Time and Again

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: marclevytoo

A collection of large, convulsive brains had assembled on round gaseous mounds supporting platforms that revolved in the folds of a time space continuum to pulse and schvitz and flex in a telepathic chain of convivial foreplay. Convulsive brains like these are hard to shut down or up. Sides swayed to sides from sides and shifted to and fro into the fray from sides. Where there is no beginning and no end, as there is, was, and will be, anything can happen along any string of time in warped and winding space. Audios and visuals danced, shimmered, and beamed under the waves. Pyrotechnical wisps of interference were minor. Conflicts were digested, dispatched, and disposed. Memories were loaded with hot globs of ammunition and dispersed. They were all digging it here, now, then, and there, while it happened.


As usual, the regrettable subject of the failed experiment in game playing on earth materialized and drifted as an aside to produce poisonous clouds in wan streaky wisps. Missing a vital cog, the simulation had gone wacko off the rails. No one denied it. Some were a whit more concerned than others. Conflict was of course endemic to a multiverse in which the second largest building block is contradictions, and no big brain was unaware. It was too silly to deny it is what it was and will be. Repetition, repetition, repetition, however, could become boring to even the biggest brains.


"When it is what is, what do you expect to hear, I"m sorry?"


"No such micro-organism."


"It can't happen again."




"Until it does."


"No one's saying sorry."


"Get over, under, and around it."


"Not on ravaged earth."


"Where do they hide the bodies?"


"What do you think their dirt is made of?"


"It's hard to look."




"That's what I do."




"But, still."


"Even the small brains know that."


Not even a big brain is able to undo the goo of a gloppy made mess. The beat of the big bang doesn't stop at flashing red lights. Flow goes. Blues bleed. Now don't end for then. What chance did the overblown and underwhelming brains of the doomed species so determined to ravage Earth have before escape? What other species so carelessly plotted and carried out its own extermination? It used to be such a dizzy planet with cool oceans. Now. the entertainment value for the ups and ups was way down.


"There's still the funny plastic doctor."


"Yeah, there's that."


"How much longer?"


"Watch and listen."


"Dig it while it's happening."


"You know you never know."


Thomas Wu, the funny doctor, who was born on a plywood platform above the dirt floor where his mother fed mulberry leaves to silk worms on the Yungui Plateau, awoke in a colorless condo on a cliff above Monterey Bay. From there he could break free of his shackles and surf as a means of improving consciousness, strength, spontaneity, and balance at any time. The condo was designed to be colorless by a certifiable professional in the field who charged a flat fee plus additional hourly rates. She tried to aggressively explain for expensive minutes how so very distracting colors can be to the attainment of peak artistry before he was able to remember an important surgery he forgot he had to perform on a growing carcinoma.


Dr. Wu preferred to surf early at Pleasure Point and cut and sew skin later at an unhurried pace. As a junior welterweight, he ate a substantial breakfast featuring whole grains and routinely skipped lunch. Patients, however, often behaved poorly and interfered due to stubborn cases of arrested development, personality disorders, and chronic itches and idiosyncrasies. His first appointment that Tuesday morning when he was disappointingly last to arrive at the traditional dinner on the patio of the Corralitos Brewing Company insisted upon arriving early to discuss her tits in tedious detail. She was miffed that he was pissed but stuffed it down by faking good will because she needed him. She was a recently divorced dilettante who displayed wrinkled batiks on stiff poles at craft fairs along with her tits to be hung on walls in colorless interiors. Money was no object as long as the inclusive medical plan of her hapless ex-husband continued to pay. She made sure of that in advance with a connected fixer. Thomas Wu had no opinions to share about likely enhancements to be achieved in her marketing of cleavage but he sketched the contours of an aesthetically pleasing shape on her tits with an erasable Sharpie. He advised her what was doable, and not. Payment was not his department. She had calculated how to want more plus more, but settled. Her attitude and outlook improved immensely under sedation.


The shredded remains of the day took off and ran wild after escaping a morning like that, and continued to careen as uncharted days will. Ties snapped and beasts were unleashed. The residues from some sticky days stick, and will not fade away due to mere sterile scrubbing. By the time Thomas Wu selected a beer able to withstand the heat, a blonde ale brewed in Sparks, Nevada, and sat down on the patio of the Corralitos Brewing Company, half of the fiery sauce defiantly whipped by his tiny mother for the char siu pork was gone.


He complained, "What's left for me?"


Innocently, Big replied, "We weren't sure you'd show up."




"Don't forget to center your breathing."


"Who else is we?"


The Unpaid Internet Content Provider, who in a different skin might have taken offense at such a remark, but didn't, added, helpfully, "Release your negative grip on your hips while you're at it."


"You know your mother is not happy with you."


"I know she loves you best."


"But, still."


"Am I supposed to be grateful you didn't devour all of the dumplings?"


"And I saved nearly an intact pair of xiaolongbao just for you."


"Your pronunciation is getting better."


"If I'm not getting better I'm falling behind."


"What about shrimp?"


"You doubt?"


"Prove it."


"You learn by doing."


"If you don't breathe you don't expand."


"Not in medical school."


The tiny Chinese mother of Thomas Wu was rarely contented by her renegade American son. She hugged the enormous girth of Big each Tuesday when he arrived at the door of her tiny house in Oakland's Chinatown after personally delivering his freshest buds to the first and still favorite of his now many customers in the California weed trade, Harborside. His bulk was more comforting than a surly son who refused to honor her fiction of his ancestors with reverential visits each week. She blamed the influence of a selfish and unfeeling father. In welcome addition to the char siu pork and the pan fried dumplings with peppery dipping sauce, the tiny mother of Thomas Wu provided a rotating array of favorites from the Yungui Platueau of Sicuan, sesame noodles, bok choy with chicken in garlic sauce, Sichuan green beans, and Sichuan pan fried peppers. Only Big, who was the size of three tiny Chinese mothers disappointed by their willful American children, was able to lift the container she packed.


"I left some weed oil for her to try in the dumplings next week."


"Anything for you."


"For her arthritis."


"She doesn't have arthritis."


"I'd eat that," the Unpaid Internet Content Provider offered.


"Me too."


"There's your market research."


"Since when did you get so all uppity about arthritis?"


"Medical school."


"But, still."


"Another product of the white professional elites."


"Except I'm Chinese."


"But, still.


"Who else is we gonna be but us?"


"What's this black stuff?"


"Tree fungus."




"I'm very certain we've had this exact conversation before."


"You don't need to add very to certain."


"Are you advising me as an unpaid unprofessional?"


"Free of hidden fees."


"You still gotta pay."


"That's extortion."


"What if we're just a part of a vast broken simulation stuck like a needle in a scratchy groove?"


"That conversation, too."


"You always say that."


"Elon Musk, too.


"Oh no, not him again."


"Repetition, repetition, repetition."


"If it's not right to start, why repeat?"


"It's not right."


"It's a sin to sell a soul like Elon Musk."


"And so on and so on and scooby-dooby-doo on."


"Robots don't need souls."


"Look at Donald Drumpf."


"He's no robot. He's got authentic pig, and snake, and hyena in him."


"Hyenas don't share."


"That's why his people deny evolution."


"Nobody likes a hyena."


"Not only no soul, but no heart."


"And his bucket's got a hole in it."

"Where's the wicked witch when Dorothy needs her most?"


Every big brain knows best what every big brain needs most: stimulation. Earth had been originally chosen as an attractive background for the simulation due to its range of subtle colors, pretty ocean and beaches, and a good beat to dance to. Otherwise, not so much. There were those who claimed I told you so. Contradictions abound. But still.


A big brain who had maneuvered within the sluggish pace of gravity exerted not far from earth and returned with illuminating photovoltaic evidence considered himself an expert for just that flimsy reason, a silly brain given to extremes, but infused with cool colors, said, "This is where I laugh my ass off every time."


"You would."


"I dig the bass players and drummers."


"I go crazy for the loony ones who believe they are the center of the only universe."


"I'm fond of the loony birds."


"I'm not talking about the birds."


"I'm jerking your tail."


"It's hard to beat that for laughs."




"I'm no fan of enzymes and gases but they give me brain farts every time."


"Look the funny doctor is holding it in."


"The gases are turning red."


"What did I tell you?"


"You told me?"


"Follow the fumes."


"That's what I'm talking about."



Submitted: January 12, 2021

© Copyright 2021 marclevytoo. All rights reserved.

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