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Je ne suis pas un chapeau. Je suis un homme... In an overgrown, primeval, jungle-city state, Bernard is a test subject for science experiments. His father and Professor Sagramour have been injecting him with hallucinogenic mud and reality affirming drugs so that one day man will be immune to the insanity inducing, zombifying sentient green mud that is choking the suburbs. But Bernard is beginning to display side effects. Experiencing greater and greater levels of Objectivity cause his consciousness to become one with entities as diverse as pterosaurs and martinis. In the mind of the tyrannosaurus he hears the call of Archelon Ranch, a primal paradise like no other. Will Bernard's unique talents be enough to get him out of the senseless prehistoric cyberpunk city or will dinosaurs, Sagramour's Standardizers and the desire to lose himself in other entities be too much?
was far too strong to beat as Chuck Calloway bought him an ice cream cone, which he ate with gusto and appreciation. “Thanks,” said Bernard, “it’s awfully hot.” The fan platform above them kicked on and soon afterward the mallgoing scum enjoyed a few minutes of relief from the extraordinary heat they lived under. It did not stop them from beating the children they had up for sale or from pleasuring Johns but their appreciation could be felt. The line began to move as one of the more monstrously
The girl put her hand over her mouth as it cut to a title card. “Oh my! Whatever has happened?” Another title card comes up. It is simple, blunt and ominous. “Night has fallen.” Cut back to the forest. The sun has been replaced by a moon with a lean, wicked bitter face. A pair of tiny spectacles dangles off the edge of old, bitter, awful mister moon’s sharp nose. A curtain on which is projected a closeup of a hot, wet vagina falls behind the trees. A woman in a wolf costume creeps up on the
before a liquifilm buy. It was beyond simple cruelty on my part. It was completely inhuman. Mud is the off switch for the Superego and the Ego, the big maybe. It says “maybe human flesh tastes good”, “maybe you are a rhinoceros”, “maybe everything that you wished was true about this world is right and nothing has been stopping you from becoming omnipotent but an invisible schoolmarm who just wants to cramp your style because she’s jealous.” How dare she cramp your style. How dare your body tell
was finding it difficult. Dense as he was, my brother understood. There were tears in his eyes and his face was vermillion. Garrett Cook turned around, retracting the road with a gesture. “What are you doing?” he screamed at me. “Nothing,” Bernard answered, “he isn’t doing anything at all.” “You’ve been through so much,” Garrett Cook repeated, “I’m sorry, Bernard.” I had grown tired of hearing that. “What about me? Do you know what I’ve been through?” There was a peculiar sensation. I felt
jungle cats, snakes and unruly apes. We needed automated police cruisers and triceratops to keep our streets even close to clean. The suburbs were full of oozing, green hallucinogenic mud that turned all its citizens into maladjusted homicidal maniacs, and god knows what was beyond the suburbs. We live in a better world than that? I felt like spitting in his face for saying it, but the sermon showed he understood the flow somewhat. The deep cosmic awareness he had shown must have been tainted by