Worthless in Bangcock – Dale Brett & James Krendel-Clark

Worthless in Bangcock 0.724623

It was back in 2066 I first got myself addicted to those utterly enchanting Thai cybertronic ladyboys. I would have them sent to my hotel room in the _____ district {{identities have been concealed for safety's sake}}, and we would suck and fuck till the cows came home in steamy grease. We'd do heroin and watch cartoons. Anything to make the time pass. And how it passed. Now it's 2099 and I am a relatively old man. Most of my organs have been replaced with cybertronic organs, so at least I don't have to worry about fucking up my lungs when I suck hypersmoke from the stem of my vabortube. But the fact is, the thing I find myself dwelling on the most, in these last of my days {{for I have been diagnosed with terminal hyperfungus of the brain}}, is the ladyboys I fucked back in the 70s in Bangcock when I was such a down and out bohemian. This is my last tape.

Utterly & epistemologically valueless. Useless. Like a vestigial arm. Like the directionless purpose of an untethered appendage. An unhinged thing with no presence of a modicum. A spiritless indignation against whatever it was this neo-fuckshow apparently stood for. Every inch & piecemeal known as the entity of me & what I truly, viscerally am. Where is my moral compass, you were wondering>> Was it leaking through one of the gaping concrete crevices on the sweat-stained sidewalk>> Or was it left idle & sweltering under the humid, poly-dragonite infested covers of the lifeless hotel they had me up in>> Whatever, limes still thankfully taste like limes here in the clubs. The bartenders can mix my beverage with the right amount of hypodexadrine-guarana in it. Thank gnosis. Thank the truncated cones of the sky. Thank thy putrid cybernetic lordz that even though I have no moral principles or decency, I am alive – soul thawed & unfrozen. All I can tell you really, truly, is that any semblance of my former ethical insight was nowhere to be found in these streets of chitty BaNg-CocK. Righteous dogma wouldn’t re-surface licking a dried hit of cum on an AI ladyboy’s anti-ebullient epidermal layering. Faux skin & pseudo dicks ain’t going to bring back that good old philosophical cheer. So Imma gonna stick to the bizness out here in the droid festering tropics & hope that inner self-reflection finally returns. Yearning for a wave of aggressive indifference to overcome my alabaster ego. 

It helps me to talk this way, you understand, it’s therapeutic. Whoever is listening to this now, thank you. Thank you… I never did believe in Godzilla, but at least there’s the attentive “other” to listen to my drooling confession. The Thai ladyboys they would supply me with were young and impressionable, and I was at the time doing research in the science of what in earlier times was referred to as “hypnosis” {{say, in the days of Freud when people still had a quasi-magical notion of its psychotronic efficacy}}, but which has been rebranded as transferential quasi-bionic mind-engineering, and we were testing out these devices with flashing strobes that you could thoroughly encircle the subject with, injecting them with 40 ccs of xonorax and 20 ccs of trashified vibrasonic remix gel and you could remould them until they had an entirely different personality, but the miraculous thing was that they would still retain the old personality as what we would refer to these days as a “personality memory imprint”, and as personalities accumulated on top of personalities, what you had, really, or at least in my unofficial tinkering during my ladyboy sexploits {{no shit this was illegal as fuck lol}} was you would get these iridescent butterfly geisha things who could act out pretty much any scene from just about any shakespeare play script you could throw at them. while they had no central program anymore, they ended up becoming something like algorithmic actors, but you had to give them a script, or they became totally listless and bored and some of them became addicted to self-harm and committed soul-suicide in one of those euthanasia booths, i think, or at least they never came back, that’s for sure. But this one kid, Busarakham Kamon 5.0, could do an incredible King Richard the Third, playing every single part, all I had to do was upload the script, and she would deliver the lines with perfect diction:

O, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe,

And then hurl down their indignation

On thee, the troubler of the poor world’s peace!

The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul!

They friends suspect for traitors while thou liv’st,

And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!

No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine,

Unless it be while some tormenting dream

Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!

Thou elvish-mark’d, abortive, rooting hog!

it was fucking impressive, is what it was, but i could never come up with a way to market this talent, or maybe in the drug haze of it all i was just too lazy, i got bored quickly with my scientific experiments and moved on to something else. Some of my ventures would have put to shame an Edison, a Musk, a Disney, but to be honest I was too busy spraying myself with musk and educating my ladyboy sons to the tune of Pikachu porn with all those cybernetic hypnobionics… I never really followed through on my ingenious inventions… It’s science’s loss but my boner was at stake.

I would often wake in a delirious reverie, mind cucked out of its gore, soma soaking in the remnants of its own acrylonitrile fluid. These loaner bodies were never fit to handle the amount of conscious altering substances I consumed while elasticating on the Pan-Asian d-floor. Sometimes, I would let tiny crystalline fragments of vabortube extractions be injected directly into my gluteus medius. Maximum effect, minimum effort when you gotta cybertronic LB for a few pitiful baht to dose you with the hit. You would never be prepared for the moment when the industrial-strength rush would annihilate your inner being. First impact. Second impact. Third impact. It was in these moments, somewhere between the second and third impacts, that I was closest to re-kindling my empathic ego. That was until a local warlord would come & stomp out a 13 year old girl-bot’s face in front of the booth, shattering any chance of arresting my outward conviction. This city had a way of doing that. No matter how deep the pleasures, there were always hunters of exaggerated pain. Pain unknown to the herds of known others. Pain to set your synaptic compass to. Pain that fell out of a brutalized womb & set viscous, a trail of fluorescent green jelly casing the palatial bathroom of the club floor.


The clubs I frequented {{that is those that were ‘worth’ going to}} were all owned by mutant warlords fronted by extreme fashion houses. Ontological scramble suits >> S
afety goth xMxxGr >> Haptic glitch motif 0.9nil shells >>
 these were just some of the zero-edge products put out by the Samui high class drug-snuffer squad. These neo-Dionysian plagiaries had indoctrinated the tourist plantations of the lower west side of the archipelago some epochs ago, the chain-linked islands now a pharmacological high fashion experiment. Residing amongst the zone’s radioactive 7G lagoons, when I wasn’t crushing pills & licking ass on the floor, I could be found at virtual post-temple constructions levitating over philosophical vogues & infiltrating the software of conceptual art installations. This was all just part of my role employed by the mutant warlords to not only hunt, but literally kill cool. Marketing & artspace had evolved to a point of mass confusion – society couldn’t even begin to know where the entrails of one ended & the orifice of the other commenced. That’s where I came in. A kind of anti-hegemonic trend pounder. You can see now how any traces of my morality were gradually eradicated – eroded by a spittoon infested spectacle of high culture co-opting low. The surreptitious establishment would take underground cultural fusions & strategically vomit them back out again. The puss-flecked mucous unrecognizable to the origins found on the streets. This was what I was hired to prevent. To keep the underground underground, as it were. It was during one of my directives on a lone visit to the Mueang Surat Reichstadt Foundry of Molecular Arts whilst in search of the secrets to the drone sonic hypnosis of Ita no Saetae that I stumbled upon it. The edge of the holographic tape glinting in the artificial light of a barren orange sun. 

I took a moment to catch my breath. This was one hell of a find. I mean, believe you me, I’ve watched some rare splatter-hypno-core dream-glue tapes before, like back in the day {{or rather, to get my tenses right, back when I was a kid, we’re already talkin about “back in the day”, and let me put it to you like this: even now at age 173 I would give my left testicle to see something as surprising as what I found back then}}… this was something special, I could just feel it, the aura… the fucking aura!

my hands were trembling as i slid the disc into the XRT-9000 holo-deck and slowly backed away, waiting for the visuals and the sensory-synaptic-braintaps to shock me into something terrifying. the thing was, it started out tame, just a sort of vague static. it was in black and white. soon it became clear that there was someone lying on a couch in a room that was dimly lit, and had the furnishings of a late-60s danish-modern-furniture-bedecked petit-bourgeois bachelor’s “pad”, perhaps owned by some erudite scholar who appreciated the benefits of both so-called leisure and so-called research. it actually looked a lot like my house, it was analogous to my pad, just set in a different time period. the guy {{or girl>> it was hard to tell; androgynous, just the way i liked}} lying on the couch was reading a copy of lautreamont’s “les chants de maldoror” out loud to someone who, hologram-wise, was behind me. i swiveled slowly around, for some reason i was unusually scared. but it was just some avuncular, grandfatherly professor-type. probably a pederast, with a swollen abdomen braced against the vest of a brownish three-piece-suit. pipe burning, eyes narrowed, lips turned up in an evil wry expression of predatorial appreciation. i swiveled back to face the androgynous nymph {{whose reading of the poet maudit was impressive considering they looked barely out of high-school}}, and moved in for a closer look. that was when i noticed the tattoo on its face. i squinted, the tape was fuzzy. “focus” i commanded, and it did, at least enough for the holographic voxels to tighten so i could make out the design. tribal, but unusual. in some ways it was some typical fractal drag bullshit, but i’d never seen that kind of thing as a tattoo before, and the closer i looked, the more i realized there was scarification, and the tattoo/scar went down the throat… i started to peel back the corset it was wearing {{i had already gleaned it was an interactive game, although both the nymph and the pedo prof were NPCs}} and was startled by the intricacy of the inscription. as i zoomed in even further, it became apparent that it was in fact a text. some horrifyingly evil spell-glyphs spelling-out apocalyptical viral sorcery from hell on acid. 

The first thing I noticed about it was the obscure insignia emblazoned on the reflective cartridge. It certainly wasn’t from any of the distorted fashion dynasties I frequented in my line of work. My best guess was a new off shoot of the 3012 Unb0und R1tual Kult found on the distant islets. This collective was one of the tribes that often fucked with surreptitious mixed-media drops. The thing was, you were equally likely to find a gaudy accelerated accessory or a dimethyl fluoride tank brimming with hyper-arsenic. Just the way they rolled. The sense of humour they revelled in.

Get rich or die dyin’ as the ancients of the cosmos say.

I couldn’t unzip the object immediately with the truncated version of fluid software I was rigged to which meant I needed to pay a visit to Cowboi Ca$h down in the wet markets. That was the quickest way I could merge with the product’s non-limbid soul.

<<U interested in gettin’ heaviii, swell destroyer>>

Cowboi Ca$h had a way with words, they would stick in the gluey bits of your neuro-generated plugs & not just because he had direct r00t access to seemingly any non-being passing by.

<<Don’ waste my tyme if ur not gonna get down wit’ an AI LB. U kno the rules. When swell destroyers ryde in2 CC’s mollusc, it’s dryve the archaic shift stick on an LB’s semi-shrivelled hoss or GTFO. Esp. if u wanna spout that philosophical inflection u normally chyde. So, tell m’ r u indeed here to indulge in the art of exsiccation>>

Like I say, a way with words – an unfurrowed path to the lays of modern language. Our tribesman Ca$h. Me, I’m not so much for projecting. I let my noctilucents fan out like pheromones – the dissipation of my virtual aura does the talking. There is no need for words when you ride the wave of emanation.

Cowboi Ca$h may be an ignominious cuck, but he knows a blampot! when he sees one {{yeah, even Ca$h loved that old show}}. All it took was a wayward coruscation vibrating from the pocket of my vintage 3A-1 sling bag to ignite Ca$h’s inward pyroclasm. The sigil burning an aperture in his surgically flayed retina.

<<Yo mind dispossessed, swell destroyer>> Or u got somethin’ to say>>

as i hurried back to my apartment, vaping like mad, and huffing full capsules of hypermeth to stop the dizziness and memory-flashes, chewing traumacrystals™, candyflexicrack, BONE_COLD_GOD_STYX™, and reality_flipping_zone_punchers [a bootleg version that makes everything go pinkgold], thoughts were racing through my head, manic. it was the kind of hyperm
asc hypermania that i craved and thrived on. ideas, ideas, ideas. i set my idea_monitor to record everything it could, and the mind_web notion_synthesizer begins to assemble epiphanies from my volcanic rumbles of half-insight/half-hypermeth-craze.

back at the apt. i fumble w the keys. a twinge of sadness as i say goodbye to those last shards of shriveled innocence. i quickly boot-up the XRT-9000 and power-in the new disc. 

professor evil is wedging apart the legs of the transvixen, displacing her kimono, and now i see the whole tattoo, up close…

i stagger back, spilling my whiskey2.0

i shake my face and let my eyes explode with dazzle


that’s what it is


like an utter moron i push aside the prof_sim, which apparently is allowed

and mount her, dead-end cowboy sucking the sorcery into my pineal weltgeist end_of_world idea-mesh executable file: apocalypse.exe

the bubble hovering over her braincasing says “VOX.0.742623” and her speech bubble goes:

C̄hạn pĕn s̄eīyng c̄hạn phūd læa mị̀ khey ngeīyb c̄hạn h̄̀xtạw tạw xeng wị̂ rxb tạw khuṇ meụ̄̀x reā mī pheṣ̄ s̄ạmphạnṭh̒ c̄hạn k̄hd nı h̄ū k̄hxng khuṇ h̄emụ̄xn ngū

rough translation:

i am the voice i speak and never am i silent, i wrap myself around you, when we fuck i coil in your ear like a snake, your hearing forever muffled now, only i resound inside… i slurp like earwax in your orifices of absorbed speech…

now she picks up a copy of “justine ou les malheurs de la vertu” and reads a passage that goes:

telle était la logique infernale des malheureuses passions de Rodin; mais Rosalie plus douce et bien moins corrompue, Rosalie, détestant les horreurs auxquelles elle était soumise, se livrait plus docilement à mes avis : je désirais avec ardeur lui faire remplir ses premiers devoirs de religion ; il aurait fallu pour cela mettre un prêtre dans la confidence, et Rodin n’en voulait aucun dans sa maison, il les avait en horreur comme le culte qui’ils professaient : pour rien au monde, il n’en eût souffert un près de sa fille ; conduire

i press my finger to her lips

i know the passage by heart

i see her tattoo spreading up my arm

everything goes black

God-stricken or grot-stricken>> To be a pirate with no name. Those hieroglyphs meant something to Ca$h. Irradiating a dormant pulse in his manufactured brain-space. A life of castrated aches lighting up across the moors of distant plains.

<< did nay take u 4 a hypno-nut grindr, swell>>

Ca$h’s reference to hypnosis instantly brought to mind the polygonal drone sleep mafia ensemble of the itinerant artiste Ita no Saetae. The very show I had synoptically ingested earlier down at the Surat for cool killing intel. Could the finding of the tape be merely coincidence or was something metaphysically beefier at play>> Glancing at the symbol, it seemed to resemble the cross-section of a split open & fully armed combat polyrhachis, like the ones they used in the open zonefire of ’72. The haptic cloaked quasi-turret birdblasting infectious larval princess crux all over the new world’s would-be heroes of yesteryear. Ca$h would no doubt know the days. Days no better than the forlorn & friendless stench of Durkheim’s virtual anomie embedded in a rich line of code.

<<XRT-9000 in the back, swell. But it’ll co$t ya. & more than jus’ the price of one of my famed epicene buckets.

There was once a saying my grandfather used to utter to me on the flooded highways of the Chongqing basin after the aforementioned Releaser Effect Massacre of ’72 {{or REM72 as it had come to be known by the survivors}}.

<< Your heart can be as black as a polyrachis soul, but it can never be as numb.

Glancing around into the semi-rigid half-cocks of Ca$h’s clientele, I thought of those days before I literally killed cool for a gig. Town to town expeditions on rented animatronic mules, collecting e-waste with our bare palms, gulping acrid sedimentary infused water from the polluted tributaries & aqueducts, breaking down into acrylonitrile tears when our sick android torsos couldn’t take anymore.


The sigil.

It expressed unrivalled strength.

Such memory.

An ability to uproot & unearth the fears & desires of men.

It was at that moment I knew I had to take Ca$h up on his offer & feast on my own desires & fears. I told him to take me to the hypno-machine in the back so I could slip in the tape & got him to tell those bitches out front not to disturb me or my infertile soul. 





{{lights out}}