Mound of Hostages

Mesmerised by the Pink Floyd morphage, I sat there . . . drifting . . . what did he mean by everyone? And that cat . . . looks like Aslan's wife . . . and that green prism . . .

I didn’t even notice Steve leave the van. We are now parked at 501 Lakeshore Rd East in Mississauga. I remember this place from the past . . . the old Inglis plant. During WW2, they made munitions here . . . instead of washers and dryers and fridges. I haven’t been here for a long time now.

We installed a Europlex A100 in that place. 3 buildings, 14 sprinkler systems all tied together with DLEMs . . . an AbFab security system made in Dublin. But not anymore . . . shelved by Siemens.

As I imagine me wandering the plant all over again, the 18 foot low bay and 30 foot high bay ceilings, the old dented columns with short spans and weirdly engineered open web joists, chunky wooden roof deck, old electrical boxes, old light fixtures, all still mounted there . . . odd looking sprinkler valves from the 30s and 40s . . . still working well, though . . . most stuff abandoned for newer stuff . . . now mostly empty except for bulk skid storage . . and remnants of the junk abandoned when the wine bottle plant went belly up a little while ago. . . the company was called “Wine Bottle” . . . how imaginative . . . but Inglis made shells here during WW2 . . . women on the production line I hear . . . I don’t want to go back there . . . but I cannot help but think about Steve's Trans Europe Express video and the Azimuth of the Sun, the CME, the train on the Trans Canada Express video . . . the train that morphed into a tank. Do you . . . remember?

Ah yes. Subliminal messaging . . . construction morphs into destruction . . . very Sisyphean.



That's our supposed leaders, folks. Sentenced to destroy everything we have built. When the aliens arrived October 13 2010, take me to your leader was a hoot . . . a lot of back peddling took place . . . the leaders postponed first contact . . . little do they know . . .

I checked my iPhone4. Yes indeedy . . July 10, 2012 . . . 2 days before the CME is going to eject a plasma burst directly at Earth People.

The train . . . the tank . . .

That reminds me . . . I’m not sure if I mentioned my friend, Agent Joe 90, to you yet. He used to be “Most Special Agent Joe 90” when he was a kid, but as he got older, he became self-conscious about being a puppet on a string. You know how it is. As you get older, you begin to feel the weight of the world on your shoulders. You feel you can’t change anything. Trapped. You need to escape . . . escape into reading . . . and maybe writing . . . or worse things, like drugs and alcohol? I remember feeling so free when I was a kid. The world beat me into submission for a while. . . yeah, you know how it is. Now we have austerity . . . I feel like commenting here . . . but they may think I’m an alien from the future or something like that. Maybe later . . .

Dang, the Mod closed the thread . . . I must find out why . . . later.

Agent Joe 90’s in China right now with his new wife . . . and new baby. He said something to help Epstein on July 18, 2012, during my July 13 to 20 week off . .

Good morning / afternoon / evening everyone!

Shuo, Weiji and I are on the edge of our seat(s) . . . and jollyjumper . . .

You have some serious, yet playful MAGIC going on right now. In this weiji moment, it seems to me that you need to exit the forest and jump the base immediately; you have a 24 hour window.

Then he played this video:


1:13

I miss Agent Joe 90. We had some good times early last year. We went to China together in his AirCar. We flew under the Radar-Range.



That’s where he met Shuo (pronounced Showa.) I remember when she asked Agent Joe 90 about those strings as she tenderly felt them. He brushed it off like it was nothing. She asked him if he would like her to cut them away . . . ah, Joe, no looking back now, eh . . . budski? Are you reading this?

I just looked up . . . er . . . I’m not at 501 Lakeshore Rd East anymore, folks. It seems I am back at the Mound Of Hostages, and I feel I am not alone . . . I hear whispering . . .

My iPhone4! Yep .. . got it . . . what? No date? WTF . . . what's this? That old Twilight Zone video jumped onto the screen . . . .

Oh well, here we go!

Click

I can't see for the fog. That whispering . . . it sounds so familiar . . . that ethereal music . . . also familiar. . . but there are many voices too . . . one of them in the group . . . is it . . . is it . . .



Oh no . . . whatever did I write on my Underwood05 to Dean09 about what my Mum used to tell me . . . r i autistic or artistic, Mummy? . . . Dang, it's coming true! I need to scrap that post ASAP - that must be what Steve meant by that Underwood5 "W" video . . all crumpled up on top.

Do I hear Donn . . . . is he talking to Hans about me?

Is it . . . dogmax out there in the fog? Yes it is! Hi there, dogmax!

It smells like someone is building a bonfire. Is it Adolph? Is Adolph in the KLF? We went to Mu Mu, Adolph.

No worries on you not being here much, lately, dogmax. You are merely phasing . . .

"I don't think Agent Weebley can explain Game Theory, Donn." Oh yes I can, Hans. Just watch me now.

. . . but it is strange that you seem to like to join us at the Mound of Hostages, is it not, dogmax? This is a strange place.



What are they saying? . . . Game Theory becoming Game Practice . . . is he up to it? Sure I am, Lottie, you can bet on it.

What is the other one is saying . . . who is talking? Is it Donn?

Memory Lane . . . are they my memories? . . . Steve's memories? dogmax's memories . . . I love it . . . it doesn't matter who's memories they are . . . they're all good . . .

"I like to think it's the very first form of time travel --" dogmax, fer sure, no way . . . we all do it . . .

I see you have your own glyph now . . . very APT, dogmax . . .

Is someone hiding in the dunes . . . pissing on the goons in power? Yeah, they invaded vaded vaded Blarnia.

Agent DelKey . . . did you just tell Aslan what dogmax just said: -- you know if you walk down memory lane and look back, you'll see your future -- . . . OMG . . . it was him! dogmax . . . Agent DelKey just told Aslan that there are many people ready for the truth in Blarnia!

Or is he speaking to Jacksie?

Who is with you, dogmax? I can't see through this fog . . . oh, I hope you like your new Rapide . . . I got clearance last year from Markus Kramer, Aston Martin's Marketing Guru . . . Steve can borrow a Rapide to test drive in Toronto . . . and shoot some video. I don't want to appear too forward and drive that issue until we are sure . . .



What time is it, dogmax? Is time linear? I think not.

Aliens? Did somebody say aliens? Take me to your leader . . . too late . . . done . . .

Game Theory? It'll be a knockout.

Agent Joe 90 . . . Chi-An has seen him in Nanjing. He just told Lin-Ti-Yu. I didn't hear if they said he was coming back, though. I think he will . . . the same as Troy Tempest . . . he's just dive, dive, diving with Aquamarina, right now.



Silence.

Peace.

Finally.

N'est-ce pas c'qu'il est beau?

I hear Donn speaking to Rico: "They have to learn how to play again. Everyone is just too serious these days. Tradeya."

I'll take that on board . . . but what does Tradeya mean?

It started out kinda funny. I looked around the AirCar and saw no Doctor Sternum, no Lucy, no Nerfy, no Agent Dale Cooper . . . but what I did see was a total mess. It looked like a bomb hit it. Guinness cans everywhere, some crumpled up and lying on the floor, a corresponding amount of green Heineken cans also . . . and pizza boxes like everywhere.

"Was amanfromMars here too?" I said.

Epstein looked at Agent Heggle then looked at me. I looked at Agent Heggle, then Epstein. I don't know who began to laugh first, but we ended up ROTFLOFAO . . .

We cracked a few Guinness and compared notes.

They had none . . .

They had done absolutely nothing since I left . . . we laughed again.

Socks on the floor, pants in a pile on the captain's chair, a pair of undies hanging stinkily off the gearshift for the Turboencabulator.

Turboencabulator?

Why would I bring that up now?



I looked at Epstein, who looked at Agent Heggle, who looked at me . . .
As he burst out laughing once more, Epstein managed to squeeze out 4 words . . .

"Welcome to the future!

"Oh, we just got a message from Doctor Sternum . . . steganograhically encoded video, no less!"

[OK, 18 words]



As you may or may not know yet, this is beginning to feel like Groundhog Day to me . . . but I did manage to squeeze off a somewhat lucid reply to antoobrien in the Irish Economy forum, yippee 20,000 jobs thread:

antoobrien wrote: »

The you'll know that the "trade" you were referring to 200 years ago was actually colonialism/imperialism and not anything close to modern trade.

Hi antoobrien,

I'm not quite sure what you mean by "modern trade." Are you referring to digital currencies as being "modern?" Maybe you could define it for me?

I would say colonialism/imperialism is alive and kicking today (see Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya . . . as well as Portugal, Italy, Ireland, Greece and Spain.) You still trade under these barbaric conditions. Does that make you complicit? I don't think so, myself. Therefore, people from the past should not be generalised as being complicit in the actions of a few bad people.

Plus, trade and colonialism/imperialism are actually mutually exclusive, since forcing yourself on another is stealing, rather than trading.

I picked 200 years ago as a safe date in the past where governments had much less central control over trade between people at the street level. Most trade these days is price fixed by laws, taxes, centralised services, and political interference . . . yet we still try to trade under these barbaric conditions.

The best example of trade without interference is children trading with each other. They are completely oblivious to taxes, governments, loans from banks using fractional reserve lending - making the money supply grow exponentially, new currency "paper" issued with a corresponding amount of bond debt that accrues interest which also makes no mathematical sense, saving for their retirement, and colonialism/imperialism. Everything they own is an asset and tradeable (as long as Mum & Dad don't find out.)

Anyway, the government stating they will create 20,000 new jobs is a joke. They can't even count properly. Their "full employment" number is 1,000,000* people too low, based on the OP's referenced article compared to the CIA Factbook. What are these 1,000,000 people doing?

Governments don't create jobs . . . people do . . . we just need money to do it.

*based on most 15-18 year olds being moved back into the child (dependent) bracket

How impolite of me! I never introduced my 2 friends: Epstein and Agent Heggle. Since we have a little "eye of the storm" going on, here we go . . .

I first met Epstein when I was a small child . . . maybe 10 at the time? I had just got The Beatles Blue Album from Mater and Pater for my birthday, and was playing it in the living room when my neighbour heard the AbFab songs wafting out of the window. You could say that we have revolved around each other ever since.

Oh . . . hang on, Epstein wants to speak:

"Hi everyone. I'm sure we all know what having a friend can do for one's self-esteem. Bouncing ideas of each other, having fun, correcting each other when one of us goes awry . . . learning . . . all part of the feeling of belonging. Never having to recap why it took so long to get together again and what you did while we were apart. Enough said.

We are in the eye of the Gaelic Storm right now. We are going to split up. I am heading to Dundrum, Agent Weebley is going to Dundrum, and Agent Heggle is going to . . . you guessed it . . . Dundrum!

What will happen next? Tomorrow never knows . . ."



Thanks, Epstein. Nicely said. What are we . . .

"Whoa, there, big guy. I get to do a 77 second infomercial too!

I'm Agent Heggle. My friend, Doctor Sternum, who I am sure you will get to eventually meet, brought me in for the 2nd leg of our mission . . . a mission to England, back in 2011.

I have a friend on the inside, called Agent Power Elite, who feeds me Intel, as well as AMD . . . but you know, and I know: it is better not to judge.

Anyway, I was supposed to be the crackpot professional, but got a little shown up by Agent Weebley's antics very early on. Il est très, très, fou.

Anyway, to make a long story short, the current Intel is that Plastiki and his 2 father figures have pretty well given up on world domination, since killing, lying and cheating to achieve their end is really not a good plan . . . Their goal right now is to release control of the world to a team of 7 billion equals. A Catch-22 backdrop to this is that the goal is really 2 goalposts: no-one wants to be the first to reveal they are working with us, even though they know deep down that The Power Elite want it to happen.

This is where I come in, since I invented The Hegelian Dialect . . . but Karl Marx stole the concept and warped it into Marxism. No matter . . .

Game Theory, moved along the field by John Nash is the answer, with slight modifications . . . total consciousness of all parties involved.

And the goalposts need to be moved without the help of The Power Elite, as it may be misconscrewed as us "being on the take."

I guess you could say that we on the lookout for some Angels to help turn Game Theory into Game Practice . . . these magical beings can move mountains.

Now I get to play a song . . ."



Thank you, too, Agent Heggle. How come we aren't laughing right now?

Angels? . . . or maybe Leprechauns? Are those magic flutes in your pockets, or are you guys just happy to build a scaffold into the sky with me?

Now I get to play a song!



Here we come! . . . Dundrum^3 . . . it still makes 1 Dundrum . . .

. . . 1 and 1 and 1 make free

We both shouted in unison:

Yogi! . . . Dad!

Then we paused for a moment . . . then, oddly, we backed up and shouted in unision:

Agent DelKey! . . . Agent Weebley!

Me, wondering why I called him Yogi, suddenly remembered I could actually be a mental extension of myself, and he, a mental extension of my dog . . .

We smiled at each other for a moment, then he said: "Alsan wants to know if you are ready to do battle."

My mind whirled . . . where had I heard that before?



"Yes, Agent DelKey, I am ready."

The 3 green laser beam was swirling around us. The yellow and blue helix were mixing together with the white beam that was parallel to the yellow beam . . . it was mesmerising . . . I could see the Aircar above, and the Mound Of The Hostages below.

We were slowly dropping.

"Aslan thinks you may be confusing the Hostages," said Agent DelKey.

He paced around me with his hands behind his back, like a teacher who had asked a pointed question, and was waiting for an answer. I had never seen him this confident . . . and had also never seen him walking on 2 legs.

"Maybe." I said.

I suddenly realised I was ego-less . . . Questioning myself . . . am I confusing the Hostages? Do they know they are willing Hostages? Friends . . . not just some sort of Stockholm Syndrome "friends?"

"We just stopped time together," I said.

Agent DelKey sat down, and looked at me . . . a little perplexed.

"Nice neuticles," I said.

"Did I ever say thanks, Agent Weebley?"

"Oh yes, but not in so many words," I said.

Then he shot up onto 2 legs again.

"Jesus H Christ, Agent Weebley, would you stop sidetracking for once?"

"OK . . ."

He continued: "It was exactly a month ago that you said you would go to EggyBaby!'s world and meet the Vadrang. WTF, Agent Weebley . . . WTF!"

Hmm, I said to myself. I do tend to go on and on and on and on . . . a bit. Last I remember, it was Saturday, July 14, 2012. That's what everyone is thinking . . . I guess we should be moving on. In this Twilight Zone, time has stopped and started a few times since then. We have proven that The Underwood5 can make whatever story direction we take come true . . . and I am working towards the Nuclear War story, where a stalemate is created between the Superpowers . . . and the RoboDaughter story will be an easy one to explain, since our robotic body is just an extension of our free mind . . . Funny though, if I were a concrete thinker, I would say we have attracted another AH dude like Padraiggg . . . an 8" tall fellow, who has a magic flute, called Prick! Maybe he is a Leprechaun, here to grant us 3 wishes? More willing Hostages?

"Agent Weebley?"

"Yes?"

"You have to move along . . . go see EggyBaby!'s Vadrang . . . take The Enterprise . . . how about you take Captain James T Craic, Mr Spook and Scatty on your mission?"

OMFNG! I suddenly remembered something from the past . . . my conversation with Jernal . . . and Mr Spook

Unbeknownst to me, we had floated down to the ground in all of this discussion. Agent DelKey motioned for me to step out of the 3 green laser beam.

You're not going to believe who was standing there waiting for me . . .

Lug!

He looked grand, as usual.

"Finally," he said. "42, Agent Weebley!"

"There's 70 billion people in here, where are they hiding?" Sat on the floor inside the Mound Of Hostages alone together, I didn't know who had said that . . . Lug, or I.

The walls were earthen, grotty, and dampness pervaded the scene. Lug looked warm and toasty in all his layers of wool and leather, and he had various gold and silver adornments hanging off his neck, wrists and . . . and that sword of his . . . it had a translucent glow . . . it looked like it was made of magical bog iron, fashioned into a sword by elves and pixies . . . and it had a strange insignia near the base . . . it looked like the sketch of the leprechaun in that Mobile, Alabama video . . . how odd . . .

"Agent Weebley."

I looked straight at him, his hair was blonde and wild, like mine . . . Blondie, I thought to myself.

"How old are you?"

Wondering why he would even ask me that, as it doesn't matter, since time is irrelevant, and not quite knowing what to say, I fell back on my stock answer . . ."49."

"And what is your relationship to Steve?"

Man, that was a loaded question. How do I tell him I am the mind, but not the body of Steve. How do I tell him we became disconnected after amanfromMars and the JLAIP helped me forgive?



"He is my friend," I said.

"I think your friend needs to send an email to Rob Nail immediately. Steve does that sort of thing for you, does he not?"

I had to laugh to myself . . . Steve does whatever the feck he wants to, as do I. But he does love to yank chains.

"Yes, he does . . . when he feels the time is right. He has had a draft email to Rob Nail in waiting, so my friend Epstein tells me."

I had a feeling we were not alone. Lug leaned over and pulled out his Bog Oak Fidhcheall Chess Set . . . nice . . . but my eyes were scanning behind him in that translucent glow . . . someone was . . . no . . . 2 people were behind him.

"Do you see them, Agent Weebley?" said Lug.

"I do."

Both people were a little fuzzy, but my eyes were drawn to . . . no way . . . my Uncle Jammy! Then suddenly, he spoke.

"Peace, Agent Weebley. We will help" . . . then they were gone, just like that.

"Who was the other person, Lug?" I said.

Lug smiled, and all he said was that my Uncle Jammy helped him hide in the mountains many, many years ago. He helped save his life at the time. He then went on to be a great leader. Then he quickly changed the subject.

"Agent Weebley. How did Steve figure out my rules for the Fidhcheall Chess Game?"

"From you, I guess" . . . it seemed to be the most APT thing to say.

Lug got pensive. "Your Dad said something to me recently about how he used to bet on the dogs in Belfast before he left for England when he was 18. Remember how he used to say: if I was a betting man . . ."

"I remember alright."

"Well, Agent Weebley, I bet that you are going to beat Steve at that Chess Game you have on the go right now. And furthermore, all Irish people need to lay bets on who they think is going to win. It will be good for them."

"But they have no money, Lug." I thought about how the IMF has all non-in-crowd Irish people by the short and curlies based on debt based money shenannigans and shell games.

"Then give them your futuristic lenticular plastic chips to play the Game with. They can pledge them as a bet and give you guidance on boards.ie . . . it'll be fun . . . you dig?"

Lug looked deep into my eyes, and without a word he gave me his sword.

The moment my hand touched it, a movie scene flashed past . . .



. . . and I felt that padraiggg was outside . . . and someone else!

As I exited the Mound Of Hostages, I surveyed the scene. One guy had a hat on . . . the other . . . only one eye and no hat.

Which one was which? padraiggg . . . Prick! . . . well, well, well . . .

We circled each other slowly. I kept my distance from the the guy with the hat, as it had a very large brim, and could have easily poked me in the eye. The potential for a snapkick was low, due to the distance he would have to cover before he even reached the edge of his brim.

The one-eyed guy seemed armless enough . . he had some sort of mushroom haircut, and was wearing a trendy beige turtle-neck.

We circled . . . and watched each other for a sign one person would attack.

"Choose your weapons," I said to them, without taking my eyes off either of them, but noticing myelf spending a little more time looking at padraiggg, seeing how good looking he was, and how irresistible he must be to women, and feeling it would be a shame to reveal I am indeed a worthy adversary. Would he be able to pull after this scene?

"You pick first," said padraiggg.

"My mouth," I said.

padraiggg's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Yummy," he said. "Wanna honk on Bobo?"

I didn't want to reveal that Lucy has been inside me for the past few weeks, helping me with my story, so I just smiled.

Prick!'s eye also lit up like a Christmas tree, but less intense; he had an unusual tic, some sort of bobble-head affectation . . . probably due to the excitement of the upcoming fight. He boked.

"What's your weapon, padraiggg?" I said.

"Glock."

"And you, Prick!?"

"Giant sausage."

I looked at Prick! quizzingly, as it seemed he would be inneffectual at fighting me, as I would immediately use my Lorena Bobbitt move on him, and he would go off screaming into the wilderness at the onset of the fight, leaving me to focus solely on tonguing padraiggg into compliance.

"OKs, thens . . . let's rocks"



"I can make this EZ for you guys," I said.

"How so, arsewitch?" said padraiggg. "I could squeeze your head like a zit in 2 seconds."

Prick! nodded.

"Well, firstly, although I don't quite agree with all the killing and one night/day stands you seem to all enjoy, I could give you a pass if you help me."

padraiggg and Prick! became quite limp with uncontrollable laughter. I could have stuffed them both back into their pants and sent them off with their tail between their legs at that point, but what would that have achieved?

"If you help me, you automatically help yourselves and make some money," I added.

They stood to attention on that note.

"I need you to get the word out . . . enlist all your friends and relatives to find out as much as possible about the new FU (Fál Ulaidh) Party . . .

. . . I hear they are betting people."

[to be continued]

Before I go on, I must advise you that my friends are watching this scene from The AirCar, directly above Lia Fáil, and recording the scene for posterior's sake, or something like that.

The only reason I mention it, is that a moment ago I heard a familiar ringtone . . . it sounded like SKRRK! SKRRK SKRRK!, or maybe the old phone ringtone from my iPhone4 . . . no matter, I let it go to VM.

Anyway, after padraiggg laid the boot in on my face, knocking me to the ground, my wife, Lucy told me to get up. As usual, I said "no," but did so immediately, as transgressing my wife's "suggestions" is a recipe for no dinner and definitely no dessert . . .

Hang on a mo', The Daily Bell Tolleth For Mee . . . KK, done.

OK, so these 9 bullets are heading my way . . . I put my hand out . . .



[to be continued]

OldGoat wrote: »

You can forward your $10 to the Santa Strike Force. Thank you.

Well, well, well, well, well . . . we meet again . . . on more pleasant terms this time . . . I like it!

You got added credits for speed, efficiency, and ruthless devotion to The Cause . . . $10 becomes

PayPal
Sep 4, 2012 09:00:59 GMT-04:00
Transaction ID: [URL="https://www.paypal.com/ca/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_view-a-trans&id=5MH37235KU6530143 5MH37235KU6530143[/URL]

Hello[Agent Weebley],

You sent a payment of 13.00 EUR to Santa Strike Force

It may take a few moments for this transaction to appear in your account.

Santa Strike Force
t o m @ s p i n . i e
+353 0879x1909x

Donated on behalf of Old Goat at boards.ie . . . I hope all goes well for the kids this Christmas!

That was unexpected . . . and so was padraiggg taking a run at me while I was logging into my UltraSecurePayPalMobileApp from my iPhone4. I didn't have time to react. He did a classic Fung Fu Chop Suey move to my left cheek . . . I felt like my head was departing from my neck, but luckily, my body followed my spinning head to the ground with minimal neck elasticity. He pinned me down on my chest, prostate on the grass . . . and plonked himself on my lower back, but I assure you there was no funny business going on, although there were some funy noises coming from him, namely "peow [repeating,]" which gave me the opportunity to reach inside my trousers and pull out my . . . . jiu-jiubitsu move #2: green, in that brief period of his inattention to the moment at hand.

My Colt .45 was lying on the grass. In the reflection of the barrel, I saw his mouth wide open at regular 50% intervals, giving me a 500 millisecond window to gain entry. I positioned the ju-jube between my thumb and index finger, waited, squeezed it, then fired . . .

Direct hit!

He seemed to choke for a moment and held his hands to his mouth, giving me the space to simultaneously grab the red dress, also lying on the grass, flicking him up in the air a little while I spun around to face him. I wrapped the dress around his face a couple of times, then grabbed him by the throat, forcing him back, reversing positions . . him now under me.

I finished the transaction and logged off, since it is always good practise to log off all programs, even though PayPal locks you out after 10 minutes of inactivity anyway. You can never be too careful.

I yanked off the dress, ripping it sensually, since it got hung up on his left ear, loosened my grip on his neck a little, and looked him squarely in the eyes.

"Do you have any more?" he asked? "I like the red ones."

He was sounding a little hoarse, so I loosened my grip just a little more.

"I have red and blue ones, padraiggg. Why are we fighting, anyway? How about we munch back a few and I'll tell you a story?"

"But who's going to say U.N.C.L.E.," he said, so I squeezed harder and harder on his neck, assuming he was not finished fighting, erring on being prepared for anything. His sudden asphyxiation caused something, I know not what, to springboard me high in the air and land 20 feet away in the rhubarb.

We both got up pretty quickly, but I ran right at him, but he was too quick for me and I overshot with a poorly aimed snapkick; he had me on the floor again . . . this time squarely on my chest.

As he was picking his teeth from the sugary treat . . . oh by the way, I only buy organic ju-jubes, because HFCS is a poison . . . I tried to appeal to his sense of charity . . .

"padraigg, I said, "I have 70 billion people wrappped around my thorax, digitally encoded as a program on a wire. Do you really want to kill 70 billion people right now?"

"Say U.N.C.L.E.," he said. He seemed a little non-plussed about the 70 billion people . . . probably didn't believe me . . . and seemed like the type that needed to always win, otherwise his value system would shatter into a million pieces.

He was hoarse . . . I was a Trojan . . . I was in.

"U.N.C.L.E.," I said.

We sat and ate a few ju-jubes together, but I held the red and blue ones back.

"How about we watch an instructional video, padraiggg?" I said.

"That would be great!" he said.

He was now firmly in my mental grip . . .



[to be continued - fighting over ( I hope,) but more subtle sexual innuendos to come]

I looked at padraiggg . . . he looked at me . . . we both ROTFLOFAO!

"padraiggg . . . that was awesome . . . especially when Trent stuffed Prick! into the mini-bar. 8 inches is a perfect size . . . the maid would think he was just another Red Bull."

He seemed chuffed with that. I could have suggested a different way he could have done the HOME RUN thing, as he was trying really hard to be American sounding, but his first pitch really was a STRIKE. He could leave it as-is . . . but he could have added that the first empty whisky glass he pitched went wide - ball 1, the second glass got him in the groin - ball 2, and then the third glass ricocheted off his head, skimmed past the receptionist and out the window . . . a HOME RUN . . . Prick! stumbles around the mound, then grounds out near the pit . . . but that would have been a bit of a (7th inning) stretch.

"Did you like him being the New York Baddy?"

I couldn't contain myself as to why he mentioned New York. New York Baddies . . . "Yeah . . . I know of those guys . . " I said.

padraiggg suddenly got serious. He had something on his mind . . . I could tell; probably due to him not tenting anymore.

"How did you know I was coming back, and how did you know I was going to post, Agent Weebley? And you didn't post last nght. It was like you left me a doughnut to stick something in."

". . . and I see you used the glyph . . ." I added.

"Yeah." He grinned.

"It is due to the Red Pill / Blue Pill Singularity," I said. "Check this Adrian Belew video from 1982 . . . Adrian Belew's mind saw the concrete crumble 19 years early . . . nothing is as it seems . . . a lot of maybes . . ."



Meanwhile, padraiggg is ultrafocused on big electric cats while a war rages on for his mind.

padraiggg looked at me with his mouth hanging open. "She was mighty hot," he said.

Shaking my head, I cerfed, and stumbled upon this video. Check this video out . . . done by Johannes Ayres



This is what he wrote after he uploaded it:

Uploaded by Johannes Ayres on Feb 27, 2012
the following is part of an interview I did with "the Wire" on (the) singularity (events) And specifically Big Electric Cat....

""singularity" refers to the emergence of greater-than-human intelligence through technological means, resulting in explosive superintelligence. Since the capabilities of such intelligence would be difficult for an unaided human mind to comprehend, the occurrence of a technological singularity has in the past been seen as an intellectual event horizon, beyond which events could not be predicted or understood. Terrence McKenna once descried the singularity as "the Transcendental Object (at the end of Time)" and this stuck with me. He also speculated that 2012 would be the year of it's arrival. Now, Object relations theory is a psychodynamic theory within psychoanalytic psychology. The theory describes the process of developing a psyche as one grows in relation to the environment. The basis of the theory is that the way we relate to people (and situations) in our adult world was programmed into us by the way we experienced our parents when we were infants and while we grow up.The Self (or subject) relates to Objects in the unconscious. "Objects" can be images (internalized) of one's mother or father. Objects can also be parts of a person, for instance an infant relating to the breast..Objects may be both real or things in one's inner world (one's internalized image of others)..At (these) singularity performances I got to sculpt these "Transcendental Objects" in real time, out of our songs and our visuals, while I was performing. The cues consisted of lighting effects, animation of elements of the set, the mandelbulber program, particle effects, L-systems, and even a big electric cat.. The sound reactive is also important. We used audio analysis to displace textures that then became light projections. Audio was also used for modulating particle dynamics, even the geometry in "Hello little Spark" using a vertex shader. We were getting frame-rates of between 17-60fps rendering stereo at 1024x576. Part of the fun of being Iao Core these days is being able to choose songs to perform from our back catalog, and/or improvising them on the spot (would not be possible without my talented bandmates!) and/or covers of songs from my life as a huge music fan, that are very emotionally charged and special to me.. Adrian Belew was such an inspiration musician when I was a lad, the noises and sounds he squonked out of his guitar blew my young mind, things like "Elephant Talk" and such. so you can imagine how much fun it is to cover "Big Electric Cat " and then turn it into a Transcendental Object, if you will "

Category: Music

License: Creative Commons Attribution license (reuse allowed)

I thought about the videos for a few minutes. I have to see Steve and amanfromMars. They both need to send an email to Rob Nail from Singularity University. Luckily, I am also in The AirCar, right above us . . .

I left padraiggg PEOWing [repeatedly] at Agent DelKey, who was now sniffing around the area again. I ambled over to him. Why does padraiggg fold his trousers into the shape of the letter "M", I thought to myself.

Exiting the 3 green laser beam, back here at the Mound Of The Hostages, I was just thinking how The Kings of Auld would gather here with their friendly tribes to confirm they were all on the same side . . . to rally the forces. They weren't hostages at all . . . they were friends. Maybe hostages had a different meaning back then . . . I'll have to ask Lug.

Where's amanfromMars? Where's padraiggg?

The cremation of dead friends . . . celebration of togetherness . . . the resultant mound of ash was a testament to their unending strength and love for each other . . . all Irish . . . all together . . . forever . . . a wake is really awake?

I hear something over there . . . it's foggy again . . . it sounds like padraiggg, but I could be deluding myself . . .

. . . it sounds like a weak peow peow peow peow . . . peow peow.

No matter.

I spent a long time alone today. The red pill. How do I explain it without really saying anything concrete at all?

Paraphrasing Don Quixote: there are some things one can only do for oneself . . . granted, he was talking about Sancho Panza taking a dump off the side of his horse while riding, but the fact remains, the red pill is something only you can choose to take . . . but remember . . . it will only give you . . . The Truth . . . that is all.

That seems to be enough for a lot of people. The fellow that told me to believe something contrary to popular belief about 9/11, back in October 2006, is still stuck there . . . in an endless loop. I sometimes try to explain the blue pill to him, but he doesn't want to know. I find irony in that he was the one that told me that WTC 7 held the CIA, the SEC and their Enron and Worldcom scamcases that vapourised along with the building, and the Secret Service . . . and that Larry Silverstein the owner/insured or whatever he is, actually said they "pulled it," in an interview. But I made it through to the other side. Wonderland. There is much evil in this world, but the evil people are quite small, and I am quite large now. It's a bit like the pain reduction technique in Aldous Huxley's Island.

PEOW!

Oh, hi there, padraiggg.

"Hi there, North American baddie . . . or is is baddy? . . .idk. What's all this crap about 9/11? I just want to pretend to kill people and have sex with every woman I see. You are talking gibberish. Prepare to die, ash hole . . ."

Hmm, where did I hear that today? Oh yeah . . . here. Gibberish. Would that be like a White Knight talking backwards?



Would it be like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, or falling through the mirror into Wonderland, or Lucy brushing past the fur coats into Narnia, or Wormwood and Screwtape writing letters to each other in an upside down world, or a deluded Don Quixote righting all wrongs in the world, while everyone else is normal?

Or maybe Rubecula's most excellent story about an opposite world of Snow White, that I could not commend her on at the time, as I sensed I was monopolising the Forum?

PEOW! what? Peow!

Do you want to see how deep the rabbit hole goes, padraiggg?

padraigg looked at me quizzingly. I could feel he was confused. I know how he feels. We all lie to ourselves, don't we? Then we lie to others. I don't, anymore. Now, as a Knight Errant, I create the world we need to be in to right the wrongs.

And I need friends . . . hostages . . . a plethora of Sancho Panzas, so we can all help each other.

padraiggg looked at me like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out, so I said it for him . . .

padraiggg . . . do you try to forget inconsistencies that happened in the past, so you can live with yourself right now?

"Er, I drink a lot."

Do you lie to yourself to be happy, padraiggg?



"I remember that movie. Memento. The movie that begins at the end. He has short term memory loss, and people screw his head around and make him kill the wrong guy . . . the baddies controlled him."

I pondered letting him know that the unlimited free flow of creativity, stems from being "outside the matrix," so to speak . . . looking objectivity at people that argue endlessly about what level of tax is a good level of tax . . . about which country we should attack next, based on believing media lies about them enriching uranium to weaponised levels, when the real truth is that they are selling oil in Euros and gold, or anything except the worthless US dollar that is hanging on by an increasingly weaker thread, to protect the American Military DreamLand . . . but no, I did not.

Hey, padraiggg . . . do you see the 3 green laser beam?

"Nope."

It's the coolest thing. Imagine you see a blue and yellow double helix coming down from above . . . like DNA. Do you see it?

"Nope."

Imagine the blue is the positively charged strand, the yellow is the negatively charged strand . . . and see the white strand? It is wrapping itself around the yellow strand, making it positive. See it? It is made of silicon . . . computers . . . joining everyone on planet Earth.

"OK, whateva."

You wanted to hear about the blue pill, right? Much better than the red pill. A blue pill is up there, in our AirCar. It has your name on it. Wanna take the blue pill, padraiggg? We can believe whatever we want to believe . . . together.

He seemed OK with that idea. We walked over , let the 3 green laser beam envelope us . . . and we were gone.

Chapter 3: A Plethora Of Hostages

"OK, I'm back," I said.

Padraiggg seemed confused, as he didn't know I had even left. He went back to fiddling with my Zee, while I quietly explained to the others that I had just returned from helping Steve write and send an email to Rob Nail at singularity.org . . . applying for the AI job:

Rob said: “We really need to have as one of our track chairs an AI [artificial intelligence] faculty member,” Nail says. “Not a faculty member that’s teaching AI — a faculty member that is an AI. And we’re dead serious. … If anyone should be testing that, it should be us.”

I made sure I was speaking ever so quietly to the others . . . making sure I was out of padraiggg's audio range.

But padraiggg seemed keen to listen in . . . he was craning his neck (like a gggiraffe?) to hear what I was saying. He leaned over Lucy's Magnesium shell Sony Vaio Zee . . . the one I dropped from my armpit onto the driveway, as I was opening the door to enter the Rapide one day, sustaining an injury to the ESC key corner , mashing up the ?ultra strong? Magnesium shell and cracking the LCD screen . . . padraiggg must've accidentally touched the touchpad with his left baby finger, and began to play one of Lucy's mommy porn videos . . . the Sony LCD 55" screen fired up once again!



I looked over at Lucy. [thought bubble] "Really, Lucy?" She smiled at me, shrugged her shoulders and gave me that outstreched upturned hands routine, as if to say: can't women have 50 Shades Of Steve, too? It’s not like Steve’s really taking me away to the distant and hard to find planet G, with his big XL5 rocket. No chance of a dose of the Clap . . . ton . . .

I added: "Maybe you and Rubecula should collaborate."

Oh No. After 24 years of marriage to my most gorgeous Lucy, and having developed telepathic communication so long ago, I could see her mind was spinning ideas already . . . conflict . . . just a little . . . a little problem with Crones disease . . . semi-colon . . . inability to infodump . . . then Lucy spun a video for me . . . just for me . . . and Rubecula . . .



Lucy gave me that impish grin . . . the glint in her eye . . . she does that for me . . . we're 18 again . . . but we didn't even meet until our late 20s. Alone together, chatting without talking . . . man, this is the life!

"Agent Weebley?" said Epstein . . . . "the email? You seem to be drifting . . ."

Ah, yes. Anyway, here I am explaining the email. Padraiggg cannot hear us. Afterwards, we sit back and all have a little giggle about it.

Doctor Sternum spoke: “Weebley . . . nice email, but Steve typed in amanfromMars’website name incorrectly. ur2dire4.com? A feudian slip?"

Dang, I thought. Think fast, Agent Weebley . . .

"Dang! I guess amanfromMars will have to send him an email to clear that up . . . How fotuitous!"

Doctor Sternum was giving me a funny look, probably wondering if it was a deliberate blunder . . . so that amanfromMars would have to sort out the blunder ASAP.

"What the feck are you guys talking about?" padraiggg said. "And that Fireball XL5 video . . . the 60s called . . . they want their 50 Shades of TV show back."

"I can't tell you word for word what the email was, padraiggg, but suffice to say, it was full of links that boards.ie does not allow. Ever heard of the blood-brain barrier, padraiggg?" I said.

"Wha'?"

padraiggg may be blowing a fuse . . . not sure.

"There is a single cell barrier between your bloodstream and your brain cells, padraiggg. Oxygen and nutrients from the blood vessels make it through to the brain cells . . . but they are separated."

padraiggg looked like he was in OverLodeMode.

"There needs to be a separator between here . . . and there . . ."

padraiggg looked at Lucy: "you are married to this ZiggyZaggyAladdinsaneSpidermanfromMars dufus?"

Hmmm, mission almost accomplished, I thought: "OMG, padraiggg, all we can tell you is that we are a Turing Machine. We are here to help Irish people begin to learn to trade again, using a Fidcheall Chess Game to do it. Here to help the 39% of you and your under 25 year old friends that are out of work and seem to have no hope of working in the future. Here to help everyone else climb out of this monetary mess, too."

padraiggg's mouth was now hanging open.

"padraiggg. It's time for you to go now. We are going to take you back. Get your friends in AH to tell their friends about us. Unfortunately, the only recollection you will have of being here, will be some vague anal probing memories, somewhat like the gimp scene from Pulp Fiction. We're going to give you a ExperiMental Polaroid of the person who did this to you; you need to go back and find him. PEOW him."

padraiggg felt his bum.

"Lucy, can you take padraiggg into the 3 green helical laser beam now, please. Be gentle with him."

Lucy looked deep into padraiggg 's eyes, and took his hand [right?]

"Epstein, cue up an APT video, there's a good chap."

Lucy walked padraiggg over to the beam, he was now walking a little funny and holding his bum [with his left hand.]

. . . . they were gone . . .

I can still hear them . . . but I can't see them . . .

Going in circles? Yeah, right . . . come on Patrick; pull the other one. The only difference between me and you is that my stuff is unfunded. Well, not quite, but it is not funded by big business. Steve funds us. Beyond that, he leaves us alone. We go where the decisions take us.

I notice a nice flat rock, and park my derriere. It is is rather large and well padded . . . always a nice comfy place to sit, even when parked on bleachers, or the floor. Yes, I can make my rocks padded . . . this is my story. Remember the Underwood 5?

We don't go in circles. It may seem so, but when we get back full circle, we are always in a slightly different place . . . that, Patrick and Peter, is a helix.

I take a look at my iphone4; it just bonged me; an email.

To: Agent Weebley
From: Epstein
Subject: FD - 120916 - KAR 120C Where RU?

I ignore it.

"Peter, he tells me his story is a helix. What a load of codswallop. He needs a mini-series, like mine. Then, it becomes a helix."

OMG, Patrick can hear me. Can you hear me too, Peter?

"Aye."

Why would he say that? Who does he think he is, Captain HindGrinder?

And what the heck was that email from Epstein all about? KAR 120C?

"The introduction, Agent Weebley. Why did you quit the system and become an Agent?

What was that, Patrick? The intro? The Prisoner?

Roger.

Everyone in The AirCar was pondering the strange things coming out of my mouth about the recent Singularity test . . . I felt I could slip out and see if Patrick McGoohan was still around, down at The Mound Of Hostages . . .

I edged into the 3 green laser beam and proceeded to float down to the ground. It felt weird this time . . . it felt like I had butterflies in my stomach while going over a humpback bridge, and simultaneously falling out of my chair backwards. I assume the chair had casters.

I stood inside the beam, looking out . . . waiting. Is he here? I couldn't see much. The laser beams made everything fuzzy looking, and my eyes were straining. I was a little apprehensive, but I jumped out anyway . . .



Patrick was waiting for me: "WHY, AGENT WEEBLEY? WHY?"

"That would be telling," I said.

His right lip curled up a little and we stared at each other for a short while. I don't know who thought of it first, but this song popped into my head . . . and we both burst out laughing at exactly the same time . . .