary reporters and free-speech zone die hards staggered under rubber ponchos in the mist.

“I asked them to give me a shot and bring me right back. Maybe I was the only one who could get her down. When I pulled up in the ambulance, somebody told me here, take this, and I did, thinking we were all a part of the same occupancy. Here’s a sign, they said, shout and walk around with it now. We were moving in a tight oval, no, an ellipse. I thought they meant it was a sign she wanted to be with me forever. But it said, “Lesbians Demand More Responsible Films.” Even when I put what the deal was together, I thought what better way to be where Tilly can see... that I’m totally willing to come out.


Chalk Chank [the Mp3]

Less like mayhem

There were survivors, but they experience mood swings (happy, sad; or happy, sad, then quickly happy, then sad for a while; or sad, sadder, somewhat happy, then saddest of all, only to end the day on a light note...).

Too bad their accounts come across so bland, due to meds, as to be unstable. Good thing someone can sweep in and take up where stark reality quits, keep the tracking smooth, even in a temp-est of shite.

My reporter's emotional waveline makes a narrative of these lives just as your finger might follow an aircraft outta jive, spinning a bed spring of smoke behind, which looks a lot less like mayhem when you feel what's in it.


Phyllis
"Freelancing isn't free."

K Coming

Peg heard herself remark as she woke up on her fancy hovering cushions:

"That's the first time a living bone creature in my hand ever proposed marriage."

Crisp sky blue sheets were her universe. Without the kids, life was a cockpit.

Raiding villages in her flying F-suit brought flakes to their knees.

Her turds boiled in outdoor mess cauldrons fetched a hefty consolation for the burns.

Torches Costs Money

One day Chama was being lynched by a mob of about 300 in the low chanks, and several of her closest associates gathered to perform an intervention on her because of their concern:

"Chama, we know youse a goddess, but can't you put this aside?

"Other people have rights too.

"Yes Chama, I mean look around you; your best thinking got you here.

"Chama, don't you think it's time for a little self reflection?

"Yes, Chama. You can go over how you could make this a better place for you to be.

"You have that power Chama.

Chama say:

No my power is shapeshifting and speaking back across centuries to my younger self. I can hide my back, scalp and neck spurs with alien technology. I can fly in a F-suit or grow my wing. I can lift shiny coins through telekinesis and slight of hand from air pockets in the steady stream of important and influential flakes who cross my sound threshold.

Chama continue:

I cannot make this a better place for me to be right now.

Interventionists:

"This is what concerns us. You've lost the ability to master your own destiny, and on the frontier, that means mental illness.

Chama respond:

Dats booshia.

Chama continue:

Caw deeze mthyuhphkas off.

Interventionists:

"We calling you off, baybidumplins. You hereby denied the right to perpetrate on any of those damaged and frightened neighbors and chankspeople you see before you and shall apoligize for working them up into that level of a froth by your tone.

Interventionists continue:

"And torches costs money.

Chama say:

This is me. This is what you get with me. You brought me into the system. You were following the Law then. This is who I am. I come with crowds. This is what you get with me when you let them in. You found me banging on the door begging for bureaucracy. I thought it was a meritocracy, but chall was I dim. Turns out I am a delivery boy: I brought the Him.

Chamatilly continue:

BTW, can I get a square? Can I get paid?

Interventionists:

[No answer. No answer.]

The World Once Resisted

The world of numbers is only a hideous grease through which we dragged our thongs and lay.
Now that the lie of time has made us acrobats, taking charge of space and raising kids is easy.
Bonded in disfigurement, every zygote knows its trail, forward and back; it's a rutted trajectory.
Rubbing on stones or any kind of friction can make us wistful, reimagining a world that resisted.

Why?

Today's Epiphany
with Ted

They've finally figured out a workaround for the disanimate flesh energy sourcing question. Watch these mummy monarcas process insects caught up in they flying f-suit nets.

[insert video of actual x-ray digestion taking place in the rubbry digestive tract of a mummified pre-historic bird]

It's called "assisted automated bioprocedural response," and from all indications to date, it's worth everything.

The capture and processing of living matter while in flight implementing god-made organs enshrined in Pharmsupply Latex 40, the transformation of waste into a self-lubricatory system for metallic parts as well as a combover for the ozone layer-- this means sustainability, but even more important, perpetual motion.

Hot Drifter

You are 53, so you are cunning and cynical in a last-ditch
effort to hump your days and walk on top. Soon your risk
taking will give in to begging wonder for life outside d'bed.
You have bright eyes and a mustache you call the Womb
Broom. In one small town where you stopped they said m
-aybe you were a con man but anyone could guess it was
juss a chick or boy you moved and disrespected. Don't piss
off unions or steaming membranes with an itch for your c
-ock. Hot drifter, many may mock; none can hold your p-
ower over major regions of the wanting brain, oh, and nex
time you wan to stop by, jus come on in; don't even nock.

Serving Christians, yor trajectry brings you wide and on s
-ome dire affairs. The churches take you in an cut you job
-s at carnivals, car washes, and for burials, loan you a suit.
You safe in this town as a fart that smells like food. Erybo-
dy thinking ways of how you, as a man, are theirs. Imagin
-e wuhda local wife wunt want to stow you in her sk-
irt. You've never been a brother on the grid. Some men th
-ink that they can find themselves in you, but they are da
shed on rocks and ashes worse than wymen. Ashamed of
loving you, hot drifter, we offer up r babl verse an wicca.
I for one dont play that praying game. You are my sistuh.

Something Stimulatory

Sorry, honey but it's rubber. It's gonna slide when you sweat. Some bitches like that-- feels like swimming. Smells like a den of foxes.

The nip buzzers will not shock you even if yor wet because they are state-of-the-art. There is a navel-to-tailbone zipper in case yor into rimming or doing the splits.

You are totally missing the point if you think most of this stuff is good beyond a one-time use. It's flying. Make it last.

We've incorporated constant titillation except where it might cause a rash. In some cases, you'll find it impossible to assume certain positions.

Standing freely would be one of them. Becoming erect in any way would be breaking the rules. That'll happen when we say.

Flying F-Suit

Awda prees made her a ceremonial parka called a Flying F-Suit. It mocked the fin-like webbed spines rising from the crown of the K cocks and their awkward, remote-control ability to clear ground despite they priusnear chal weight. The winter version of the garment cast a squirrel-like shadow when she'd pass over the rooftops and center stones in the hives or up against the superchanks and their cave holes at sunset. It was a beloved sight, but sometimes worshipers didn't know if it was the Chama or one of her security mannequins. Every year, a dummy is shot down by flakes or caught in one of Mthyuh's middle fingers of flame.