"I could not move for damn pygmies. Down there deepthroating dick in the tall grass." - ib
Jody the Hat did not care for pygmies, aboriginals, straights or queers.
Jody the Hat was a suit for hire.
He dressed conservatively. Did not say much. Held no opinions on politics or the weather.
The only thing which moved him was dub. It flowed through him as the CT sickness stalks the interior. Dividing cabals. Twins. Seeding in the blood like the cargo of a fruit fly.
The sky was a peculiar shade on the bruised side. Puce as a failing liver.
The back of the Hat's neck was spotted before the deluge. It rode above the collar of his shirt like a mildewed fire hydrant. The reels kept jamming on the spool. The gears kept laddering his hose.
There is no better operator east
of Port Moresby, and if there is he's long since drowned.
In the rain, the rain, the rain.
To be specific, the indigenous peoples eschew dub, but he goes at it regardless. The continual threat
of blow dart is an occupational hazard. One builds a resistance to
Curare. Over time, the resultant weakness of the skeletal muscles
promotes a vaguely pleasant torpor. The thing to do is just keep moving.
Ignore the almost overwhelming urge to buckle at the knees.
Or unbuckle one's breeches and squat down to shit.
The mission to bring dub to the aboriginals, to bludgeon fibre
cabling into submission, is not to be sneezed at. Most of them are hooked on
the Central Transmitter. It is a joyless, unenviable, thankless task.
Many are so addled they are past assisting.
Only yesterday morning the Hat came across an
entire herd of them. Lamont T. Shady's orphan children.
Plumbed straight into the mainframe, configured head to toe.
Sprawled out like epileptics kicking.
The Hat stomps on limbs. Tiny wrists. He obliterates maybe fifteen players, on and off the wire, but of course it's too late. One of them has overdosed on a Pono. God knows where she got it from. The device is jammed on its highest setting, the
purest reading he has stumbled on yet.
93.6% grade A Radiohead. Enough to fell a young elephant.
The Celtic pygmies, like their
Pictish forebears, are a simple people. While it is true they abandoned the
practice of painting their faces blue centuries ago, really there was
never any need for it.
The weather is so cruel here that their
genetically pallid hides are given to that colour regardless.
Dusted
with freckles, crowned with plumes of blazing orange and red, they
naturally gravitate to building huge bonfires. Around which they
collectively dance.
The Ministry soon adopts the practice of employing airdrops over the region. The rapid deployment of industry approved drones.
Jody the Hat does not dance. Not with Ivor. Not with Auntie.
Of course, executives from the Central Transmitter Tweet that they
are merely supplying demand. Such activities are perfectly legal. Inhale, and it is immediately apparent that they are bent on
fostering addiction. Here, in the most remote parts of the highlands, as
elsewhere.
So starved are they for diversity of diet, they will gladly consume
the most unpalatable swill.
At first it was Zunes. Preloaded with The Nashville Eleven. Beyoncé.
Jody the Hat merely shakes out his pants. Adjusts the crease accordingly.
A few of the natives are thereafter spotted several miles outwith their
natural territories. It's understood they have woven cowboy hats out of
the forest vines which proliferate.
Where some are given over to the
primitive theatre of line dancing, others, still, appear to be
gyrating most salaciously.
If one has ever heard a jig and reel one
will understand their susceptibility to the crudest intrigues of
chicanery. Much
like the native American Indian, they are predisposed to all forms of
mental illness. Predominately depression. Small wonder, in fact, they
invented the very firewater which did for a tribal nation what
General Custer could not.
A short while later, they graduate to 2nd Generation Nanos laced
with CT approved Bitrate effluent. Beethoven. Coldplay. Diluted
Techno and Acid House at 192 KBPS. The effects on the ground are
devastating.
The cure is basic but may require several "shots" to achieve the
intended result. Utilizing those extreme frequencies found in dub, we at
the same time tap into HBL activity as dispensing with the need to
court the earbud.
As the needle courts the vein.
We go in direct and like a cauterizing iron eradicate, or overwrite,
the cellular damage caused by low-end interference. Where the casual
user exposes himself to infection, we seek to tattoo over underlying
distortion.
DYB, DYB, DYB. DOB, DOB, DOB.
Dub, motherfucker. Dub. Kit Carson is a long time dead.
Decant a ribbon of glass beads and out of holes they come scrabbling.
Jody the Hat does not care for pygmies, aboriginals, straights or queers. Jody the Hat does not care for family. In his younger years, it's true, he favoured the blackjack in tight spaces. He even auditioned for the goon squad. Jail time cured him of that vanity. Jody the Hat does not care for warrants. Supreme court subpoenas. Jody the Hat does not care for anything save deep, righteous dub.