algorithmic brank

Phramsupply had developed an algorithmic brank that would allow or force others to go back and relive painful uncomfortable controversial contested incriminating moments in your past even if you yourself had no desire to do so. Their fair use claim amounted to the regulatory availability of all of your behavior conducted in the Open Domain which meant outside of content deliberately prepped and vetted for release to the public oracle dispensers, which of course would upon release also become Open Domain as well as intentionally pre-published for all time and all purposes. 

This meant that both private and public entities with private and public monitoring and recording operations could negotiate the content of your entire life since The Crack without your knowledge or participation. This would never do of course especially for those who could afford to stop it. This is what led to the Federation of Jansdaad Dads' (FJD) notorious assassination of  Mthyuh Preservation Society Pilgrim General Chang K. Chang at Chang K. Chang Chank during Same Moons since many Same Moons now. 

From: Statement

Missionaries of Same Moons 
Phyllis [trans.]

the human meat bazaars

Reptily loves telling stories of her childhood in the human meat bazaars. One endearing slave's Johnson was so large he would be ordered routinely to hold it still. It held metaphornical value as a coat rack, a radiator, a spritzer bottle. By way of salutation, you'd jive, "Just don't move, daddy!" in place of [his name] or ciao. For fear of insurrection or other friction, it was gathered to be the phrase Wayne wd encounter most often. Just as cruel were the simultaneous demands for hot verbalization. Two central desires, to act and be wordless, were denied him during moments of nature's most strenuous command. This was Wayne's work and Wayne's sacrifice. Bereft of options either for civil disobedience or employment, he wd oblige the temple-step tithe monitors to collect their coins by shameful finger from deep inside his snakeskin lucre sash.

Reptily was watching with blackened eye, from bed of filthy rag, beneath a corn hooptie when Wayne finally met his ticket to the middle chanks, a kidnapped preachers' kid from Fordamall. Jan's bare-shouldered, curly-shod traffickers were scraping her encumbrance along a pinched and moldring callejón, high on a mirrored pillow. Her veil branks was fine as wisps of smoke out the nostrils; wrought-iron finch seemed to dash for liberty from the fancy, cage-like dental installation; her head was razored to crushed velvet pile. He bought her where she sat. Without hesitation, for a five-teated cull nanny and a few ribald shouts, Wayne set Jan free. Jan took Wayne home. Jan's dad bought Wayne. Now Wayne just moans. Jan can now see. Wayne is on top. Jan says, "Don't stop..."

Obscured by Flatus

Juniper is prone to tumorous growths all over his body, inside and out. For a while he'd sprout fingery pink blobs through his teeth he could just chew off when they began to overhang the jowl. Could this gene be harvested and viralized to inhibit precocious speech development in targeted individuals within the branks candidature pools? Then a furred, tightly ballooning sack like a misplaced, second-chance set of gonads bounces pert, just above the anus and contains a hardened mass that no veterinarian will go near. Which gland has sacrificed its own capacity for infectious response or even normal secretion in a real estate so limited as among those dorsal peaks and edges? Another living, blood-pumping agent inside of him which is him-but-also-not-him rivals his spleen in size and neighboring organ displacement but can only be directly verified by enzymatic footprint analysis. Every attempt at imaging so far has been thoroughly obscured by flatus. Up top again, at the base of the tail, you encounter a particularly bulbous and aggressive eruption, black and speckled like asphalt. When he shakes his coat, sharp grains can fly in any direction as if you'd kicked a jumping cholla cactus. Your bare legs may be fairly peppered with the gummy, reduplicative particles. This is another way that Juniper expresses and sheds his cancers.

Shaded information bar insert, p. 15.
Chapter 4: "Dogshiv!"
My Boys and their Bitches
Dr. Donna Thong

Hystadelic Rejoinder

Sylvia: I don't want to put away dishes with you while you're in your underwear.

Tom (turning toward her in grey boxer-briefs with a sauce pan in one hand and a rat's tail shivknife sharpener in the other): I want to open up some opportunities for you. To talk about what you saw. I know I was all wrapped up in my time experiment, and nothing registered. Not time. Not even horror.

Sylvia: Time lies, you know. It's a liar. Put on some baggy pants and we'll talk.

While waiting, Sylvia stands absentmindedly pressing what seems like her taint against the back of a faux-Rococo dining room chair. It boasts a darkly varnished hardwood patina, and it's downright cocky about its Shorn Crushed Red borganna brusquely shielding all the parts on which one might normally leave prints. Bare-flesh contact with wood, tile, lead causes Sylvia to auto-hypnotize and occasionally seizure. Even through knits, that kind of pressure triggers a not unpleasant hystadelic rejoinder.

Since that first week when Tom began trying to explain his "announcement" about his "Pax on Us" goddess coming to save the middle chanks, it had been over. Now crime was their bond. Tom's agreement with Collie was so strong, the power of his surrender so profound, that they could only dance with the beckoning animal that kept them stepping on. Tom singlemindedly distribute shivplate, stone compasses, Hopinaskipina for his corporment sponsors until his ears bled for lack of Filter of Loathing. Everything was dephallocentri-size now.

Tom: I'm back.

Sylvia (opening her eyes): Oh.

Tom: Are you calm? Why don't you sit on that for a moment.

Sylvia (lowering slowly, bracing herself on the borgana armpads): It was a bird.... It was obscene. You never believed me; no one did, and I lost my job. Now our whole county can't leave, and our essential compositions have shifted dramatically from gaseous to chemical.

[FLASHBACK: Going over the conversation in his mind, Tom recalls a strobe light of important snippets, a bucket of chicken, Patron shots. He squints, and spits. All he can see is her lips talking. What he hears makes him want to make her stop.]

"...one wing, but like a cape. You could say pleathery. White veins...

"...I thought I saw it again last week, but high up. It looked like a letter K. Going backwards. Flying with its legs spread eagle.

"Are you listening, Tom?"

Every Trade Imaginable

The Second Home was also away from crowds but for the Pair of Masters, the only neighbors, who could see you still Locked and Parked, not gone, on their Way to Worship and from. They may step past in Black, point an umbrella or their Book, and voice concerns. The male one had the Last Say, but She Needed to talk. He seemed both Softened and Empowered by her Gentle Excretions.

The third home posed too easy an Escape for Dependents. They don't think right. In spite of hangdeliers and dripping oil statue lamps, they take you for granted as keeper and wander. The Handy Gentleman showing it off was a little hostile, yet So Hot. You could have reached into His Hat for feelings of Every Trade Imaginable.

Reliquary of K's

Every time his head surfaced, he'd scream at the cameras, "How do I kill it?! How do I kill it!" and it would again twist him under the muddy foam. They were rolling, and the beast's plastic branks had come off in the scuffle. Kevin would have been crying if he had not needed to maintain, to save his life, a fierce persona. The electronic eyes became absurd to him then. He had to squeeze these prehistoric lips together in a lovelock and keep it shut until emergency services could hooptie on over. Publicity may have been his job, but he felt he had already stretched his adventure comfort aperture nearly to snapping.

Meanwhile a family of K's coasted about 250 rods above the desert floor. While they appeared to be a team, each one was searching, lost in its own way. Parents and chillun. Their bodies knew to fly to the left of another's wind, but that was all. Then they heard Kevin Reynolds's horrific squalling.

They turned as one and on a diagonal, calm as death, swooping low enough to take him. There was no question which. As deity, a mother must step forth to challenge the moral capacity of any contrary life form.

The sweat from the back of Kevin's neck began to pool under Peg's tongue.

Clipped in her beak, flanked by her significant others, Kevin wondered if they, now, might eat him, removed from record on a windy chank cliff, solemnly, as if picking through a reliquary.

Low Star

Low star, pull your pants up
Low star, slippry and dense
Low star, walk the rooftops
Low star, impervious.

Because Kevin Reynolds experienced the miserable smoking child cardiologist as a deity, he overcompensated its malice with allowances, which were tithes. The meat divinity could slip along the gums of the spa mouth, a critical tongue clucking a roller-coasting ticker tape of praise and affront, while Kevin stood locked and branked in one spot twixt therapeutic jets and offered up a stance which looked relaxed (on a commercial for a 900 number or a mustang ranch).

Low star, a mud bottom
Low star, or a searchlight
Low star, banana trees
Low star, not high season.

Kevin looked like a statue in a grease fountain lamp, with stray dog hair, hanging on a chain. Stitching through conversation and anaesthesia, the skin-masked and sterile stethoscope imp had trapped him in a crib of adoration and scorn. The bars were taut suture wire, twisted like candy canes or stripers on poles, down which the serum ran in dizzying regular spiraling drips. A suffering physician took Kevin Reynolds's needful swell under advisement with the assumed entitlement of a faith healer rigging a magic trick or something you could plug into a cigarette lighter.

Low star, where are you now
Low star, surface drifter
Low star, moth ball in pop
Low star, gravid ardor.

When he awoke afloat in four-hundred-thread-count sheets, the message indicator on the telephone flashed like a red lighthouse beacon. There was pea seed in his hair, and the oracle was still ignited, drumming out that morning’s urgent crisis. There seemed to be no air, just a tobacco-y sealant which even caught the future and held it still. The Other Presence had left this disco-cabana world reemed and vacant as a church. Kevin Reynolds was once again a gentleman alone in society, but his manhood was broken in two.

Low star, you were fragile
Low star, melted cupcake
Low star, bloody s-curve
Low star, meanderer.

Sylvia has Second Thoughts

Worse than meaningless, I am destructive;
What dogs must track my unrepentant path?
What raptor soars at my back, designing?
Yet a conscience watches zen-like or gagged.
Consciousness. Damning participation.

At the beginning of this, I bought it:
having to count on my fingers one to...
oops, ten. Now I am a mature woman
With flow'r-print house gowns and a dishwasher.
I help my husband distribute poison.

La Chi-Chi

Chang K. Chang Chank Jr. High is a feeder school to Chang K. Chang Chank Junior College. Only way to superseed the "junior" business is to log your first kill. Until then, you are a rookie, pup, know-nothing. The enemies you seek out, identify, target, love, and eliminate must come from among your own ranks. And it's your eager junior classmates that will drop you in a sec if they smell gay sweat. High-participation kills usually stem from gaywads that disrespect the Student Council by not showing up to bloodsac, showing up to bloodsac, removing their branks in a common area, or smoking. Ask a pissy question? You are on open-kill special all week. Hungry grads can make it far: border patrol agent, correctional officer, homeland deathsquad, cop, la pasma, lawn chair and awning resource specialist, homeland airborne deathsquad, la chi-chi, heating and air conditioning repair, or Pharmsupply bitch. Some even make it to Chang K. Chang Chank Senior High, the only institution of senior learning in the chanklands, a military academy with state-of-the-art golf course maintenance laboratory, sports bar training centre and auto shop. Failing that, stake out the Hall of Pissy Whining Complainers right after the homeland airborne deathsquad hotdogs have accidentally dropped another loveturd on some poor flake's hive or chall. These citizens can be easily picked off being so predictably on their knees forced to beg for the lives of their trapped families who must be sworn to silence even with their limbs on fire. With their patriarch wiped out, dead maimed or still-struggling wives and chilluns make warm, rich and powerful comfort vittles for K's.

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.

Whus yor Brank Tace Laik?

I stayed home, had lots to do, but sat instead
in th' middle of the flo wunning cuddle so bad.

when biology and geology mesh, you have oil,
or you have something like the Pegyuh, both-

ered by metallic scales and minerally salivar-
y mucosae. They've fixed it so it grows out o-

f her but remains viable for years beyond de
-ath. She's the first we'll have the chance to w

-atch nearly shrivel and be driven, in essenc
-e, by her own hearse, the product of her ow-

n body, like a toenail, cum or hair. We inserte
-d the programmable chips shortly after birth.

As her brain dies, the RC signals will increase.
Her hideous exoskeleton will finey b in r hanz.

No scientist can give me what ahm illin fo this
eve: a barl-chest'd man t' put m'arms around.

Cuz I say Volca at vespers an will gonna have
d' will of awda peoples, dey think i can replace

her. What dey don't wanna hear is how i've alr
-eady fayld by sendyn red shiv to d'opposition.

My brank tace laika bright copper penny, but t
-hat means it's cutting my yung perfek tongue.

Pink as a Man

If you are my kids, you should know:

• I came to a point that was a climax and a dead end
• it meant ok, I'll go to jail, anything but worry
• because my objective was to get you back
• and what i believed in was all i had left right then anyway
• the Preservation Society was ended

That last one was a meaning we didn't get yet because no one had ever seen it.

Even when Mthyuh was first born the Preservation Society had already been around for a hundred WD.

I was going to find out how much freedom someone had. It hadn't been tested. Howd'ya think we learned we didn't have any?

Donna has her way of loving too much, so she's forcibly quiet now. It's a shock I'm sure. When Pharmsupply kept me in an army-green, 100%-latex catsuit with vibrating cup tips and a ball gag in me, my brank was Tasteless and Pink as a man.

my branks

www.tinypic.com

my brank

i feel thankful now that I am allowed a pen. the scold's tongue may be a weapon unfairly turned on others already weary with their own complaints, but mine, now aching so but with much less blood and spittle, is just an instrument of the words that will be there and be there and want to take to air no matter how Richard or the children or the neighbors or the council or my loving parents would like the member static. It's a rambunctious little worm though, I can feel it burn way in the back even when I spell the sound of r. I must learn-- ouch!-- to let my mind and its words have their freedom without betraying my body with signs of thought or ill feeling toward others. There i've written most of all that without a twitch. I believe it's not the blade as much-- for I've learned to relax the naked monster into the bed of my lower jaw to avoid slicing outright-- as much as a little nub of metal on a part that had not been envisioned as a jabber-- ha! jabber-- as a connecting bar to hold the four-bladed spike at the threshold of my gagging parts, so that I must be careful even taking soups when I swallow. This little nib must have been created while the metal was still hot; something nicked it, maybe the corner of an anvil. It's certainly bugging me now with the wound its created which i am sure is tiny but thats grown a hard defensive bruise all about it and a good deal of pus, from the taste. It's the little things that get you.

Who'd have imagined me, of all, taking the road of the wench, the corseted rebel, with my solid and treasured fame for years as a source of comfort from my wealth of verses, freely shared, even if I had to put something down. Hanging Jill's stockings on the fence or clipping kindling from a wrecked carriage can always come second to engagement with a fellow communitarian soul. Dick would prefer i stick to business, of course, and of course now i forever shall, His grace being abundant.

But I can still hear Auntie Shama's stories of our Christ and his pain a million times more searing than this silly brace. They couldn't even get the ring to stay in place when they tied me to a mule post on the green. Were there old friends present at the public penitence who witnessed my quiet patience and respectful demeanor even as I stood there with the rusted cuff, salvaged from an old brig, pulled loose from the rotten wood, dangling about my waist? Standing just behind the vicar as I was, would it have upstaged him further-- perhaps there was cause for condemnation even then-- as a lady with less pride might have fallen, fainted, or even tried to run and jump down the well, with her hands locked fast in mode of prayer? That they would have understood; they would have understood me then.

But now I am on this path, where it takes me. Goody Beth returned to a measure of favor-- they had her lighting candles and giving out sprigs of lavendar at Thursday vespers. Even women who were never her peers, maybe especially them, found it easy to smile and thank the poor wife and exchange an earnest Godbewith, even with her funny way of speech since then.