Tale 1.02.33 Rev C Cyberprize - Joe Coluccio

 

Just in the moment after the surfacing sleep state flickers REM and just before the overwhelming urge to relieve himself Monte Marcovitz scribbled notes purple ink on yellow virtual pad.  The whole autonomic dream writing notion had been post hypnotically suggested to him by Papa Babadontanakis a Pre-Socratic Greek Peripatetic Counselor while channeling a late night cable network infomercial.  Monte remained an irritated but faithful scribe.  Months ago he had balked at the clumsy habit of free typing the surging psychic energy that shocked his brain to near consciousness nightly via keyboard.  He purchased a clever oriental tablet and stylus that connected in serial manner to the honking database engine that covered a good portion of the dust under his metal chic desk.

His claw clamped hand around the silver stylus gliding on jaundiced plastic screen he wrote.  Describing his location in rising reverie dead center in the gigantic binary digit farm of some superhetrodyned universal computer.  Knobs below that looked like a vintage nineteen hundred and thirty eight Martian seduced radio, the projection vid screen itself a large green and brown irised reptilian eye, blinking Monte forward to a richer world of virtual somnambulism.  He, his mind and several more urgently glowing physical components of his aura conjoined with the late showing, channel 766, unraveling Niagara plot, desperate character and noir story b&w.  All the while he scratched, yawned and chatted.  As scene resolved he was confronted with a luscious blond dream of a woman who winking beckoned him toward a spiraling walkway that led into the depths of a mighty water fall.  She had little trouble managing the narrow steps that led downward and moved in a mincing motion that was erotically reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe.  So down Monte followed, hanging on to the slick wrought painted gunship gray metal railing.  Deeper and deeper spiraling closer to the white roiling water.  It thrummed around him like harmony from a bass lyre.  The sight of her maddeningly rounded hips pulled at him like Odysseus' crew tumbling to the Sirens.

 

Swallowing a gulp of early morning spittle he struggled awake briefly, choking.  Frantic he arched himself back to the miraculous world of Lorelei.  He caught up to her and she smiled alluringly.  It is possible that she said some coy things about him being a big cute boy but his winnowing sense of self worth managed to blot that brand of aggrandizement.  And then they made love.  Made love.  O it was more than passion rocking and teetering above a gorge that led perhaps to the center of a universal harmony.

In that tension between twittering eye and relief, Monte began to reason that it was not physical love and it was not love bred by the yearnings of his deeply twisted psyche, but it was virtual dreamstate love played over the nexus of a complex network, surfing on the cusp of an informational black hole.  Sucking him, his burgeoning adoration, and a fetid faint erotic odor, into a vortex of grave wakefulness.  Marilyn My Marilyn!

The next day, several minutes after he cracked open a hard boiled egg that managed to lend a pungent unpleasant sulfurous smell to his cubicle,  a smallish envelope appeared in the lower corner of his blue plain outrageously conservative computer screen.  He opened the message.  The world slipped time and notion.

'Hi my big cute boy!  I enjoyed our tumble and blow dry last night.  I shiver naked at the thought of the grace of your spirit and hunger grievously for the soft touch of your chubby suckerless digits.  I would like to meet you in a shared reality before the fall so that we can dance and discuss our obvious and mutual magnatraction.' Signed 'Marilyn Your Marilyn."

Monte mauled it over and decided that a cautious reply to the decidedly seductive mail wouldn't risk much against the reward proffered.  He was not, or so he believed, the kind of dupe that would end up with a hairy black bearded malodorous hobnailed booted biker playing soft to his amorous advances.  Stories like this were rife on the chat.  Marilyn his or no.  Voluptuous hips or no.  Digital digitus or no.  He was bound to approach this relationship in slow deliberate steps no matter how much steam had developed in their precious previous production.  'Enough,' he thought with a smile, 'to light American side for the year!' 

He carefully constructed a message that made him blush faintly and signed it with something more sexually coquettish than 'your cute big boy' but equally embarrassing and plunged the send icon.  The world shook flow and motion... Fifth floor, one half mile from downtown center, the whole reality of work abuzz around him.

While Shelby was entering extremely squiggly data dropping about a line a second.  While Juan the mail guy was winking and fingering both the cross and chai pendant that he wore under his tight brown male shirt.  Gleaming gold metal lying salaciously in a clump of his thick dark chest hair.  While Marla was polishing the short napped tan carpet with the pointy toe of her shoe cleaning the cracker crumbs that sprayed from her mouth as she spoke into the speaker of the black wire wound telephone head piece that adorned her.  She issued a glossolalia of business sounds to a fully engaged world.

 

Monte was off.  Straddling the soft world, connecting network node with seven league boots, rushing headlong trumbull like toward the tubes and glass blocks.  Pinging from bumper to post.  Pushing from terminal to bus.  Rhyming in the rhythm of the beast.  At long last a long she was there.  Statuesque.  A bold diaphanous dress that contoured the delightful dips of her torso.  Gilt slippers that enhanced the exquisite tan of her distinctly muscled legs.  A jeweled crown lending a shining blue and red and white radiance to the honey of her hair.  She held out a bulbous glass of reddish sweet liquor in her left hand and delicately sipped from it her teeth like a vision of vampire.  They embraced, awkwardly grasped and mated their right hands.  Under a fullish moon that resembled, a corner of dark cloud encroaching, a bitten crescent, blue and drooping uncooked, fatigued in the universe of wonder.  And talked.  Small things.  The state of entropy.  Did Clarence Goodbody deserve his wings?  Is it true that mycology can make you develop fungal bunions?  Bliss!.

She whispered so intimate so wet into his inner ear.  'Our energy  wanes.  We have no power to continue.  Unless you detect us, I fear we will not meet again.'

'No!'  He cried, 'you are the one!'  Or tried his message muffled as she with her rough tongue licked the left corner of his mouth clean.

Marilyn giggled drunkenly.  'I ...we...never expected this touch.' She hesitated with pouting lips.

'I bid you,' she touched his arm with a wet finger, 'a dew. '

'I bid you,' she suffered against him shivering, 'a due.'

'My big cute boy I bid you, adieu .' Was gone, a wisp of sweet breathe remained.

 

And Marla was taping him on the shoulder wondering if she could borrow his bright green highlighter.  Juan handed him two envelopes and made his hand into a Sig Sauer, fired, blew wind across his smoking finger, before moving on to touch Shelby's breast ever so lightly as he handed her a parcel.

 

Nothing for days.  No chat.  Message after message unanswered.  Deleted.  An endless pace of mildly interesting divertive spammed mails 'bout the size of his penis, the bald spot on his gradually tonsured head, the miraculous new  breast massager (not tested on chickens or any living fowl), a treatise on the healing power of onanism, three chicks and a guy who got it on with five goats and an Alaskan Wolf Hound, and a three quarter size replica of Mount Rushmore rendered in goose feathers and fat.

 

Nothing for nights.  Endless showings of endless hookless movies in two dimensions.  Repeated.  You could count the seconds on a stadium of wiggling fingers.  He imagined a concert from his fluffed pillow and in slow motion he figured  images of swaying backlit hands, counting endlessly the reasons deep into the fitful dark night.  How could he have been so careless?  What madly inappropriate topic had he picked?  Was it  his love of Maupassant's The Horla that had turned her beautiful full loquacious lips to silence?  Had he spoken of diving off the pier in Atlantic City with Aunt Alicia's stallion once too often.  Perhaps it was the nosegay that he imagined  to present to her with a flourish and a dry sack of his most charming wit.

 

Nothing for a day and night of years.  He waited faithfully in the morning, boiled egg stuffed into his mouth for the ching and drag of the envelope icon.  Co-workers shook their heads until he lost his job.  Marla asked him out for dinner.  He found himself irritated by her pale lifebuoy fragrance and appalled by her loutish humor.  In the restaurant over a deep fried lobster she nattered so constantly in Javanese that he left early and walked dejected over the wet city streets.

 

He consulted his old mentor, the greeked late nite sage with the large gap front teeth, a ripvanwinkle beard and a large mole implying a third eye.  Baba beat a tambour in a slow irregular rhythm as he sold pieces of religious jewelry to an enlightning audience.  Monte helpless hopeless called the number, breathed heavily as he spoke into the small speaker holes of his cell phone.  On the Cosmic Shopping Channel  as the world watched and bought, he told the whole story while the Baba pedaled golden graven images of religious significance.  A dangling Jesus, the image of the Pope on a Bar of Soap, A dredl suitable for Vegas, Elvis lambent in a wide lapel white jump suit on a black velvet background, a zaftig prostitute washing the feet of an emaciated preacher, a bible written on the head of a pin cushion in brail in Sanskrit.  At the redundant commercial break, Baba set Monte to a side monitor and suggested a meeting with Madame Sosso and her coven of supernatural navigators.  "Believe me, my boy," he said  while his image was superimposed over a burbling brook shilling for holy soothing waters, " a fully networked séance is the answer.  We can connect maybe with the whole messugah world prime time and Madame Sosso will divine the whereabouts of your amorous chicky chunk.  It will be a cash cow!  Call me tomorrow.  Such a dill!  Such reality!"

 

 

 

High hennaed hair, Madame Sosso, sat on a low back chair on her suburban sun porch.  Monte, miles to the right, on the edge of his metal three legged milking stool, stylus and mouse at the ready, a joystick for the touch, adjusted the gain.  Papa Babadontankis smiled from his pillow on a hovering flying carpet his arms curved in a lotus.  The supernatural navigators one anchored in each corner of the world connected sharp teeth ready for the overbyte.  All rooms darkened at the command count down of the studio floor manager.  Madame Sosso began to wail a jumble of hexed words.  Calling for a weather report of the winds.  The National Emergency Weather Service obliged.  NASDAQ was waning and Pork Futures flourishing.  The Yanks were down by four in the eighth.  A government was overthrown in South East Asia another in South America secured the chains.  She declared all the signs propitious.  Energy from her opened mouth snaked out of klystron tube and poured down optical and copper cable found its way out of the ocean of net over the four secured land launches and surged into outer space.  Whisked its way over the 21 centimeters strong backdrop, smashing all physical event, a turning worm then a raging dragon toward an alien little beachless planet located roughly in Orion's girdle.  Monte felt his hair stand and the bubbling of something on the back of his neck.  Madame Sosso keened on, a conduit between this netmesh and the next.  An instantaneous image was received world wide at 9:36 PM. It looked like a mat of sagging wet spinach on a gentle wave of chicken soup.  To Monte it was Marilyn.  She/it/he/they arose and felt for his hand.  "You've found me (us)!" Several million viewers unable to resolve the image to a simple single sexed woman watched with nervous energy as Monte and the what looked like a swamp of polyps embraced.  He proposed marriage.  "It's bigamy at least" said the Right Reverend James over on channel 165.  "It's merely interspecies." Said the Polymorphous Society in a www circulated encyclical.

 

The ceremony celebrated gavel to gavel in sixteen of twenty-four time zones simultaneously hot was a simple one.  Baba Papa was immersed beyond his beard in a dark aqueous solution that mimicked the world of the Sargasso as the combined Marilyn came to be known affectionately worldwide.  Monte wore white robe laid against his pale skin tightened above his waist with a mauve cummerbund his legs captured by sandals tied in looping leather straps over ruby socks, which wicked water as he and Baba sputtering climbed up to a dais set on a platform on the platinum colored beach.  Atmospheric light dampened, a spot narrowed and keyed in the wide world of interactive monitor.  Some participants played Monte some Marilyn most both.

"Do you take this organic oceanic stringing mass for your lawful weed and so forth?"  mouthed Baba.

Monte assented.

"And you, Marilyn," the wet stringy image became a white gold lady dress blown up over splayed legs "do you take this lump of mud,"  the governor of a south western state commuted the death sentence of a palooka, " in slickness and in wealth..." Italy rallied over Manchester United, " for beatitude or for snoring..." Several houses on a primrose lane had a red light sale.  " To love until varnished...  " The Interstellar League of Worlds was born in San Francisco." Till debts do you part...?" In an open field just outside of Rorschach, Indiana five men and women made conjugal eyes at a meadow of livestock.

"I," he/she/they/it, "do." .

"I end this high cosmic comedy of heart by pronouncing you specially specious and spurious species"

Monte Marilyn, atremble, one emotion undesolved, lived hungrily ever after by the light of a cycling moon.