Story by Dan Hekate
The smell of shit permeates the small murky room; the figure takes an age to pull himself out of the chair. A tangled mess of cables stretches out from his body to a bank of machines that hum ominously in the background. The drip that feeds his arm wobbles dangerously back and forth on its spindly metal legs before a withered hand stretches out to stabilise it. From distance it would be easy to mistake the character for an old frail man, closer inspection reveals he is just a 12 year old. The boy finally makes it to the small camera that sits but a few meters away. With some effort he turns on the record button and slumps back down into his chair. He takes a moment to compose himself, rolling his tongue around in his mouth to build up enough saliva to talk.
“You fucking shithead, scumbag, self-opinionated bag of puss, putrid lump of incongruous slime, wanker with a thousand cocks and no slit to stick it to, should I go on? Do I need to? You can tell by now that I don’t like you.
You’re human face it you’re a complete cunt. I’m not ruling myself out the cycle of violence goes round and round. I was fucked over, I am being fucked over, will have my trousers regularly ripped open so I can be righteously buggered by the state, family, acquaintances and whoever happens to be passing. Yes this is revenge, but don’t worry there’ll be no curtain call for me, besides, who will clap? Who will cheer? You’re all fucking flesh fetishists, you fucking human worshippers. Do gooders ha! Charity collectors making money to fund their binge drinking, child care workers who enjoy watching naked children, police who buy drugs from political activists who eat in Mcdonalds. You’re all up to something and don’t tell me you’re not. Lying is your forte, just turn on your googlebox and watch a thousand shades of steam pressed piss dressed up as the truth claw out your eyes and replace them with 3D specs.
I read on the net that kids my age dream of nothing more than growing old, well I have Progeria, I’m growing old prematurely, I’m dying even before I manage to pull myself free from puberty and it sucks. Maybe you don’t like a child talking this way- well Fuck you; you’d be the same if all you ever did was read and watch Youtube. ‘It’s OK’ I remember my mum saying at least he has the internet. I would laugh if it didn’t hurt, but at least now there is a ray of clarity, and its called hate.
Most viruses are of a strictly diet variety designed to corrupt data, they are performed with only slight distain, something a hacker will do in his spare time. What I’m concocting is my life’s work. This digital disease will break out hell-bent on a crusade of misery. Those petty viruses will cost you an arm and a leg in spy software, messing with your life for a day or two when you won’t be able to log on or update your profile. My virus is a deeply personal project, my electronic epitaph, forged with revulsion and delivered with venom.
Artificial intelligence does not do it justice. This virus will register you for spam sites that update you 24 hours a day, installing a grating beeping sound whenever you get a new message. It will reset your pin code so that the cash machine eats your card. It will email your girlfriend dirty letters from your imaginary lover, email your mother with reports of your gun crimes, it will spend the money in your bank on paedophile sites and send sex-toys to your niece.
Best of all this virus is ingrained in your IP address, your email, it is attached to your NI code, virtually bonded to your digital self, relentless and undeletable. It will stop at nothing to isolate, stab and gut your very being and then you might have some idea how it is to be me.
And it will be so infectious, so wide spread, so destructive that you will burn your I phones, laptops, towers, mobiles, touches and hard drives, throwing in the cables and connectors just to be sure. Then maybe, hopefully, you will look at each other in the flesh and realise how despicable your best facebook pal really is, how much better they looked on screen, how much funnier they were when you had the option to junk them, block them, to turn them off and then maybe you will start living like I have never been able to.
All these psycho killers and maniacs they are far too angry. This is nothing to be realised in a hurry so it can be atrophied before it has a chance to run, cut out before it has a chance to contaminate, aborted before it can be assimilated. Besides it will be so much better when I’m dead.
When you find my rotting carcass, the blame falls on you; it’s so much harder to hate someone who’s not there. No this isn’t a public execution, me I’m going to die with the lights off. This isn’t a film this is my fucking life.”
The camera fuzzes and goes off.
- Story by Dan Hekate from Almanac for Noise & Politics 2015 An array of lights blinked across the gleaming hard black plastic of MooD’s head as slinky welcoming music box sounds came from his hidden speakers. Seth Lindstrum waved his hand in front of the sensor and the door slammed…
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