The Adventures Of Wowbagger The Infinitely Prolonged (W.T.I.P)
PROLOGUE I: RANDOMLY GENERATED EARTH DATA (RGED) "I didn't want to hurt myself, I wanted to KILL myself." -David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest
There is a certain tempting quality about the notion of self-destruction as the only true means to liberation and assumption of complete control of your so called destiny. Death is one final certainty that has been gifted to all living creatures as a sure-shot fire exit. And to humans is given the ability to think of suicide as actually being a viable option in some extreme cases. Yesterday, five people were arrested in the mass child abuse case in Navi Mumbai, though a majority of the suspects are still unidentified and walking free. Three teaspoon oil, 4 tbsp coriander, five onions and a dick with balls. Deep fry for 20 minutes, serve with justice. And thus, by the power of observation, we see that the infinity of the counting numbers is not as infinite as that of all continuous and decimal numbers.
“When, when the fuck are you going to pay up boy?” “As soon as my father dies, the doctors say it won’t be more than a few days now. Please, I assure you, I have the money…now if you could just front me a few more of those vials…” “Ain’t gettin’ no shit till you paid up, nigga.” Erection. A mere inconvenience. Explore the depths of your inner consciousness. Beat it in rhythm. God. Spry and shapely fragments of fresh turbulence drift in through the window. I am an arachnid, and I know my place. I weave my web in silence, for I contemplate many futures. “So while we meditate on the various possibilities this dam will open up to the local citizens, we must also not forget the scenic beauty that we threaten in this process.” “Get the fuck down you idiot, you’re going to cost us our jobs. Stop fucking us up with your environmental bullshit.” God is dead. It is true. It is known. Accepted, cried about and affirmed with marked honesty. Mathematical proof is irrefutable. God is not. We are free to die now.
But for what do we starve our children? The hope of a cure for cancer, of a solution to the problem of distribution of wealth and resources, and optimization of happiness? Why don’t we just butcher these parasites at birth? PROLOGUE II: A prologue. And so it goes. An endeavoUr to end all endeavours. A trip to the farthest reaches of the galaxy. A mission to insult every living creature, In alphabetical order. Starting with A27! ghhhvarggrwssjs (A repeated 27! times). The first commander of spaceship putin. The only spaceship In the western galaxy to set sail with a hundred passengers and reach the next fueling station with a hundred and forty. I know everything else there is to know. But I don’t know how to deal with the long, dark teatime of the soul. Planet earth was supposed to give a useful readout in this matter. I’ve defeated every law except the law of mutual exclusion – the question, or the answer, but not both simultaneously. I am thinking of an oblique approach. Even if the earth does change, if I can get a feel for the blueprints, of the essence of this system, maybe I can coexist with both the question and the answer by being the mapping between the two. And so, I explore this grotesque and despicable planet of nincompoops, a cleverly disguised semi-biotic evolutionary processor. If nothing else, I can always try eating a hamburger. How I hate hamburgers. All times are synchronized local standard times. And all of them are equally irrelevant. W.T.I.P
I: Rosie White Date: May 13, 2012. Venue: Horatio’s Humble (W)hores, a discreet enough location in what could be any “modern” city on Earth. Time: 3:57 am Subject age: 17 Subject occupation: Prostitute at HHH enterprises. Subject description: I have paid my way into the subject’s room by generating numbers in an online repository for numbers called ‘banks’. I see the subject approaches me with a visceral distrust of my intentions, to which my glaringly glorious alien appearance does nothing to subtract from. (I can feel her wanting to feel my lustrous skin, which hints at tendency to mix work with pleasure) Subject is 5ft 6 inches tall, weighs 60 kg and has seemingly adequate protuberances and orifices for providing sexual stimulation to a wide array of life forms.She seems to be noting the fact that I am noting facts. I note this fact as well. I am a relentless genius, and she shall now fall prey to my gargantuan intelligence while expecting a phallic organ instead. Subject Interaction: W: “Hello. Are you Rosie?” R: “Yessir, you look a little odd, but Rosie will take care of you darlin’” W: “Rosie White? Listed in the telephone directory as 334256?” R: “Hey, where did you get my number from you freak!” W: “Rosie White, you’re a disappointment as a daughter and as a prostitute. You wrecked your parents, and now you look fat and ugly. You also have cancer because you were born in a hospital whose walls were made from cement that had traces of radium and uranium."
R: “……” W: “Shh, say something and you might just realize what you said made your life even more worthless than it was a second ago.” P.S: Afterwards, I discovered that eating a chocolate truffle feels better than saying the word ‘fuck’. P.P.S: I had French fries, they were terrible. I think I must visit a French establishment and demean them for being inferior to other variants of human beings. P.P.P.S: I saw Paulo Coelho walking into HHH enterprises. I think he’ll be shocked to find Rosie sobbing uncontrollably like that. I think he might write a book about her. I wonder if he’ll mention me. I registered under a fake holographic identity at the registration end – Santana, I think.