I Dreamt

I dreamt that I had to save the kitten, he was at the bottom of the river, playing in the wet dunes – oblivious to the danger. The crocodile which I, the camera man, had been filming myself, and the tail – the ominous tail, the idea of the crocodile lurking just below.

I dreamt that last night, but I woke up in another dream.. a dream where I was just someone’s property on a set, like an animation, a 3D character who could be filled with any concept. I saw the cracks in the dream word, I met a boy… his name was not Todd… or Toby… or something like that. He said he was new, that I shouldn’t be there, here in the dream world. But I was everywhere in the dream world.  I had to fall asleep again, I am awake now in the world – I walk down the street and many people notice me, there is something about me they like to look at, I do not know what – but I smile at all of them not to seem rude. I am happy, and confident. But then the dream comes back. The dream where I was just a shallow concept in somebody else’s sleep. I had to steal a part of myself, I had to steal it to become whole. To become whole in the dream world. To be free.

I saw myself through his eyes, I was in him, inside his head and I saw myself, something curious – something he wasn’t sure how to feel about – he had to follow her. He followed her down the street and into a door, he did not know what the building was for – there was no sign. He went in anyway just to see. But she had disappeared into a maze of stairs and doors. He had not the will to continue to follow her. I stole it – the concept I stole it from his head. I stole the idea that I was a curious being to be followed. I stole the idea that he was too weak to follow further.

I woke up again, and I walked. The sun shone through tall tall pine trees on the roof. On a hill, over exposed they  walked ahead of me, I followed snapping photos. I followed and they talked and they turned to talk to me, it looked like the wanted me to stop,  but I wasn't really listening in the wind so they ignored me and carried on. And I snapped a photo of them and I stole the concept that I was stalking the other, and I was not accepted into the tribe. I walked further following them, and then I was part of them. We were outside the rusta sweet shop that sold mushrooms, and then there was the boy…the one who I had not called back, he looked at me betrayed, and I stole that thought from him, I the betrayer. I the flake, the commitment phobic. They were all ideas anyway.

I woke up and I walked and the boy I had not called back did not see me, I carried on walking. It was Autumn, dark oranges and red, falling leaves swirling in background peripheries. I do not know where I am going, the sky is grey. I am accompanied only by crows. They crow larger and larger the further I walk, as I walk my past closes in on me, black-holing my taken footstep. And I run, as it rains, torrents of rain. To a pool. In the sun, I'm on holiday it feels. But the pool is not a pool but a small area of beach surrounded by high and sharp looking mountains. But it is clear and inviting, and we swim. We climb the beginnings of the rocks as they jut out the water, as high as we dare and we jump. The water is not empty. Small sand sharks laze around the shallower warmer waters, now growing green algae. I see my mother on the shore, but the water is rising. I swim from the rocks, alone now, the green water gaining murk, and out of the murk appears the fin, I am almost by the stairs that lead up to the flat, the that long drive I had been on before the pool. There were no crows. It was a dream. I shook myself off on the stairs, and stole the concept of being someone’s child, I stole it from my mother. And when I awoke she did not see me, and I walked through the passage of a house, trying to find a room to rent. I found a room full of guitar cases, an attic, full of dust, at the end of the attic a window onto a hill with barb-wire running across it, the fence behind it. There were people downstairs, they were recording music. I think, they said the landlord was lost. I stole the concept of homelessness from them. I stole it and kept it for myself.

I woke up in a shack town, the boy Todd… Toby…was there he told me I was in trouble, he told me that the managers were going to delete me. He told me I was animatronic that he loved me. I stole his love. And I fell asleep…   But no one knew me when I woke up. 

The Shape Shifter

We were meant to be driving to Potchefstroom to pick up my brother. No, we were driving to Potchefstroom; I could see our movements as if on a road map moving away from Johannesburg. I was with the man. He has a grey beard, rather big boned, but slim in a slightly over-weight kind of way. And he was solemn underneath his game ranger style peak cap. We drove in silence along the highway, the Highveld stretching out on either side, not a soul. The world seemed empty, just the grey man and I. Driving. It seemed like hours before the girl in the road appeared. Lying, as if broken, on the left hand side of the road. There were trees to the right, dark in contrast to the sunlit plains. The girls black hair covers her face, she does not move as we approached her; and then as the nature of dreams provide, I am in the forest. The girl is not a girl but a shape shifter, a snake. She seems to surround me with multiple crackling holograms of herself. Her eyes glow a weird red, like you can’t really see them because you’re focused on her presence. It is not really there. The girl and the snake merged like one; but neither. She has me in her grip and I struggle to beat her, to drag myself free, but I do. And then she is in the car shifting, through non-entities in the back. Five other girls, ghostly, and I am in the backseat with them. I cannot stop her, she is too strong. She attacks rapidly, repeatedly slashing from through the floor. Darting in and out, snake mouth open, fangs ripping at the flesh of my flesh. But the man with the beard grabs her, just before the snake has me.  He breaks her, her halves sandwiched on top of each other. He carries her body back to the other side of the road, where we found her. I get into the car. The back seat is empty. The man with the grey beard is in the driver’s seat. We start driving. Calm at first, but then rapidly accelerating.  My belly rises like lead. As I brace myself I look to my right, she is there - the shape shifter, the body snatcher, in the driver’s seat. She flickers in the back, out of the corner of my eye, through the ghost girls. And she grins as she hits the breaks, and I fly. 

Wednesday, May 12, 2010, Johannesburg

(This was written in 2010 and was originally published in Vixxen magazine, September 2010. Illustration by Joe Doe)

The chord was stuck in my head playing over and over again, monotonously. Brain thumped with red wine hang over, chills gripping me then passing into nausea. I open my eyes, it is morning. I only know this because there is a lance of light streaking through the heavy curtains. The curtains are on my left, this is not my room. I panic momentarily and turn my head. Not my bed, not a bird that I know. Not the universe I wake up in on a regular occasion. I sit up, and look hard at the bird, trying to remember details of the night before. Where did it start? What’s today? Wednesday, last night was Tuesday. Band practice. No, band practice had been cancelled. Jazz was sick, or so he said. Wait Jazz, FUCK, I lost him at some point last night, outside a bar. Where was the bar? Think, think harder, a hazy memory of a blue lit alley, was the sign blue? Blue signs, blue signs, what bar has blue signs? None I visit regularly. Where were we before? Fuck, why is it all so patchy.  One step at a time, the beginning.  No band practice, where was I when I heard the news? At the Tikki, getting blazed and playing guitar with Lucky and Zee. Well Zee wasn’t blazing he’s not the type, and he wasn’t jamming either, it was just Lucky and I doing that. Business was slow, recession and all, Zee had no one to tat. I considered letting him give me one for shits and giggles, but thought better of it. Zee was tattoing himself.  Well preparing to when this bird walks into the shop. She was dressed in the height of 50’s rockabilly fashion, we all were, well with a modern twist of course. Wife beaters and skinny black jeans.  Leopard print dresses, showing off curves. Man’s ruin tattoed to an arm, a bird in a martini glass holding three aces. The song switches from Led Zep to a scratchy, low-down-dirty, blues number; Lucky got up, “Hey, what can I do you for?”

“My name Is Lula, firstly, secondly if you want to do me you look like you’d be a good shag – my car’s down stairs. And thirdly I want Zee to tattoo this to my skull” And with that she whips off her wig of glorious black bobbed hair, and hands Jade the design.  “You don’t look like you’re doing much else.”

Lucky takes the paper, not flinching at the bird’s forwardness, though you could see he was considering the idea of her shaven head banging against the car door. Lucky was like that, one tracked mind. And to be honest the bitch was fine.

“Pretty rad design, who did it?” he jerks his head a slight fraction upwards diverting his gaze to the birds rack.

“I don’t know.”

“Shweet, we got a special on at the moment, 3 hours of work for a grand.”

Lucky handed me the design, it was weird, almost like you couldn’t tell where one line started and the next began. I could see many things in it, faces, and patterns, all merging and changing from beast to creature to infinite nothing. I pulled back into reality. Do you want it this size?

“It has to be done free handed, it doesn’t have to be perfect, as long as the basic idea is there. I hear you’re the best.” She directed her gaze at Zee, who shrugged, cocking his head a little to the left in an off-handish manner.  I handed him the design, he looked at it, put it down, and put on his gloves. “Sit” he says, pointing to the already prepped bench. He wiped her head, and began working. I was mesmerized, watching the shapes grow outwards from the centre of the birds cranium. They had their own life it seemed, stretching out as the needle buzzed away, insistant on getting its job done, Zee merely acting as part of the machine. He was oblivious to Lucky and I. The bird didn’t flinch once, just sat there as all the dreams and nightmares one could imagine spread across down the back of her neck, and ran down her spine, I don’t remember her taking her top off, but she there she was topless, Zee still working, then her pants were off, the forms spiralling down the inside of her thigh. Lucky was kissing her, pulsating his fingers on her clit, gently at first then harder and faster bringing her to climax, while Zee worked on her exposed flesh. And I watched, until it was over, the spell broken. She had left by then.

“What the fuck man? What the fuck just happened?”  Those words were coming out of my mouth.

“Awesome hey, never seen you play like that before in your life.” Said Lucky grinning.

“Play? Play what man?” I didn’t trust his grin.

“That song you were jamming man it was intense.”

“Yeah dude,” said Zee glancing up from his arms, the needle still buzz buzzing away.

I left the shop, thoughts of distrust running through my mind, thoughts of taking Lucky’s head and smashing a needle through his eye. Why would he lie, coz he’s a cunt, that’s why. He’s just trying to confuse me. A beggar woman stopped me outside Cantina, gave me a sob story, showed me her mangled tit. Says she needs money to get to the hospital, to buy bread, anything. I give her the Fanta I was sipping on, it’s warm and flat but it’s all I have. Gotto give give give, it all comes back. That’s how it works here. Nobody has a lot, but we all have something to give. Even if it’s a jab in the eye for being a filthy cunt rag. I kept replaying that image over and over in my head, feeling Lucky’s eye give way to the sharp sharp needle, his mouth twisting in surprise and terror, till I got back to the flat.  I don’t remember the walk really. Or what happened between lighting a few candles and the phone call. It was the bird from the shop. I knew Lucky was lying. “Meet me at Billy Psychos, you know it right?” Yeah, I knew it. Just off Louis Botha, the only place you could get a drink and smoke a blunt at 3am free from interference from the piggies. I checked my watch, 12am. What had I been doing for the past 4 hours? I grabbed the keys. Blew out what was left of the candles, and headed out, locking up behind me. Grabbed a taxi bus, had to hop in front, I hate being change man. Interacting with people when I’m not in the mood. The taxi screamed up empire and swung a reckless short left onto Louis Botha, the driver took another swig from his juice bottle. Pumps the music loader; the party in the back heats up. I jump out at the next stop walk the last couple of blocks, it’s not as cold as it could be for this time of year. Soon the cold will be heading straight down to the core of your bones, and spread out through your rib cage, leaving you feeling thin and degenerated, while you cough black mucus out of your lungs because the air is so dry. Billy’s is located in a side alley, I only ever know which one the right road is by peering down looking for the fairy lights on the balcony. I find it, turn left, the door buzzes me in, there’s a camera outside, but I don’t know where it is. No one I know as I walk up the stairs; just birds, with pointy noses that are too long for their faces, giving me the ‘What you doing here? Punk Boy’ attitude. I ignored them. Walked into the small crowded bar, got a drink, sat in the corner. The bird wasn’t there in amongst the late night crowd as far as I could tell. I checked around to see if any new alien sightings had been posted on the walls. There were always headlines about aliens now a days. “Illegal aliens massacred”, “Aliens removed from city centre”, and my favourite of the night “Alien trafficked my baby”. I spied a hottie at the bar, short red hair, crazy tats running down her neck. Her back was to me, so I walked in close behind her and whispered, “Sweet fuck you are fine” into her ear.  She leans in close to me, tilts her head upwards, it’s the bird from the shop. Just with a different wig. “Hey Tiger, want to have some fun, seeing as you missed out earlier?” I pull away, “Ah eh. You’re coming back to Lucky with me.”  I took her hand- it felt cold, clammy, fish like. We walked down stairs, downed my beer at the door at the request of the bouncer, and headed up to the main road to catch a taxi bus.

The bitch didn’t say one word the whole trip just sat there while I planned my revenge on Lucky. I knew the cunt rag fucker was lying. Knew it like I knew there was shit in the last chick I licked’s cunt hair. I bashed on Lucky’s door. Grating my knuckles on the security bars. Which only made me angrier, I was still in control though. Could give the lanky fucker a right talking to and a small thumping for lying through his skeef toothed grin. No body answered. I knew he was here, or Jazz was here, he was sick right. Wouldn’t be elsewhere if he was sick. I stopped hammering. Took the birds slimy fish hand, and stormed down the stairs back onto fourth ave, straight to Mama’s, he was probably playing foos, drunk the fuck, stead of sleeping nice nice for work in the morning. I cool down as I walk across the street, don’t want to lose face by getting rowdy at the wrong cat.  Walk through the door, greet the waiter, walk to the bar, looking cool calm and collected. I order two brandy specials, still holding the chicks claw. I lean up against the bar, checking out the place, a few familiar faces. No one I’d talk to, I check the foos table, and there are the boys, sickly Jazz and cunt Lucky, looking like their on a real streak. High fiving, and laughing behind my back. I head for the table, the bird in tow. Weird how she never says anything. Chicks usually natter on about nothing. “Not look so sickly now, eh Jazzy boy?” I say patting him, heavy like, on the shoulder.   “Got sick of being in the house man, you know. Still not feeling hundreds. Not even drinking mate. Only been here a half hour.” Lies, defensive fucking lies I thought. “Sure mate, like you to meet this bird.” Lucky and Jazz turn to look where I’m gazing. There was no bird there, I was holding her hand two seconds before and she’d vanished. Fuck. I see her by the bar, heading for the door, and speed out after her onto the street. “Skitzo mofo!” Lucky yells at my receeding leathers.  Cunt.

 The bitch is a little further down the street, standing under a street light. The glow makes her tattoos shine fluorescent greens and yellows, weird – never seen ink like that before. She’s gazing up at the light, a cyber punk moth caught in the spines of technology. I get closer, her tattoos are moving, creating layers of reality drifting slowly past each other, the cogs spinning away slowly. I stand mesmerized as they melt off of her body onto the concrete and slide like surf towards my Docs. “The mothership is coming.” She says as the layers of ink distort my feet, they become merely the idea of feet, wrapped in layers of fluid meaning.  I feel warm comfort as notions of stability and convention are replaced with a deeper understanding of what reality is not. I can no longer see the bird, or the street, or the shops, or the Jo’burg skyline that sits off in the distance. I can no longer understand what these thoughts mean, or why they have any relevance. I am alone in the haze of images, ideas, breaking apart like clouds in a blender. Reconstituted as part of the whole. I am the bird, the street, the city that manifests itself through man. I am no longer man. I am beyond man, beyond earth, beyond universe. I am the beginning, I am the end. I have transcended.

And here I am in this bed, but it’s my bed, and there’s no bird. Just a ringing cell phone; Jazz’s name flashing on the screen. “Yo,” I say pushing the green button.

“Lucky’s dead, someone beat the shit out of him outside Mama’s.”

A gleeful grin spreads across my jaw. The Lucky cunt deserved it. 

Illustration by Joe Doe

Subjective Reality

Man raised the apple in thanks to the apple tree, he is content to sit and ponder the knowledge bestowed upon him by Mother Nature. She is always kind. To him she gave bees. And with that the antiseptic honey. She had given him herbs which cleansed wounds, and lessened fever. She had granted him wood for comfort, and water to sustain his being. She had given him all that, and still he will turn against her, enslave her gifts and poison their function. Pixel knew all this so he closed that door and opened another.The kitchen, it was a familiar room. Within it he had a familiar routine. Coffee. His first muscle moves in its direction. And the rest of his body follows. Mechanically he goes through the motions. His mind opening another door, a disused one.

One he had forgotten had existed in the far recesses of the corners of his mind, under a pile of boxes and newspaper. For it is a well- known fact of the universe that newspaper and mouldy boxes seem to propagate in forgotten corners. They are in fact the breeding ground of the lesser known race of Aphodiums, a small mould dwelling creature whose survival was determined and evolved specifically to fill that space of human consciousness; the one that allows humans to leave discarded boxes and newspapers in inconspicuous corners. But it is what is behind this alternate universe that Pixel is interested. He wades through the waste to the door. It is plain. Almost like an office door of a lonesome file storing closet. It even sigh(n)ed in contentment when he opened it. It was The Room Full of Forgotten Ideas. 

And through its corridors shaped by rows upon rows of stacked and mouldy boxes (and newspapers) he finds a box. The box marked: “Berkeley”. It is sitting on top of the box marked “Cornflakes” and below “An Idea for a new type of s…”, the rest of the word was non-existent. It was a very small box. Probably only big enough to fit the first half of its title inside. Pixel wandered if it shouldn’t perhaps be kept in the room of unfinished ideas. But stopped that thought before he opened the tangent door. He focused his attention back on the box marked “Berkeley”. And removed the unfinished idea’s box so that he could pull out the object of his attention. He sets it gently on the ground. And opens the box. He peers over the edge, and is pulled by invisible hands, over the edge. And he falls.

 A worm hole. “Fuck, someone else’s perspective.” Thinks Pixel as he prepares for the inevitable impact.  It was a soft one, he glooped into the surface, and gloobed back out. A soft jelly like substance of bright orange surrounded him, although it was only one of many multi coloured shapes which made up the vast and empty land scape. Except over in the distance he saw, when he had stood up and turned around, something that resembled a small town in outline. “Guess that’s where I’m heading.”

“The only style, is no style, and that what you got little miss, my stoic little miss, green eyed slave, jaded jade sung lover.” Sung Pixel as he walked at an easy pace at what now appeared to be a long jelly wall around the outskirts of the city. He was never in any rush. Slow Jams for life. Thoughts spun by so fast that the real world barely moved unless he made it do so. His thoughts turned back to Dream. Punk rock pixie of a bi polar nature. A wild one. A real rocker in roller. And how he was not in love with her. But he loved her. She was his partner in crime. It is better this way. To be in love is to be in anguish with one another, to share a heightened state of the awereness of love. But with it came the heightened frustration of always being together because that is what people in love do. And so they become trapped. And the intense loneliness that accompanies their times apart. This sort of love never lasts. It is obsession. But to just love, there is no captivity. The feelings are lessened, the cause of loneliness and frustration not directed at that specific person. They become just feelings.  Part of the greater fabric of human thought. He stopped and reflected on the contradictions that arose in his though process, but was pretty sure as far as basis for his beliefs the logical thoughts behind them could be understood through feeling. His mouth still sang “I can only be your brother, incestuous of a different sort.”

Back in the kitchen the kettle had been switched on the mug being dug out the watery dish piles. At least he rinses them before letting them stack up precariously on the surrounding table tops. A South African Police Services van driving past the window, on its monotous route.

The gates were not far off from the direction he had come from in relativity to the happenings in the kitchen. There was nobody guarding them, so he opened a whole in the gelatinous substance, and crawled through, the stickiness rolling into itself as he did so. Like the withering tips of a petal. On the other side was a deserted street. With an assortment of structures of various colours lining the streets. And then he saw a movement. At the far end of the street, someone had turned around the bend. Or something to be more precise. As it drew closer it became clearer that the being seemed to be quite similar to an overweight tyrannosaurus rex. It was blue. And had the quality of a large eyed anime monster. It was cute. It spoke in a Mexican accent. It was the Monster Merv.

“Merv? What are you doing here? Last time we saw each other was in The Land of the Playa.”

“Oh, it is sad sad story, I met an evil fate at the hand of a warlock who lured me in under the pretenses of her being a woman. She in turn turned me into a woman, having to lift a curse off of herself. Some sort of warlock joke to spread dark magic through the universe. You know the story.”

“And now you are a t-rex?”

“That is another story, the one after the Land of the Playa.”

“Start with the the warlock one..”

So they sat on the street corner and Merv told his tale. Pixel later turned the first half of it into this song.

“In the land of the playa, the one eyes snake is king

And he sits on his throne all day, giving me that evil grin.

“Now I’m sitting pretty, in my cage of sin

And Im starting to wander, how did all of this begin

In the land of the playa the virgin is the fool,’

She’s young an she’s truthful an exception to the rule

And I stare at her with green eyes, imagining her fate

And how life’s twisted fingers, pointed my towards hate

In the land of the playa, redemtion’s a hollow grail

A twisted grinning mega phone willing me to fail

Now get on your knees, sing the gigalo’s song.

Let your tears tell the story of how this all went wrong.”

“So, you got turned into a woman, fell in love with a man, who was in love with someone else. Killed her. Got caught, through many hours of redemptive soul [searching?] sitting in a cage, you earned yourself a new form?”

 “Si” Said Merv, hanging his head

Pixel laughed, Merv hung his head in shame. Since a journey into the drug realm he had been changing forms constantly. And seeking his old one which had been stolen by a pack of roving aliens on Sub-Beta 6.

Back in the kitchen, the mug had been washed, the kettle close to the boil. Pixel reaching for the coffee.

“Come I must take you to the king, Berkeley, it’s the only way you can get out of this place. He stays at the pet emporium.”

The Sad Story of Berkeley

Berkeley sat in his dome, his space filled with books

Curious children came by and gave him funny looks.

They would never choose him. So he sat and materialised a world around himself, a world not unlike his own, except that there was no one there, but himself. And he could pick and choose ideas as the came to him and bring them forth into the world. He thought himself rather powerful, rather knowledgeable, and rather wise about his ideas concerning the world. He envisaged a world devoid of people, he became solipsistic to the extreme, he chose to erase the external world; leaving it a shapeless mass of jelly. Uninhabitable. These thoughts were of a bad wisdom. The type of wisdom it is good to know exists, so you can avoid it. It is one that springs from insecurity. And insecurities are powerful beings in their own right, to keep them contained within the human form is not an easy job. Berkeley had irked his duty, he had freed his captives from their fleshy bonds and let them loose on the world. And they had permeated; and slowly one by one, all the people left, leaving just Berkeley in his glass dome. Lost in his thoughts all day. The empty jelly world stretching out, endlessly around him.

“Hmmmm” pondered Pixel. “So what does he think you are?”

“He thinks I’m a rogue figment of his imagination.”

“Ah! I see.”

“See what?” Said Merv

“The entrance to the wormhole back home.”

“You do?” Said Merv in amazement

“Ah huh!” Pixel skipped one beat and posed. “it’s all a matter of matter over mind.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You don’t need to, just follow my lead.”

The Pet Emporium was a few buildings down the street. Pixel nipped a quick jump into a memory vault, and pulled out a few rebuttles to solipsism. None of them seemed adequate, but he knew it was in the delivery of the argument, not the argument itself. So he prepped himself with all sort of incoherencies.

He strided up to Berkelely’s dome, Berkeley looked up at him, his first thought being. “He was giving me the evil eye.” Pixel opened his mouth.

“Bonsoir, mon petit chou, parle-vous le francais?” Silence. “Non? Bon.”

Berkeley stared at Pixel with concern, the voices had always been coherent up till now. This one clearly made no sense to him. Pixel opened his mouth again.

“What I said was. Good evening my little cabbage, do you speak French? No? Good. In this this I have thus proved that this world you exist in does not only exists within your mind. For if it did, you would only have the limitations of your mind from which to work. But clearly you do not know French, therefore I am not a figmnent of your imagination, but a sentient agent. Proven by the fact that you could have never predicted this.”

Berkeley glared. “I could have made up French, and then imagined a character speaking it.” replied Berkeley.

“Did you?” inquired Pixel.

“Did I what?”

“Create that French language.”

“No.” Accepted Berkeley, in dismay, as his world view was cracked, and the worm hole opened, opened rapidly, a gaping hole of such force, that all three of them were swept back into the kitchen. 

“Shit.” Thought Pixel of the repercussions that bringing things back into his world would cause.

Pixels body had just finished mixing the milk into the coffee and sugar. The kettle clicked. The kitchen reality settled in. The linoleum black and white checkered floors, the white, dust covered, mould spattered walls. The cobwebs and tiny spiders running along them down the side of the kitch nouvoulle light fittings, sticking out of the wall. He hadn’t put them there, he rented the house cheap cheap with a bunch of other hippies in the suburbs. It was indeed a fact, hippies do not like soap. But it is not an aversion to the soap itself, but rather the act of cleaning.

“Hey Merv you got yourself a human form. Merv had indeed shifted forms again, now a rather freckled, slightly over weight red head. Berkelely had not however shifted, he sat jet lagged and awestruck at the sudden change in perspective. His green teardrop body and skinny legs, crossed uncertainly, his head comically veering off into thought again. It was safer there. And with it, his mind transcended into a new space, and his body followed it.

“Well at least it’s only you to worry about. Perhaps we should put some clothes on you, before someone walks in and starts thinking all sorts of strange things about my sexual preferences.” Said Pixel, rummaging in the washing machine. Pulling out a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

“These should fit, will find you some flip flops, and with that he skipped into the lounge, also his sleeping quarters, and brought back a pair of leather thonged sandals.

“What universe are we in?” asked Merv

“The one I share with a whole bunch of other life forms, I’m not quite sure what to make of it. All I really know is a have 6 senses, I use them to navigate my way through the world. It seems to help if you keep busy, otherwise your thoughts take over. These human bodies don’t quite know how to control their minds. Some mismanufacturing at the factory I guess. Or perhaps minds were meant to wander. Some people see it as a bad thing, anti-social.”

“What are you talking about?” Merv still had a Mexican accent, it didn’t suite his new identity.

Although it had only been a few minutes, Pixel was starting to get annoyed with Merv’s constant questioning about this world. He’d see it when he got outside the house. But Merv wanted to know of rules and customs, and how the relationship between the world and these senses functioned. Pixel didn’t see the point in explaining any  of it. It had to be experienced. Learnt from practice. Hardly anything at all had a boundary or set rule as to how it should be done. People just did.

Back in the kitchen, Pixel gather’s his necessities and chucks them in a rucksack, ignoring Merv’s ever present presence, although it is on Merv that his pre-reflexive cogitations are focused. Lighter, check, weasel box, check. Camera, check. He moves into the lounge. Cable on the floor. No instrument. Pixel jogged his memory. At the practice room. His thought’s reformulated. Hit Jackie, then the practice room, meet up with Alf. He slung the racksack on his back.

“To the incognito beetle!” He stood up straight and pointed towards the lounge, and beyond.

Police sirens wail in the distance, a common occurrence on Jozi streets. Pixels communication device buzzes impatiently in his pocket. He scrabbles in his pockets, rifling through used matches and arbitrary pieces of paper until he finds the nest in which the phone is nestled.

Alf is a part of the greater solace Pixel terms music. But everything is music in the end, frequencies, vibrations. He bounces off of all of them. Alf is one of those ones he likes more than others. His energy gives off good vibes. “Good, good, good, good vibrations” pops into his head, the Beach Boys, commercial surf rock. But tight and well produced. He couldn’t complain too much. Music production in the 80’s had been about the feeling of the music, not the equipment it was produced on.

“Yo.” A pause. “yeah I know man, I’m on my way there now.” A passing shadow makes Pixel jump, he only saw it out the corner of his eye. He shook off the shudder.

“Five, got it. Check yu now.” He hung up the phone, putting it back on quite so he couldn’t be bothered until he wanted to be. 3.30pm. Hour and a half. Plenty of time.

***

The incognito beetle was parked outside the front gate. He bleeped until he found it. And it revealed itself. A clever device used in order to fend off the ever present window smashers. A new breed of desperation. The beetle itself was painted in camoflouge colours, athough they seems to change as Merv’s eye tried to focus on it.

“Pretty neat huh? New graf paint, designed to distract the viewers attention away from the bigger picture. You get lost in the detail, you see, so you can either look at it or away from it, but when you look at it you don’t realise it’s graf, you just tjek the designs and the interplay between lines.”

“Um, what is graf?” asked Merv.

“Oh, it’s an underground communicatory form, a highly developed means of writing message in code that takes years for your cognitive mapping systems to learn to distinguish. It’s an art you see; one that can only be mastered through years of practice. A whole knowledge system in itself. Thus, those not willing to put in the time, the man, the powers that be, just tjek it as an offence to the public. Which it is, because they can’t read what we write, it was one of the starting voices of the revolution. The Movement.”

“Senoir, non of that makes sense.”

“It’s writing on a wall Merv, just writing on a wall.” Pixel hung his head. He had to do something about Merv’s accent, it stood out like a sore thumb. People would think they were being had on by some ignorant day walker. It was an unfortunate situation in these times. Day walkers were a common bowl in which to spit insults.

He had spent countless hours with her, love, in love, love, in love. It wasn’t meant to be and it was tragic in it’s own way, just love – no in. How could a friendship survive when lust gets in the way. Lust must be contained. The feelings will fade. And she can remain closer. But he could feel her heart breaking a bit more every time they met, and the mood became darker and darker, him not wanting to give into lust. But she had shook it off. There was still tension, but it ebbed. There had been a lot of funny air in the energy waves lately. Dream was aware of it, but unaccepting of it, the shadow of winter clung heavily to her like a mank ridden second hand coat. Something she wanted to shake off but needed it to keep warm. It was not without its ironies, but mainly it was her current state of being. She knew it would change like the weather.

Pixel was in a state of desperation, he needed to get out of his head. To let the presence of Merv go. But he couldn’t do it. He drove paranoidically to Jackie. Not wanting to be seen doing the same routes to often, eyes darting left and right watching for pig vans. He knew he was being paranoid. And he liked it.

“Who is Jackie?” asked Merv breaking the silence in the car.

“She’s a friend, a girl who helps me out sometimes, you know. When I need to get out of my head.”

“Out of your head?”

“you know that feeling when your thoughts are so clogged up and stagnant and they feel like exploding, but you have to find the weak spot in the balloon to chew your way out of that squish, to release the pressure on the internal faculties. It’s like when your mind’s on overload, and you just can’t focus on all the thoughts, and the inner workings any more. And you just want to let them be to get on with their own processes. But you’re stuck in them, like a man in a machine. Merged, you know… robotic. But then you know there’s a space outside of that bubble. You know it with certainty. So you move with that certainty in mind, and then you will get out. But I need a quick readjustment. It’s not good in the long run. When we get to Jackie don’t say too much. She isn’t keen on new people.”

Merv looked at him, confused by the sudden gush of thought, and the intermittent, heavy silences that punctuated the drive.

“Having no free will is for the apathetic.” Pixel pointed out, coming out of another silence. Merv was starting to wander how many worlds Pixel wandered in his human time. His comments were disjointed. He hoped Pixel’s body worked on auto-pilot while manning the travel vessel. The car slows down, putters to a halt. “We’re here”. 

Pixel whips out his phone. No messages. He rings Jackie and waits impatiently for the hang up. It doesn’t come. It never doesn’t come. His jaw clenches. Saliva forming between his enlarged tongue now squishing up against his teeth. He wanted to scratch himself. He called again. Nothing. The green gate remained shut. Then footsteps, and voices. Two voices.

“Is it all there.” Says the first.

“No.”

Pixel took Merv by the shoulder, and whispered, “walk casually down the road with me.” They walked just the footsteps drew nearer and the gate opened. The silence between them thickening. Not daring to turn around. Pixel holds his breath. The men, walk of in the opposite direction, and around the corner. He breathes out.

“Come quickly.” They move back towards the beetle. But Pixel craves, the gate is unlocked. He moves inside, Merv follows. A dark alley way, rough, white chipped walls over grown by thick patches pf ivy.

Pixel thought in song as he sneaked down the alley, Merv a close tail. It closely resembled Pink Floyd, a track off of The Wall. It’s name eluded him. But the feeling was there.

Walk down the alley

Into that old place

Wait at the entrance

This is a heavy space

What will you find?

In these corners of your mind

Watch the thoughts unravel

Interstellar travel

The worn green chip board door was slightly a jar. A dim light spilling into the dark alley. He breathed in deeply and pushed it open revealing the entrance hall, it led into the common room, dark, grimey floors pressed up against Pixel’s bare feet. He supressed a shudder at the chilliness of the room.

“Wait here,” he whispered to Merv. I’ll be back soon. If anyone comes, hide.”

Pixel made his way across the common room, around junk food packets and liquor bottles of various sorts. All seems clear. But he knows something is wrong deep down. It cuts into his stomach like a pair of well sharpened scissors.

He steps onto the cold kitchen tiles, the spread their vibe up is legs, coiling snakes. He makes his way to the counter; it is in the middle of the room, where Jackie keeps his stash. He opens the draw. Nothing. His jaw thickens it’s clench. His palms sweat cold increasing his awareness of the coldness of the place. He rifles through a few more draws, nothing. His mind becomes frantic. He moves to the cupboards, cockroaches scattering in all directions. Nothing. He moves into the next room. And stops dead. Jackie is on the floor. The glass window above the toilet smashed. In an attempt to escape. She is alive, barely. Blood gushes from multiple stab wounds, pooling on the floor, sponging into Jackie’s dreads. Pixel can only stare at the texture of the puckered flesh, pink, and streaky. Like bacon. The vegetarian in him reeled. The cannibal grinned. “Food for a week,” it thought. Pixel himself however remained objective. Call an ambulance or take Jackie to the hospital himself and leave her outside the hospital inconspicuously like they did in the movies. He didn’t want to be involved in this. But he had done it to himself hadn’t he? Free will and all.Call as a passer-by who is hearing strange sounds coming from the house? That could work. And then his junkie kicked in, the need to ingest amphetamines. To help him think clearer. You know.

He kneels down next to Jackie, takes his hand.

“It’s gonna be okay man, I’m gonna call the ambulance and the police. I just need some stuff, real quick. To calm down, before I call, gain some thought clarity. Do you have any stuff Jackie?”

Pixel’s face has become a mask of pity and need. Jackie stares at him blankly, eyes rolling slightly back in her head. Pixel lifts her head up, cradles it by his chest.

“Jackie I need you to help me, to help you.”

But Jackie stays silent. Pixel thinks about binding the wounds. But can’t take his mind off of a line, a fat, chunk line. Spiralling up his nostril into his frontal lobe.

He leaves the room, not looking back. And ventures left down the passage, brown carpets, white walls, gloomy. He walks to the end of the passage, where a dim light shines through a partially opened door.

The room is trashed, curtains on the floor letting light in on the situation. Bodies. Are there more bodies? But in amongst the take-away packets, clothes and furniture there does not seem to be much of anything concerning a bodily nature. Pixel tries to think. “Reserve stash, where would he keep it. Fuck she was in the bathroom. Is it on her, was she trying to flush it? Why would she try and flush it. Who would it benefit.” He rushed back to the bathroom, stepped over Jackie, conscious but barely, and opened the cistern. There was the bag. Sweet bag full of bags. He pocketed two. Put his money in the bag. He took out a bank card and a note. Crushed the white powder to a transportable amount, underneath the note. Chopped two lines of sizeable intent, rolled the note, and took to practiced sniffs up the toilet cover, and back down again. He took out his phone, and called the cops and an ambulance.

“Right Jackie, you should be fine. Cops are on their way, ambulance too. It’s Jozi, they should be here in some form of African time, but you don’t seem to be losing all that much blood. Stab wounds don’t look to deep.”

And with that he left to find Merv.

Merv was still in the lounge, but he had been modified with one large, angry looking Nigerian (Pixel wasn’t quite sure if he was Nigerian, but as stereotypes go, he fitted the bill pretty well) man holding a gun to his head, with a hand over his mouth. Merv’s pants were wet. A puddle on the floor beneath his feet. Tears gushed from his eyes. Pixel thought quick, and pulled out an imaginery pistol.

“Don’t move or I’ll shoot.” He yelled, pointing his fingers at the intruder. “I’m serious. I’ll do it.” The man looked at him, puzzled. Pixel started edging towards the door. Just let him go. He shifted his sight to Merv. The dealer continued to look  perplexed. The only person in the room was him. Who was this guy referring to. He could see the guy was wired, his lower jaw was rolling erratically. He kept the pistol pointed at the strange turquoise tinged man. “The cops are on their way, I suggest we both leave now.” But the Nigerian could not leave, he had to get the rest of the stash. And this guy was going to cause trouble.

“I’m going to leave, let the monster go.” He inched closer towards the door, the guy didn’t move, but held his aim on Merv. He needed to cause a diversion. He shot Merv in the arm and ran. The dealer fired, as Pixel lept over the sofa, his long legs tucked cannon ball like into his chest. The bullet grazed his arm, as he landed crouched and sprung like a cheetah, rolling as he landed and made a quick exit through the open door into the passage way. He slammed the door behind him and ran. The gate was still open a fraction. His long hat getting caught on a vine as he ran, he goes back for it, without it he is nothing. There was no sign of the villain. He pokes his head out the gate, all seems clear. He makes a break for the incognito beetle. Turns off the security system, feels a slight twang of guilt for leaving Merv behind. But he’d find a new reality if anything went seriously wrong. He was used to world walking. A few more excuses and logical statements came to Pixel’s mind and he relaxed, and drove. Out of the cubby hole he rummages and pulls out a CD cover, places it on his knees – now being used to steer the car as he racks himself another line. Blood dripping out of his sleeve, it ran – a smooth red river - along his long, dexterous fingers.

They couldn’t find him? Could they? Frantic thoughts rushed through his mind. They didn’t see the beetle. They saw me, but I’m just a guy on the street with a hat. Okay, maybe the only guy on the streets with a hat like this. But it’s a big city. I didn’t leave anything there. Did the other guy see me leave? Was he hiding. Fuck, fuck fuck.” Just relax. Get some food. But the thought repulsed him, his stomach supressed. His ability to ignore the gnawing hunger increased by the stuff.  When was the last time he’d eaten? Two days ago? Yesterday? He needed to get to Alf. What was the time? His car clock was scrambled. He scrabbles for the phone. Three missed calls. Two from Alf, one from Mom. Ignore Mom. He calls Alf.

“Time is money. Where are you brother?” Alf, still calm. Always calm.

“I’m coming, ran into a spot of pickles.” Trouble. Ran into a spot of trouble he corrected himself in his mind. “I’ll be there now now, on my way.”

He checked the time: 4.20.

He lit up the weasel, as he turned onto the highway. “Pickles..” The old dream flooding back. Walking through rows and rows of purple pickles - of a substantial viscosity, almost amoeba like in their texture - waving gently in a vacuum. The pickles had spanned across a vast purple plain. In the dream he is walking towards the door. The traffic was moved slowly forward. Motor-vissies in the coral reef of the city. Tonight was important for The Movement. It was the make or break of a new paradigm. A philosophical revolution. A counter-point excursion into a new reality of thought. By this point the blood had stained, most of Pixel’s sleeve. He did not care to bind it. He couldn’t feel it much. His current body hazed out in a zoner space. Jozi’s CBD sprawled out beneath him. Newly gentrified Newtown to his left, as he crept over the N1. The old Horror Café, live music venue extraordinaire, now a dysfunctional Doppio Zero. The cities plan’s of rejuvenation were failing. Upclass, tasteless venues following the wake of the Red Ants. Forced removal with a pretty name, that’s all it was. Gentrification. Border control.. Psssshhh. Pixel released the air of frustration from his body. A long low hissing sound. Couldn’t they see it? They were trapped in a global apartheid. Even more so all their independence had granted them from the colonies was a weaker currency and a dysfunctional bureaucratic system. Under which they were now subjugated to “Western” thought anyway. East, west, shmest. Subjective reality is best. The cloak of thought that had been cast across the world was been eaten through. Vast moths of reason disintegrating it piece by piece. Picking away at it. Showing it’s failings and offering alternative means of living. New etiquettes. What is etiquette but a way of social communication without the severe fuss of extraneous language in the way? Although language does come into it. Wasn’t everything made of up social interaction, if that was dysfunctional then the system was dysfunctional. And there was no interaction going down in this reality. People were kept in boxes, separated – watching boxes. The system needed to change - It all came down to keeping your mind open and your body in control thought Pixel. Or having some sort of rule under which the body should live habitually. He was failing with his body – which avoided the 9-5 reality that kept so many others in check. It did what it wanted, he’d lost control of it to some inane and destructive routine. It was sucking him dry. “Sex, drugs and rock n roll, aren’t good for the human sou-ooo—wo-oh-ooo-wa-ooul,” he crooned sweet blues, his voice a warm timbre. Surprisingly so - coming out of his thin frame. He wanted to get out the city, out of his head, out  of his habit. Out of this world.  But he knew he couldn’t not really. The Movement had to bring about the change. He had to change himself to change the world. Lead by example.

The crickets in Pixels mind were at first seemingly companionable, on shedding the other trying to help it out of it’s old skin. But he was wrong, as soon as the skin was off the helper cricket started to devour the now vulnerable crickets flesh, ripping into it viciously. Starvation driven cannabalisim. And then the tuk addict appeared, hollow eyed and confused in the back seat of the car. A pile of broken equipment stacked around him. Pixel was no longer on the highway, but on a main road leading up to a fork.

“Who the fuck are you?” He turned around to face the intruder.

“I’m Oliver, just drop me off on the corner mate, I didn’t mean no harm.”

“Fuck off!” Pixel pulled the car over. As he stopped a car pulled out behind him, a mob following. Oliver was grabbed by a large bearded man. His top ripped off his body, offering a back of fresh gashes to the audience. They took him to a large tree in a small patch of grass next to the road. Where they strapped his arms above his head and proceeded to whip him mercilessly, while the rest of the crowd bartered for their broken instruments back. Pixel found his fender, head snapped, his double bass’s neck torn asunder. And he truly felt sorrow as he snapped back to reality. The dark energy returning. Thunder clouds ominously rolling over Jozi. The first of Spring.  The Rissik Street off ramp was coming up, the highway traffic easing up as the road split off to Bloemfontien or Durban. Pixel longed to be on the road. And out of the city. But he was trapped by responisibilty. The movement he could not stop now, every small thing mattered.

It had been just for fun, you know a stoner scheme to get some coverage on a show we were pulling off, a benefit, for the animals, for the wild lands, for some non-commercialsed spaces between the cracks of buildings and roads falling to disrepair anyway. We got some projectors and a couple of small generators and co-ordinated a 3 man plan-Me, Syd n Alf to catch commuters in rush hour traffic. Cut off the power to the main bill boards on the N2 heading North, coming round the back of town. Pushed the start button, and wham bam kizzam we have free, well except the cost of petrol for the generators and time spent making the adds, advertising. The broadcast lasted all of 7 seconds, but it was enough to convey the where and whens, you know? The news reporters called it terrorism on the corporati, it started an active front against all guerilla advertising, including graff free walls. Corporati had the cash I guess, we didn't, so we had to find our own means to fight back. All us in the underground starting feeling the same way I guess, guerilla activities increased ten fold, posters for gigs, galleries and get together, started littering the corporate branding, more projections started meeting bill board fronts. The goverment and po-po had enough to deal with without having to take us into consideration. We thought we'd gotten away scott free- well as long as you didnt get caught, but they didnt have the man power to stop us. One group, down in Cape Town, even went to far as to project a mountain scape down Bree Street, that go cheers of approval from the commuters. Then the big corporati boot stepped in, hiring man-power in abundance. gaurding as many building fronts as possible. Stopping perps of gaining access to billboards. They'd up the stakes, we had to up our anti. We painted the streets red instead. Adverts, paintings, slang, street culture spread and mulitplied. From suburbs to city, everything was being taken over, like an octopus spreading its tenticles through a city, its colours changing as it goes. It was beautiful. Gone were slogans such as "Defy Dry Skin!", did anyone really sit putting on their lotion in the morning yelling, "I defy you dry skin!" I think not. No more mind numbingly garish under bridge babbling from various insurance companies trying to make your day better by bombarding your eyes with a cornacopia of wants, musts, needs. Things were looking up, we seemed to be getting through to people, they started to see what they had been living in. The walls between which they were trapped. And they stood up in their thousands, blacks, whites, asians, indians, the lot. They all took to the streets, marched up constitution hill. People were singing, their voices carrying far in front of them, up the hill to the waiting militia. They were not there to fight, the were there as the majority, peaceful asking only that they drop the Structural Adjustment Programme, they have no concern for the IMF or being part of a global community of this sort, one joined by brand names, and false ideals. They wanted diversity, to be an African country again. To find new ways of sustaining their country without relying on foreign power, and international currency. The stock market, what was the point in having your resources off set by America's economic recession? It made no sense. What was this money thing anyway? We didnt need it, it only created heirachy. Who needs heirachy when the people on top do nothing but keep the masses uneducated and unable to sustain themselves. We believed in the power of the network, not the top down model. People were capable of sharing their knowledge, their resources, their idea, their worlds without a governing system. The police had almost become obselete to private companies, the government had no say in resource management, seeing as these utilities were owned by international agents, since the year of 1994 I might add.  There were a few movements overseas in Mexico, Argentina and the states who had tried the same tactics as us, with minimal results. But the tides it seemed were turning, more people had latched onto the idea since the night Nafta become the law in Mexico, and the Zapitista had risen. It seemed now we had a fighting chance at at least over throwing the neo-colonial, capitalist, which ever you prefer, regime in South Africa. If we could do it, we could give the world hope. We could make the world move. The Big Movement.

Pixel arrives at the practice room on La Rochelle. Ringing the bell outside the blue palacade fence out of habit, he knows it doesn’t work, hasn’t for a few weeks. He pulls out his phone and miss calls Alf. Dream appears out the front door, his heart doesn’t skip a beat, he wishes it would. But the thoughts of not being good enough for her, of not wanting to break her heart, of not wanting to lose his freedom, of having to be more conscientous of his drug use because of the guilt she stirs in him, well up in his belly and his mind and he switches off, turns the car back on and turns ninety degrees into the parking lot. Drives up the gravel getting as close to the grass as he can, his bare feet already mangled from the franaticism earlier in the day. He gets out the car, it seems that dream has already gone back inside. He makes for the door, opens the security gate and pushes the glass door, when it should have been pulled. Once inside he walks up the stairs, checking out the tuck shop on the first floor to see if the grill has been left open and there’s any food in the nikking. But there isn’t and the grate is locked. Alf’s in the corridor on the second floor, waitng.

“Did you even bother to check your phone? You’re an hour late. Jesus dude, you’re bleeding.”

“Yeah, bit of a run in earlier. Just a flesh wound.”

Alf could see the loss of colour in Pixels flesh.

“Have you at least put something on it?”

But he could see that he hadn’t, the blood was dripping at a constant pace onto the floor. He went back onto the practice room and brought out a relatively clean shirt and some duct tape.

“Office.” And once they were inside “Take your shirt off.”

Pixel obeyed. The wound was deep. About a thickk finger of flesh missing out of Pixel’s bicep. Alf stripped the shirt, wrapped it around the wound, then duct taped it firmly in place.

“You need stitches.” And with that he called The Travelling Vet.

“Do you some stuff?” inquired Alf.

Pixel produced the small knotted black baggie, a note, and two cards.

“Cut me one too. And Dream if she’s having. What’s the time?”

“Time to load gear and get to the Bo, traffic’s going to be a bitch.”

“What about The Vet?”

“Im going to take the equipment, set up, you’re going to wait here. He’ll meet you shortly.” Just grab your monster and put it in the car.

Dream entered the room, took one look at Pixel and flung her arms around him. Squeezed him tight. Pixel relaxed into it. Gave her some of his energy. But the feeling soon fizzled as they parted, the air between them becoming thick again. He hated it. Their love had been so easy once. So open, but now they could barely talk to each other. He hoped she would find someone else, he did not want to be her object of desire, the more he shied from it the more persistant she became in her efforts. You cannot make someone fall in love with you. But he did know that love could grow. But he would not let it, he trampled out the seedling thought. He knew right now he was better off alone.

They packed the equipment, Pixel felt weak, the drugs making the reduced blood in his system punp faster. He was getting panicky. Slow jams bru, he tried to calm down to breathe easy. He went to his car and put on his old grey sweater. Warmth. He needed food, sugar, anything.

Alf and Dream left in the bukki. Leaving Pixel with the keys and his thoughts. He thought about how it had all started. The first of the Immortal take-over. Sid. Mostly he thought about Sid. He was the real leader of this operation. And now he was gone.

2010

Sid takes the microphone off the stand. He looks through the gloom and smoke of the bar. Punks stand around with their atmosphere of disinterest.

“Friends”

The punks snigger, Sid continues.

“We are the last of the free thinking society. The Immortals must be stopped. They have kept us in blindness for so long, but now we can see the truth, we know it at the core of our faculties. Look around you, look at what has happened to our world. Look what our apathy has lead us to. We are trapped in meshing of concrete and corporate imagination. The masses being kept passive through the media and consumption. For what? Not for the benefit of the people. No! for Immortal gain. Their technology is at the point where they can survive only on water. Soon they will annex the small amount of land we have left and we will starve if we do not join their mindless zombie army. They do not need us, they do not care about us, the wish to exterminate us, but they know we will do it ourselves if they leave us for long enough. They have the rest of society eating plastic and reproducing to sustain their lavish existence. Brothers, sisters – the time has come to fight back!”

The room roared with laughter.

“And how do you propose we do that?” a drunken voice sneered from the back of the bar. “There are less than one hundred of us, and they have the city at their command. I say we drink!”

A cheer goes up.

“We are on the brink of a take-over of the Network. Using new technologies we can infiltrate the media, spreading subliminal messages, seeding thoughts of revolution into the collective consciousness. We the time is right we can instigate a complete mental take-over.”

“So then what do you need us for?” Said the same drunken voice.”You seem to have everything under control.”

“We need to gather as many small assault groups as we can. The groups will operate on large scale vandalism within the city, we call it free advertising. The main reason is to spread symbols of the revolution.”

“So you want us to be glorified sign posters?”

“Do you have a better plan,” countered Sid wearily.

“Yearg! Let’s drink!”

Sid gave up. He indicated the door to Pixel and Dream and they left.

“Fucking punks.” He muttered as he exited The Bo and heading down Menton towards Melville.

You couldn’t say that the three stuck out as they walked down 7^de Laan. It was more as if they went magically unnoticed by the general population who walked silently staring into shop windows with vague smiles on their faces. They merged with the glazed eyed crowds, making their way back to the digs. They walked in single file, following streams of efficiency. Dream could remember hating this mode of movement since childhood. She was frustrated with always having to move to someone else’s beat.

Dream knew who controlled the beat. She had known since she was seventeen, since the week before the Immortal take-over. She had been creeping back down the passage of her parents house to her bedroom, after having snuck out to see Psycho Voodoo Black Noise. They were a new band but they had a raw unchained power that possessed people’s feet and took over the crowd turning into a seething moshpit from which no one could escape. She could still feel the bass pulsating to a deep tribal rhythm in her stomach and groin. A beast had awoken inside of her and it was hungry. At the end of the passage a light beamed through the crack of her father’s study door. His light was often on. “Daddy is a very busy man.” Her mother always said.”He’s building a better future for us.” She had believed her up until then. Tonight though the beast was awake and with a new boldness Dream crept up and put her ear to the door.

“In one week we will broadcast the first transmittion. The population will not know that anything has changed.”

A pause, Dream leant in closer to the door. A floor board groaned as her weight shifted. She caught her breath before it exhaled. Her father continued talking.

“Seven pm, prime time. Everyone will be watching a very important public service announcement.”

Dream’s father was the head of SABC, she thought nothing of it.

After the broadcast things hadn’t seemed so different. People still walked around in their retail therapy stupor. Back and forth on various mind numbing errands. It was when Dream tried to talk to them that the real change became noticeable. She had walked into a café to get a box of Lucky’s and tried to start up a conversation with the cashier. He merely said “thank you” and had given her her eighty cents worth of change. Weird she thought, and walked home. Her second encounter with a person after broadcast had been with a school friend. Normally not the brightest of conversations but today all she could manage was talk of a televion set that must be bought. Further conversations with various other’s produced similar results. She did not connect the lack of intelligence with the broadcast.

Dream went home to speak to her mother about the strange occurances. The blank stares, the utter lack of thought.

“it seems to not have affected you.” Said her mother, “good.”

“What?”

“The broadcast,” said Dream’s mother, her voice cheery, unworried.

“Broadcast?”

“The Network has taken over, darling. Your daddy finally has all the niggers in this town under control.”

Dream bulked at the N word. She hated it.

“What do you mean ‘under contol’?”

“Brainwashed. They’re much happier that way. They don’t have to think you see, all they need is provided and we can use their energy to run the city.”

Dream didn’t want to hear any of this.

“Don’t look so hurt, dear, you’ll never have to worry again. The world is perfectly safe now.”

Dream left the room muttering ‘white supremmicist’ under her breath.

Who else hasn’t been affected? She grabbed her coat and left.

She pulled up at the Bo and went inside. A waiter came up to her.

“I’ll get a drink from the bar thanks.”

Eddie is behind the bar.

“Zamalek, please Ed.”

“Sure thing, hun.”

He seemed normal.

“Notice anything weird lately?” enquired Dream.

“Nah, just that junked up dude lying in the corner there. But I guess that’s nothing out the ordinary really.” He grinned white teeth flashing against black skin, pink lips.

So not everyone has been affected – thought Dream.

She took her beer and turned around, knocking into someone tall, she looke dup and help back a gasp of girlish delight. It was Sid, the vocalist of Psycho Voodoo Black Noise. He looked at her and grinned, she babbled an apology as he side-stepped her to get to the bar. She sat by herself perching precariously on a rickety bar stool. This isn’t so bad she thought to herself. Life as usual except ninety percent of the population has been brain-washed by my father. Dream didn’t think she agreed with any of it though. She drank her beer, then another. It seemed all quite funny really. The casualness of it all. Oh, the world’s been taken over by the network, haha. She finished her second beer, ordered a third. What had her mother said “use their energy?”. “Human energy” said another voice in her head, she started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Sid sat down opposite her, his business with Wouda – the clubs booking agent done.

“Oh nothing, the world been taken over by the television, nothing new. I’m just sitting here apathetic and getiing drunk.” She couldn’t contain her laughter, in her head she was going :oh my god I’m talking to Sid. Calm down.”

“Um yeah.” Said Sid.

“No really, have you spoken to anyone recently? Noticed the blank stares, the totally disengaged patterns, the mindless consumption?”

“Isn’t that normal.”

“Apparently not. Have some beer” she offered him the first sips of her fresh beer and told him about that his mother had said.

“Just like that?” mused Sid “She just said ;oh we’ve taken over?’

“Yup, just like like that.”

“And you had no idea?”

“Nope, neither did you.”

Pixel removed his hat, and began to wander about the identity he had created for himself beyond his physical reality. The perceptions other people had of him that he had created through his actions. The Movement was deeply entrenched in his idea of himself, yet he couldn’t quite see himself in the revolution, it seemed a disjointed affair. The created illusion of a struggle. The planting of the seeds that spark fireworks in peoples minds, bring them together under the glorious spectacle. He wandered if it was all really just a change of a state of mind that altered physical reality. What you believe is what you perceive, in others, in yourself, in your ideas of the functionality of the world. But your beliefs were posited by the physical, internalised and then translated into action by the agent. A reciprocal relationship, with both the agent and the external world having the capability of change. The question was how much did the mind influence things?  He scratch his chin, picking on a zit as he passed it. It hadn’t done much to deserve the picking. But pixel never thought of the effects of his fingers on the organism which dwells within his skin. The vet should be arriving soon. He stood up and rummaged around in the desk for the hipflask he knew would be there. As he did so he realised the loss of his hat and reinstated it in designated position. He found the flask under a pile of papers and stationary and removed its lid, noting the inscription “In Dream we trust.” And that he did.   “Have a plan and stick to it,” Pixel thought. What else was there to do in this reality to make oneself feel fulfilled or purposeful. “Religion” he muttered and chuckled to himself. He sat cross legged on the floor and scratched his toes, thinking about smoking another joint. He had all but forgotten the pain in his arm when his phone vibrated and croaked. The vet had arrived. He walked down the stairs and out to the gate. A fight was on the go in the street. Or more like a gang beating. A young tsotsi amongst a gang of Creepshows. The had him on the ground his arm over the edge of the pavement, one creepshow savagely stamping on the pivoted fore arm. Pixel ignored it. He had taken the route of of the interferer once before when a similar gang had been beating on a woman, a whore most likely. They had beaten his face in with wooden planks. Now he too was part robotic. He hated the notion. But then again maybe there was a right and a wrong time to use technology. He opened the gate and let the vet in. He was short, thin the way of those with a fast metabolism but do little else to maintain their weight, with whispy grey hair and basset hound eyes. The hair around his mouth was still a dark brown. It was the first time pixel had noticed that. It was peculiar.

“What you done this time, Pixel?” His voice slightly agitated.

“Slight graze from a bullet to the arm.”

“Well let’s get this over with, I got a lady at home waiting for my return.” He motioned to the door.

The vet finished up his last stitch.

“you know if you aren’t careful you’re going to end up like Sid, I don’t want to be the kill joy, but you kids got to stop getting yourselves into these messes.”

“Sid died for a cause.”

“No, Pixel, Sid died of an overdose, come out of that fantasy world in your head.” The Vets voice was edged with pain. “You’re going the same way he did, delusioned with your ideas of revolution, you kids have no chance of overthrowing the bots.”

“Well at least we’re trying.”

“Why do you bother, you live the way you want to live within this system, they don’t pay much heed to you. Just live your life.”

“Life wouldn’t be worth living without the cause.”

“Find a new cause.”

But Pixel had stopped listening.

 “Look what the freedom fighters that came before you did, mass action, Mandela making moves to mass arrests to unbalance the system to a level where it couldn’t cope. What’s your graf doing? Nothing they don’t have the inclination to take it down. The shows, sure they bring in people, but all they do is drink, they’re as bad as the rest of the meat machines. Except they follow you. And you’re not leading.” The Vet was getting excited, angry, almost out of his normal controlled form.

“I’m planting seeds, Al, I’m planting seeds. Every revolution has to be fought differently, ours is a revolution of the mind, not of the system. The system changes as the mind changes. We have to bring people out of their consumer slumber. Realise that there is more to life then consuming. I feel like I’m stuck in an Aldous Huxley novel. Living in a society conditioned.”

“You have the numbers Pixel, mobilize them. Music will bring them together, you’ve gotten that far. Now Move.”

Pixel felt trapped, wrestling with thoughts that contradicted, constrained, gave no room for other options. How do you break free from this system, what was the point? Where was the revolution, what was it? What was it? There were so many of them, that thought the way he did, wanted something else. Something better. A different world. Perhaps they were thinking of a different world in an entirely wrong way. It was to be a revolution of thought, not habitat. Cities they weren’t that bad, it was how they were used. More so the common conceptions of the city was negative. Media, it all had to do with the media. Our Platonic lie of fear. Our platonic lie of fear. Told to us by whom? It didn’t matter. It was the message that must be changed. But if the people have nothing to fear what use was the government? In a world so interconnected via webs and spiders, the networks were already in place. The keeping of international peace is a myth. Who worries about the international but the politicals. Most people live in a small community plagued by ideals of the media. Only the internet gives some sense of the international community. His thoughts were interrupted by the emergence of a pot hole in the road. The incognito beatle swerving slightly under Pixel’s loss of control.  Then returning to normal as presence in the external entered Pixels mind, although slightly lop-sided. He was almost at The Bo.

The beatles wheel, front left, was fucked, there was no doubt about it. Pixel knew the spare was fucked too. He had been driving on the donut for a while. At least he didn’t have gear in the car. He oushed it over to the side of the road, took out that little red triangle thing that you got fined for not having. Put it a good meter and a half behind the beatle. And began trudging towards The Bo. He was hungry. He had finished the whisky. He needed another line but he had run out.   Someone inside would have. His addiction got him to the door, Casie was working it, she nodded at him in acknowledgment as he walked though. Ring a ring a rosies, a pocket full of posies’ echoes from the authors reality, and Pixel fell. Crashing onto the floor his head knocking a bar stool on the way down. Smacking hollowly as the impact occurred. Only a few people noticed the bar was packed. One of them was Alf.

Pixel saw a future. A last stand against the Immortals. A new breed of rich, that had chosen the path of robotic body emulation. And there was Sid in a cold white room. And the doctors on the otherside of the mirror examining their experiment.  He saw himself and Dream on a beach, coloured huts running down the beach front. Their children between them and the robots, scared. Being handed over to Dream’s parents. Breeding was prohibited. Remaining children would be used wisely, for the benefit of the immortals who wished to retain their power to breed, but also transform the ritual of robotification as early as possible. He saw himself in an underground body of water, struggling to find direction in the heavy currents. He saw a seed being planted. And it’s explosion. He knew he must forge on.

And so he got off the bean bag..