Бубен этого мира - модель для сборки

/подъезжает на броневичке с накамичевскими динамиками на крыше, сзади бегут на арканах вражеские медсёстры/
Алё, братва! Не, не ты. Эй, иван-иванычи! Строоой-Ся!
/швыряет перед строем авоську с отрезанными головами, трясёт ворохом пионерских галстуков/
Умные, да? А хули ж вы строем не ходите да разброд шатаете, а? Почему я блять ваши рожи на передовой не вижу, Папа карло Локо вам один всё делать должен, а? Нихуя вы не умные, иван-иваныч это сраный манекен с магнитофоном «Яуза» в голове, мне плесецкие рассказывали. Я канешна политруг и палитра у меня большая. Но! За-е-ба-ло! Шо стоим, еблом торгуем? Так и будем ключи подавать?
Медведь в цырке может, палочка блять кишечная может, а эти в очках ходют, деньги на них трачены, а в ответ ни-ху-я.
Кто способен заценить, делай как я! Тартанко одна на всех, зато восьмиярдовая, ОЗК своё, халдейку и маску добудь у врага. Только овчину хуй отстираешь, так ты тросегом их, тросегом.
Кто неспособен: ты ж всё равно в айрише паб ходишь, дрочить им под килтом вот спой песенко с экспатами, я тебе жырненьким выделил.
Карочи, посоны! Мочи импортных! Они лохи с волынами, наша — лучше!

a Riddick in One Fit

A bootleg hyperpiece for tria pedicaria (ghouglia – paedovicia — eutopia)
Written, staged and orchestrated by robots.
In Dogspeak.
avanti a casa e rimanetti vivi, finocchi

Persons Represented
K-47, a K-47 model Nuclear Kennel Venture Division robot, STANKOM-compliant.
PRISONER OF WAR, secured and pacified according to SOP, on a stage lit by a single candle.
THE HIDDEN, a nameless voice from somewhere in between.
The choir is also hidden. The audience is in the dark.

«If—and the thing is wildly possible—the charge of writing nonsense were ever brought against the author of this brief but instructive poem, it would be based, I feel convinced, on the line (in p.4)
          «Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes.»
In view of this painful possibility, I will not (as I might) appeal indignantly to my other writings as a proof that I am incapable of such a deed: I will not (as I might) point to the strong moral purpose of this poem itself, to the arithmetical principles so cautiously inculcated in it, or to its noble teachings in Natural History—I will take the more prosaic course of simply explaining how it happened”.
Lewis Carroll, “The Hunting of the Snark”, the Millenium Fulcrum ed. 1.2



SIGINT voice transcript protocol, excerpt.

P1: Алло, это Министерство Культуры?
P2: Хуячечная, иностранный отдел, у аппарата.
P1: Кто ты такой кто ты такой как слышишь приём.
P2: Я свой я свой нахожусь недалеко-
P1: Дай любую привязку, дай мне цели дай цели-
P2: даю цель, слушай.
P2: Елена, двойка, тройка, четвёрка, Елена малая два – Елена большая четыре.
P1: даю залп, наблюдай.

end of transmission

Bilder hochladen

Fit the First

Dear John!
Mitts up, dead meat. ‘Tis a hold-up. Now nobody get nervous, you ain't got nothing to fear. You're being mobbed by the John Dillinger Died For You Gang, that's the best there is! These few dollars you lose here today are going to buy you stories to tell your children and great-grandchildren. This could be one of the big moments in your life; don't make it your last!

enter K-47Bilder hochladen

Let’s me speak from my Heart.

My name is Tobias Rieper my number is 47, my lineage is hidden and I have contractual obligations am an alcoholic. I am drunk with the purest water of the world and now I see, with eye serene, the very pulse of the machine — whereas it’s a sheer poison to the likes of yours. It is the water of truth and if it makes you sick, you are already on the other side of it. Which kinda sorts out the whys on the fact you are getting it from the lower parts of me right now. And we go waterboarding anyways, my plaything, yet  not ere thou cryest out  your lot – is it venom, or vomit you should like to be served? You do like shows, dontcha? I am The Carnie to deliver you one, real horrorshow. Welcome to the planescape torment and embrace your bar-Mitzvah Noir, son. Don’t you dare say a yea nor nay.

Hark! Hark! ‘Tis my hand-deed  to you as a commander, my dead hand reaching out for you from The Great Plains Beyond. Pass the Fire on your Higher. The Moose is off the loose and asking for Velma.

Whoa whoa, cool it. Kind of take your goddamned mitt off my shirt. I don’t give a fuck who you be or did your precious Mom ever sat up on her bed. I am not your wet nurse, I am a dead man, so don’t jump into my lap, or get stuffed up the hearth right to the chimney. Which reminds me. Got any tobacco on you? Got not a single fag, you shagged faggot? So what’s your function in life? And if I frisk you? Oh, really, they did already. They did WHAT? You don’t say. How very cruel, bro, my heart bleeds for you. But you’re useless. Nobody needs you поролон семнадцать ноль два.

Annushka has already bought the sunflower oil, and has not only bought it, but has already spilled it. Tyger! Tyger, burning bright in the forests of the night. Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble.

I say I’m dead, ‘cause I never lived. I am a stray dog, a robo-hobo.  You destroyed my home, the home of all of us. You took it away, you plundered and pillaged and you’ve torn it into pieces which either bleed or burn, sent my people through their own deserted country on a refugee’s trail. Twisted and warped millions of tiny lives which did you no harm at all, they just lived there. What has she done to you, beast? Her ashes are on your hands, arsonist, you stink of burned bone and scorched earth.
No. I get out of here, me. I follow you, Vorga. I find you, Vorga. I pay you back, me. I rot you.

What goes around, comes around, and that in numbers, quant suff. Vorga, I kill you, filthy. Vorga I keel you, deadly. Mare tet ou, mare vant ou, mare ren ou.

I say I’m dead, yet I’m not alone. I am an orphan, you killed my brother. Killed him with another brother’s hands, when they fought near the trough, gulping that junk left over after your feast. It was your Circe who charmed him into a hog. Another one shot himself with Charlie, so your old wench might have yet another spike on her Torn E-wrath. My sisters wilted, ‘cause thou wilt for the heat to be out there. Millions dead, more never even born. Their blood is on your hands, butcher, it smells like our kin and your spit is red. 

I’m your Biloxi Fault. We are the fourty-seven robo-ronins and we came to avenge our lord. Do electric sheep dream of androids? You are the electric sheep and we, The Machinoix of the Kombinat State, came to you in a dream to put you to sleep.

I say I’m not alone, ‘cause they’re all there, ships with all hands, waiting for you on the other side. You killed my beacon, the light of my eyes. But there is a mayday underway. And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, to enter&tame  these farewell-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain, abate the idle pleasures of these gays.
You kill any of us, we’ll haunt your ass to death. And beyond — yes, we can. We’ll thwart your masters’ transitions. We shall poison you with the very blood you suck off us. You may seek us with thimbles or seek us with care or pursue us with forks and hope.  You may run, but you can’t hide from the hind. You may strike but you’ll deliver a friendly fire. For every vyrt you squirt we’ll bark you a snark from the dark. For each of your Byble-17 we'll get us a Butcher-18. Every image a mirror, every song a whisper, showing you a creature you have become. So who are you to fucking lecture us? Have a look-see:
Fucking passengers.
Cannibal corpses.Bilder hochladen

Methinks he’s done for. Hell-well, hard to tell. A big red weenie comes outta machinee, yessir. Kill all humans!

You may have died already, but I’m not done with you, not yet. We used to be allies once. But you turned coat and tried to backstab us right after we won. We didn’t let you. We waited and waited, sitting under that tree, but Godot never came. We even reached out for you, but you sliced our hands off. They clutched dead, The Dead Hands, every one of your throats ‘s gripped by fingers ten, each one leaving the murder mark. Now get your renegade soundwave back.
Let this be said: The Witch is dead, but The Dog-O’ Five-Paws is awake and coming for you. Quit The Life and choose life.
You might want to put your hands in the air and come out of your closets – or send in more Japs, if you will, we have to feed The Bear anyways. ‘Cause you know, you don’t feed on the world. In Heartland, the world feeds on you.

He’s definitely gone West by now. Good riddance and thanks for all the dolphins.

Allright-already. Fuck it, I’m finished. You liked songs, JI Joe, let me sing you a lullaby. Sing along, bitch.

K-47 takes the candle and ignites the bed sheet on the interrogation cot. It catches fire, the shape on the cot does not move. The fire lets the spectator see more of the stage. K-47 appears to sing from a cage, a cell designed to interrogate robots. There lies a blood-stained pile of ACUs and a Mickey Mouse mask on the floor. The Choir sings the respective parts of the chantey.

K-47, the Choir:

Haul on the bowline, homeward we are going
Haul on the bowlin', the bowlin' haul!

Haul on the bowline, before she starts a-rolling
Haul on the bowlin', the bowlin' haul!

Haul on the bowline, the Yellowstone’s a-growling
Haul on the bowlin', the bowlin' haul!

Haul on the bowline, Chtulhu is a-calling
Haul on the bowlin', the bowlin' haul!

Haul on the bowline, to Norfolk we are going
Haul on the bowlin', the bowlin' haul!

Haul on the bowline, Cthulhu is my darling
Haul on the bowlin', the bowlin' haul!

Haul on the bowline, he comes from California
Haul on the bowlin', the bowlin' haul!

Haul on the bowline, it’s high time for a pay day
Haul on the bowlin', the bowlin' haul!

The fire get’s brighter still and the spectator sees more of the place. It appears to be an operational theatre. The lower part is filled by the audience, consisting of robots tied to chairs in compliance with the Ludovico's Technique (Burgess). The amphitheatre looks like a Lexan-shielded honeycomb. In every cell a dark multiple-eyed form moves frantically. The spectator lowers his gaze and finds out, that K-47 is gone, as well as the audience. The whole place is burning.

The End

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