You are currently viewing Senior Operator Destrudo by userbody

Senior Operator Destrudo by userbody

For a first thing, a physical image: in the folds of a dusky leather couch and myself some pale limbs and a head heaved through a formal dashiki, here sit I the 800lb NEET FBI guy behind every girl online, or any other apparent sweet charity in the world. To take the contradiction in this description and collapse it like an antique chair, see that I’m fat with focus, so devoted to my online work with the Bureau (so-to-speak: my employer is only a functional equivalent), that no desires lead me away from this richly furnished basement suite in my childhood home, which is admittedly a rare mansion in mostly dronestruck southern country and for that reason alone difficult, logistically, to leave behind. But the point is that while I am in a way stranded, I am neither dissatisfied nor lonely. Despite war, delivery boys and prostitutes aplenty come feed and fuck my big body every night, and I’m kept in beer and speed by an indigenous “nurse”, and College pals are in frequent contact across Spase. Mother and Father are equally dead, regrettably. But I can see them look down proudly from Heaven at the well-oiled machine they’ve left in my nominal charge:


A Swissman stokes the family fortune and arranges for my political and military defense, and my home sees not only the nighttime visitors I have mentioned, but the dutiful toiling by day of a mostly elderly staff of thirty comprising maids, gardeners, laborers, cooks, &c – some younger ones are growing into their elders’ roles, but not many. I’m told the problem will sort itself out “as the war slows” (unlikely), but am nonplussed regardless; frankly, I am satisfied so long as my investments in the local whorehouse continue to pay nubile, suggestible, and energetic dividends.


My home, self-propelling and always poised in anticipation of my any need, is a nullifying augmentation for a fat body, an ancient standard. It is a device for clearing a mind of its obstructive body so that it may get at its own full power and set that power to its own ends. With so few genuine homes to go around, it’s arguably a tragedy that I was born spiritually broken: unable to set my power loose outside of any body.


But short of the ancient noble way, I’ve found two ways of near-equal worth: the operation of many other bodies, and the embodiment of pure cancer. The first is my career and the second is my hobby. In its barest essence, my story is of a competition for a heart, or “Center”, between these two ways of life, neither of which are wholly good or evil, but which seem instead to lie across good and evil at a perfect diagonal – this moral ambivalence is just one facet of the difficulty I have in deciding between the two.


To speak of my terminal hobby: it feels good whenever I start writing something for the Bureau (or the College, back when) and at a saturation point snap and spring a tumor of poetry from whatever has stood for my brain. It’s like I try to birth a thing right and complete from my mental seed and (is it a bad seed? Why do I ask? Because…) it gets cancer – this happens to every thing I try to build and set in motion. Any thing I do complete and get moving (there have been some**) must thus be pure cancer, and so in turn it seems to me that: what with this relentless, underdogged happiness on-the-whole (a thing that has been cooking like a hotdog on-a-stick since my teen years by those beer-spritzed campfires: first foundries of poetry…)…yes, what with this stubborn happiness in the face of cancer, it must be that I have a taste for cancer. Indeed, I’ve known as much since my teen years by those beer-spritzed campfires and their cooked up, fucked poems-after: these were droplet-scale philosophy catchers for quick & dirty deployment on sexy sands in the woods housing the girls and beers, what are called Houses of Stimulation or Brain Ovens in my dominant pet theory of the Universe; poems were easy-to-empty after, into a home reservoir: primordial soup to the lively Informational Animal Kingdom of my adult years.


“Wait. Is this guy nuts or what?” No: by avoiding psychologists like teevee spoilers, I have retained a feeling of wonder at what luck it’s to be the lone patient & doctor of my exact cancerous, cancer-loving condition. A taste for cancer makes good sense of my fate to be the King Midas of Cancer, and quickly & easily it does. The condition could also be called “spiritual infertility” but anyhow it means to insist, in 2028, on an asexual reproduction strategy, though one be an absolute un-antique in the Animal Kingdom now turned Informational: not just sexual but hypersexual. Be you the Midas for this open throne, I can say, and you will last an eternity…how? I explain. I apologize for the mixed metaphors…with another: I have so many different theories pouring out now like animals from the zoo; see how the rabbit fucks the rabbit and the lion eats the gazelle in the middle of the street you’re used to driving along. You belong in the wild (I have learned this) and reading me will help to re-condition you to it, so let your worries die like flies. 


My Taste For Cancer


Doctor Cancer, I beat & refine this poor taste of mine in cycles of sometimes ten minutes and even one (just this last one) year, a practice which will heighten the criminal taste on-the-whole, in-the-long – suffuse it more over my blackening hotdog happiness like American condiments…unless, that is, I beat the odds, and the taste in question, dead. But I won’t. Sordid taste, centerpiece of our philosophical discussion, takes me pretty places, places which are also my aforementioned children of pure cancer**:


  1. snapshots of lost women that grow finer with age
  2. poems about drinking beers and ignoring girls sitting around campfires in my teen years
  3. original thoughts bought at auction by sapiosexual pederasts at Clown College
  4. resignations to the ephemeral piled into sugary balls and swallowed whole before Mom sees
  5. to speak of Dad, disappointments that sneak in haywire engines of generational questioning (bidirectionally, of humble course) and never stop their smoking but just get put more away after each unwitting unboxing in the ever-reorganized basement of Family
  6. comedies that mature and get better laughs with each new girlfriend
  7. personal eccentricities (mere singles among big packs being always fed steroids and administered exercise in the Big Playpen in the Basement…) noticed and lauded, really out-of-nowhere, by every person in a friend group of around five
  8. walking the city ski-masked


“You only live once.” This quote cracks a whip about as loud as the thwack of its cheap untruth failing under the weight of a cancerous fat man; under his sedentary computer-aided scrutiny; under the hard sediment of questions fallen from him and piled onto this or any other enemy of his. Here’s the gist of its untruth, straight from the homebound fat lady cow’s singing mouth, some grist for the million question-answers to come: You never live. With this, we can finally start, begin at last. The question-answers sit structured to take our claim as far as it can go – they’re like the belts and trucks and ratfuckers of our global production nexus that e.g. sucks up a blob of copper in the PRC and spits out a coin in the USA and a pipe in the PRA. I’ve put years into building them this way. The first, a simple machine, sits nearby: “What?” What could this mean? What is this possibly radioactive material possibly be good for?  


The utility in defending a patently false statement comes in the beautiful mental gymnastics required for its defense, and the greatly surprising yet maybe true statements we see spring forth within these. Men make livings selling the offspring of claims like “Everything is fire” or “I’m more than a sanctimonious, narcissistic ass.” So let us bend over backwards in defense of the claim that you never live, and see what we get, and what we can buy with that (I, and the Party, have a big purchase already in joint mind).


To say you never live is to say that everything that lives, whether or not it appears to be you, isn’t. There is no you, and to be broken (in this particular world still mad) is to believe that there is, that a certain thing is you, and that it must be protected at all costs to you. I am broken, at odds, in this sense, that I am without an explicable anchor in the Informational…I am, if you’ll promise to grip the guardrail and not fall over this edge, nothing; and nothing I allow to pass through me attempts to tell me otherwise, and as a pleasant result of this I am at a peace we deem crucial to bring to everyone worldwide as soon as is practicable. Believe us (shorthand: me): You are the medium in which existences transpire. The emptiness of an empty space. The fertility of an open plain. A virgin planet (what I was ’til age 19). Etcetera. The emptier we make ourselves, you see, the bigger the living things that can pass through us. The things we can jointly be. And there are many. The ape. The poems, sex. The Monarchy. World of Warcraft. Startups. Ideas Worth Spreading.

The Next Big Thing

None know what it will be. We simply believe that if we all open wide and increase our receptivity to it technologically, while decreasing our receptivity to all things not Great, this Great Big thing will come to us. If you join us, we will be one million and one! My my, the power we already have via the Openness we’ve so far achieved…we walk through each other like rooms, through walls, and see into many more than us, almost all…


Each student in our class in College was assigned two partners, two targets, and two objectives: with Fred Xi, use Christina Agapakis to release the snakes from the biology department, and with Miki Berenyi, use Timur Si-Qin to beat up the Fairy Longevity Dormitory janitor. “You have four years to complete these assignments, and we advise that you take your time.”  


In the first case, I was the actor. For my role, I became interested in animal abuse prevention and would talk about it at parties. Fred collected from Christina’s chatlogs and browsing history and from her thoughts, which she exposed rarely: only when playing a virtual reality hunting simulator. He learned that she held some ire toward her roommate, Janine Lindemulder. I dated Janine for two years until one night at a party, she left sick and I did not follow her, leaving only Christina and me. Up until this point, I had made a point of never engaging Christina in any deep conversation, but in the context of Janine’s absence and my apparent indifference toward her, I stoked an argument with her on the topic of animals. She wished to hunt them. There was enough material here to last us until the morning. Fred collected that after this, Christina was interested in me, and would think of me when playing her hunting simulator. One month later, when Fred collected that she was unusually lonely and horny, I approached her after class and noted that I was both dispossessed of Janine and in possession of a fashionable amphetamine. Us high, I assented to playing her hunting simulator, to giving up that much of my conviction against animal abuse. Fred was in her mind and in my ear to ensure that the pivotal conversation went smoothly. With some convincing, subtle over the course of hours of playtime, we, but legally she, went out and released the snakes from the biology department.  


In the second case, I was the operator and Miki the actor. Lucky for us, Timur arrogantly insisted on constantly thought-controlling an augmented reality rig and masking his thoughts in an internal code rather than simply not broadcasting them. His code was admittedly difficult, but he would often forget to step out of augmented reality before bed, and thought freely in hypnagogic and dream states about his true life stresses and love interests. Details inconsequential, I will say it was exceedingly easy for me to convince him into a romance with Miki, and after but one month of sexless dating, to sic him on the janitor in a barroom with a rickety bathroom rape story — Miki and I whipped the whole thing up in an afternoon months before final exams, having wasted almost two academic years in a haven of joint amphetamine psychosis after both completing our first assignments.  


Professors impressed upon me the importance of greater clarity and diligence (and I agreed with them) but admitted to being greatly impressed with me and my ability to string up a ruse in a spare afternoon. The details of Timur’s manipulation were not in fact inconsequential, as I above stated, but rather the meaty subject of my senior thesis, which spread and was read more widely among the community than most. Thus began my illustrious career in the field, which after five years brought me back to the College as a part-time professor.


Now imagine, if you will, a Hollywood horror film taking place in a backyard lakeshore at night: the light black air and the shards of moonlit fog scraping across the water. There by the dock in 1979 a young woman drowned, and now she rises from the water, head down, flesh and nightgown pristine as on the night she fell (?). She raises her head and parts her sodden hair to reveal her face, and the very moment we see her jade eyes, they’re lit up with sparks of moonlit, and on this image the film freezes: glowing green eyes affixed to a feminine face barely distinguished from the surrounding black but for paleness of skin and framing gown.


The above is what I saw in my favorite green-eyed student during our first Skype call: a raw supernatural power channeled from nature through fixtures of her own being, and an eternal being in recovery after an arbitrary stint of decades buried out of sight, and an impending horror. I felt lucky to be separated from her by informational glass, as well as a stronger impulse to go deeper into her as soon as I could, and so I got on the phone with the “Bureau” and expedited the incorporation of a formal team for us and the assignment of a target to it. Her interior was largely empty but richly ornamented, like a hall in Versaille, and walking through it was invigorating to me, for I am routinely assigned to neurotic individuals with minds more like Walmart dumpsters, as is my specialty. It is only upon the assignment of a new partner that I am gifted the opportunity to peer into someone developed, and she, for her age, was more developed than most. The same was once said of my mind long ago…it has now been years since I’ve been entered by anyone but out-of-sight, out-of-mind control aparati: this is the measure of my privilege as a Senior Operator.


Together we meddled and investigated throughout Africa at first wildly, plugging secrets into sexual and other deviants in the Senate to get theirs, and shopping these further secrets around. With an influx of top-down direction after having struck some gold, we eventually daisy-chained a route through a serious conspiracy against the Party and rooted it out in one year-long yank seen from the air as a strange rash of suicides, lover’s quarrels, and freak robberies. Commended by the Party and gifted with crates of foreign currency, we’ve been left in charge of our destiny in the realm of private practice; that is to say, our loyalty as free agents is being tested, and we are left to take orders not from people but from between the lines of floating memoranda. I’m at the practical top, masked and uncertain. To all of us in the habit of wearing ski masks, the right path from here is pretty clear. The coup has been foiled (not by my team’s efforts alone, I should note; the counterattack had as many prongs as a holy Hindu pitchfork…) and with it foiled, we turn our attention again from Africa to America. Memoranda sound more poetic and even street people stand prouder when the Party finds itself in this advanced position of attack rather than one of civil management. It is, again, pretty clear (there is no one to ask for more than this measure of clarity) what American plans to foil and which to bolster at this juncture, what corps to join and why.


An American man has a plan to encase his people in proprietary psychedelic amber for the ostensible sake of peace and security, and needs only to have banned from the market his competitor’s toy form of virtual reality. We are to make this happen. If you join us along with this encased bloc of American folk, we can be four-hundred-million and one! For a rotted out and molded over American insect man, the target assigned to me and my Actress is astoundingly fertile, and for this I am grateful. With him there are many things we can set happening.