Who's the mommy of utopia? or When an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.

Who's the mommy of utopia? or When an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.

A Chapter by Fictari
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In which utopia is pondered, the nature of madmen with guns is simplified, and the first ever Pygmalion Festival of the Arts ends with a string of lies.

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The crowd became alight with chatter about the boring declaration made by the boring man. Normally that which is boring does not entail one to listen or give a damn, but a gun certainly helps that which is boring find a persuasive voice among the minds of the masses. This gun, despite being as ordinary as can be physically, was as boring as its master. Alexander Wagner, the most boring man in the world, was holding what was at the time the most boring gun in the world. This boringness set them apart from the rest of the world. The irony of this, the almost blatantly hilarious contradiction in self and goal, would never be realized by Alexander Wagner.

            “Silence your talking,” spoke Alexander Wagner. “Or I will kill everyone here.”

            Everyone fell silent as this threat, ever so boring but nonetheless real, installed fear into their hearts. A few people shuffled their feet nervously. One man put out a small marijuana cigarette out on his arm without even really realizing he had done it till the ashes violently mated with his burn wound. He fought the urge to drop the famous f-bomb, for he knew if he did, blood would be on his hands. Ironically, a young woman totally unaware of the events outside of the bathroom stall in which she sat was licking blood off of her hand that had originally come from the goblet in her hand. All of these stories of comedy and horror played within the few minutes of chatter and silence; unknown to anyone but the protagonists of their respective stories.

            “Imma ta….fuggin servunt of th’ Dada….you izz serchin….for…” gargled an obviously drunk man who stumbled up onto the stage where Alexander Wagner stood. The drunken man rolled himself onto the stage and staggered up uttering obscenities in Chinese. A few people close to the stage considered grabbing him and pulling him back, but they were too afraid of the gun to move. A few people secretly hoped whoever this sod was would believe the drunken b*****d, shoot him, and then they could all go home. Alexander eyed what came onto the stage as if it was some kind of foreign rat, but quickly realized the subjective emotion he was feeling, and changed his tune….at least physically.

            “It appears that you are not telling me the truth.” stated Alexander flatly as he could muster.

            “Imma the goodamn Dada mans yous lookin fer...”

            “Make one of these paintings come to life then.”

            The drunken man said nothing for several seconds before he started to reach into his pants. Alarmed, Alexander riddled the man’s face with bullets. The drunken man fell to the floor with a thud. Blood pooled from the grisly wounds in his head, and slowly began to drown him. For all of a dozen seconds, he continued to fumble in his pants for his life-giver before painfully passing into the realm of the dead. This scene of both horrendous horror and awkward absurdity silenced the crowd while simultaneously Alexander stood gawking over the body. He had killed men before. It was not guilt which afflicted him, but simply surprise. How many drunken men fumbling for their penises did you kill? Not an everyday occurrence.

            “My patience is wearing thin. I do not derive any emotion from killing, but I will if I have to. Do not make me do that.”

            “You bloody well don’t have to kill everyone here just because you get off on having a gun hot and warm in your hand!” shouted Annie Morrison from the back with such fiery rage even The Hulk would be impressed. There was venom in that sentence, as well as a stamp which could very well seal their deaths.

 

~~~

 

            “Odindammit dear now you’ve gone and done it.” grumbled Van Gag as he shook his head. They were almost halfway out of the place when she decided to play hero. Not that Van Gag didn’t agree with every word she had said, but this was not the Odindamn time to tell a madman with a gun that his motivations for using said gun were merely erotic power fantasies. Those whose motivations were at best erotic power fantasies did not like to be told so, and would not hesitate to get themselves off to hide the truth from themselves. The irony was perceived to be hilarious to Van Gag, who found irony one of the most underappreciated forms of humor (it was all about sex these days….). This made him chuckle before turning tail and running his a*s off with Annie holding his hand.

            “Surrender yourself,” commanded Alexander Wagner monotonously as he quickly but boringly lowered himself from the stage to give chase. “Or I will have to shoot you both.”

            “Porn is a better outlet for your erotic man power fantasies than shooting someone you dim wanker!” furiously taunted Annie, who was being furiously pulled towards the door by Van Gag.

            Despite the threat of death, you can’t keep a crowd from laughing at a good joke. The crowd slowly fell to giggles, and then quickly came under the influence of guffaws, followed by outrageous roars of laughter. No matter when, no matter where, a good old joke about porn was bound to set the house aflame with laughter....unless said house was a staunch Republican senator with a pathological fear of the word “vagina”. And who doesn’t love the word wanker?

            “Halt.”

            Ignoring the monotone order, Van Gag continued to run with Annie. They were almost there! Almost out! And whoever this fool was would just slink on back"

            The two crashed into metal/wood/plastic hybrid doors with a painfully audible “thunk”. Annie and Van Gag both pushed onto the door with all of the force they could muster, but for all of their efforts, no result was produced other than sweat.

            “The doors are cemented shut with Anti-Creativity enriched cement. No unconventional means of escape will work. Neither will human means. So I suggest that you remain where you are. The gun, it seems, means nothing to you,” Alexander Wagner droned as he held up a lighter to a painting of Pinocchio crucified to the cross. “But I know this does. Surrender to us, or this"this"“

            He was struggling with keeping his emotions in check. This was a battle he was clearly going to lose. Anyone could tell that the instant they saw the small view bulge on his neck.

            “"This SMUT OF REALITY will be BURNED and then SHAT ON by our pets!!”

            “Salamander Jesus, Maestro, burning ART?? What are you, a freaking Nazi?!”

            Silence for the briefest of moments, as the former hostages doubling as an audience pondered up on the truth of these words. At the same time, Alexander took this opportunity to compose himself. Both spent this brief silence thanking Van Gag; the audience thanking him out of pure gratitude and respect, while Alexander thank him with more than a light touch of resentment. It seems in life that we owe our enemies thanks on occasion.  Finally, Alexander broke the silence.

            “Nothing so evil or pointless. I work for The Grey, who seek to guide the evolution of humankind towards utopia through Objectivity. Subjectivity has created nothing but violence since its conception. Through Subjectivity the world has fallen. Only through one mind may we accomplish the construction of utopia. “Erase the individual; glory to the Hivemind.”, or so it is told to us. Only by erasing the characteristics of individuality, such as greed, lust, wrath, can we reach our full potential.”

            Silence once again as his speech slithered its way through the gears of their minds as they thought about the words of Alexander Wagner. No one there agreed with him, but that didn’t silence the natural human instinct to be curious. If individuality were sacrificed, COULD the world be utopian? Some denied this to themselves immediately, while others answered affirmatively. However, those who answered affirmatively went one step further in their mental analysis: realizing that while objectivity could very well sow utopia, it would be at the sacrifice of creativity; Utopia where only the concrete like math and science could exist. Creativity would no longer exist, much less be a respected and necessary trait of human existence. Perfection: an emotionless husk. Almost everyone there that night was an overall decent human being who desired the end of war and horror. But at what cost?

            “Subjectivity may very well be capable of horrors, but could not the wonders of its offspring be just as capable of solving the mysteries of the universe? Could not creativity balance both sides of the Existence Equation?”

            Everyone fell silent in consideration of the words of Van Gag. Even Alexander fell silent. Thoughts tumbled through his head like logs on a hill; none staying motionless enough for him to grasp it for more than a second. Every word spoken to him during his training tumbled through his head in disjointed fragments of fragments. His head was starting to hurt from the flailing fragments cutting through his consciousness like glass. Bright light enveloped the back of his vision; the pain so great he didn’t even hear the painting to the side of him shout out lies in a rapid fire but still understandable paragraph:

            “I am God! Metaphors are comparing two unlike things using like or as! The word vowel has no vowels! Elton John is dead! Meth is a good protein supplement! “W***e” is a complimentary name! The Human Centipede is a heartwarming family comedy! The Holocaust never happened! Nixon wasn’t responsible for the Watergate scandal! Alcoholics live longer than most! Pulp Fiction is a romantic novella written in 1954!”

            Pinocchio’s nose shot like a rocket from the painting and through the skull of Alexander Wagner. Alexander froze; blood and brains trickling down in a small chunky stream from his wound. He stood there for the briefest of seconds in pain so agonizing it couldn’t be felt. Eyes brimming with blood looked out through a haze, looking for the servant of the Dada. There was….only….a hole in….the wall….

            Alexander Wagner died in the very same instant that Van Gag and Annie Morrison turned down an alleyway shrouded in the purest darkness one could find in a concrete universe. The majority of those in attendance stared up at the corpse of the man who had held them hostage, while a few stared at the hole in the wall the two had used to escape. Only the wife of the man in the pig mask mourned her husband; wishing she had laughed at her husbands joke.

            Only the living can regret.


© 2012 Fictari


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Added on June 22, 2012
Last Updated on June 22, 2012
Tags: Art, Dadaism, Grey, Pinocchio, Violence, Guns, Subjectivity, Individuality, Objectivity, Utopia


Author

Fictari
Fictari

Sublimity, OR



About
I am a science fiction and fantasy writer attempting to make his mark on the world.I'm weird,life is weird,thus my writing is often times weird,darkly humorous,and philisophical.I write comic books,po.. more..

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