Open Circuit

Open Circuit

Cable companies now allow you to pause and rewind live television through the miracles of digital technology. Seas part in amazement. The prototype of this device would also fast forward live television. The scientists brought this prototype before their ancient board of directors. The secretary rang the ceremonial buzz-in, directors climbed up from their dusty coffins.

"This is terrible", the dust-lipped network president said, "The audience could find out the winners of reality television and sporting events ahead of time. They could fast forward through commercials during the super bowl. This power is too great to lie in human hands. It must be destroyed. But who will do this without realizing the value this device holds to our competitors?"

An idea occurred to the president and he smiled a great grinchy smile. They hired the janitorial staff, 2 dwarves and a crack head nudist to destroy it.

The three are given orders for the task by a wise old phone psychic. She saunters onto the phone line, swallowing a bite of ham sandwich and speaks in a voice like a gypsy orgasm, "Destiny is reflected in the television, the erratic handmaiden of time. There is great trouble in the land; a shadow spreads binary into the masses. Bloodstream of 0 and 1 cells soak starch-stripped clothing on the shower floor. Communication is magic; the controlling few present truth and dreams to the receptive many, flipping poker chip spectators through the casino of time. In the war over information, communication presents a map for the troops to follow. The device would allow a winner in this war, bringing about rigid enforcement of a single truth on all the world, plunging humankind into a thousand years of darkness. It can only be destroyed by hurling it into the smoldering files of Mount Hualalai beyond the untamed sea. You must destroy it! Destroy it before it kills us all! Time is up. A charge of $37.95 will be sent to your credit card by the end of the month. Talk to us again in ...the future, uter, ter, er, r, r, r."

The three set off with determination, cigarette cartons, and jars of change. They are beset on all sides by cockroaches and the henchman of the evil bearded man in aftershave shoes and alligator pockets. These foes are beaten with the help of a fellowship of seven old lady bingo players brandishing mean umbrellas. Finally, the three reached the island on a motorboat full of Alabaman refugees. They hitchhiked to the smoking volcano, climbed to the rim and looked over into the fate of the prototype. The three vanished then, vaporized by the rising heat. Silver box drops, orange from reflecting lava, falling like an angel from parental grace, twisting electric chair seizures, ticking, sinking with a sizzling plop.

The plop is heard by alligator wrestlers in a Florida roadside attraction. By gay makeup vendors, street veterans with change cups, rhino-people behind carnival bars, all the beautiful wet-eyed tragedies who look in the mirror and hate what they see, the nihilists in central park, paraplegic bus drivers, night air howlers, jazz cats pissing in alleys, red-light girls in the Asian night, tribal shamans, cheerleading monkeys, sweating programmers and Big Mac eating astronomers, bitter waitresses and liquor breath detectives. It is heard by all and all is quiet. Volcano stills. The future is safe. For now.


"The possession of anything begins in the mind" - Bruce Lee