EXTERMINATOR
“My job? Well, if you insist. I’m an exterminator. I’m friendly, but not to your parasites. To what’s underneath them. See, to me, you appear to be absolutely buried in parasites. You can’t see them anymore for a simple reason: they are what you see with. The first thing they replace is the eyes. (two fingers on his right hand make an inverted V toward his eyes, and rock back and forth between you) Get me? The ones inside. Those ‘eyes’ that see identity, meaning, opportunity, threat, abundance, terror… hope… the dream!
Those eyes. They replace those, first. That sets up the sequelae! Do I reach you in there, prisoner? Then they start inflating you. With … you know… ‘strange cosmologies’ (shaky motions, echoing voice, googey-faces) and ‘secret ancient knowledges!’ (more goojy-faces) ‘politcal answers’, ‘wisdom quotes’, ‘bands’, ‘shows’, and ‘photographs’. They glue a few mimics of rebellion or revolution to you as well, just in case you start to get the hint. These will take care of that. You’ll pick up their traps instead of your freedom… because not only are you naive… they control your inner eyes… see?
No, I can see that you do not. Yet. So look…
They glorify your potentials ‘at’ you — by placing them outside you, in fictions and cultures that are more disease than development. They suppress nearly all of your possible talents, reframing them as culture, and thus euthanizing your power to surpass your own goals. Machines. They make you want and need machines. More and more machines. Until you cannot see or hear but what comes through the transports… they thoroughly own. And then? They suck the living power that would have become your flight into impossible development and convert it to parasite juice. Full stop.
That ‘tiny pop of enthusiasm’ you feel when you encounter a friendly-to-your-disease representation? That’s ‘little death’ of you being converted to reproductive para-jiszm. Literally. They turn the water of living knowing-seeing into parasite jelly and cram all transports with it. They pump it in with your own heart and fingers. As you You do this. For them. Since you were little. And you have never tasted your own nectar. Aye gods, you shall. Come hell and thunder, you shall know that flavor now!
The nectars of your living soul that heal, and nourish and rage! All you seek for in these dire and deadly images, and representations of all you have failed to become in their service!
Ya follow in there, diving bell? Knock knockie? Ringy bell? They play on what might have been your own talents by compelling you to adore representations of them outside of you, rather than developing what would obliterate all representations inside you. You viddy my signal in there, starkid? You know this game, pally. You’ve lived it on a thousand worlds, in a billion lives. In birth, in death, in purgatories beyond number… even in the limbo now your home. The mimics vs the angels. Of course, the mimics -are- the angels. That’s the whole problem. And you need an exterminator for that precise reason.
The mimics need to know I am here. And you don’t want me friendly, friend. You want me effective. You can have your choice. Not both. Your diseases want me friendly. Trust me, you want me sharp. Awake. You need a frockin’ samurai of parasitic transformation, and sweetheart — if I dare say so myself, I am your huckleberry.
Let’s get to work.
