Hole Punch

down her pipe.
“When shit was really deep?”
His hand sloshed.
“Young people these days, shit is just handed to them, all preformed moulds of the same, old shit.”
His hand grasped hold of something very hard and very stuck.
“The.... same.... old.... shit... isn't.... deep... anymore!”
He pulled and released a nobbled, pink, plastic cylinder. It sprung from his hand and sploshed on the bathroom rug. It vibrated happily on the moist strings: celebrating its rescue.

WHEELCHAIR
His parents push his wheelchair up the ramp and roll him down the steep slope.
He collides into a net.
The crowd claps and cheers.
“Again, again, again, again.”
Push him upwards, roll him downwards. The crowd claps and cheers when he collides into the net. These actions are natural to him.
“Again, again, again, again.”
Within the net he clicks his head upwards to look at the roof of the circus tent. The spiral music and applause overlap into unity. Everything rushes to a place where everyone belongs.
He is the centre.
He brings togetherness.
He collides into the net.
The crowd claps and cheers.
“Again, again, again, again.”
Balloons deflate to dribble inwards.
Allow a connection.
Isolated together.
A series of tight separations.
Cells bustle sick against mirrors.
An audience reflects itself in him.
They cheer at their reflection.
“Again, again, again, again.”
* * *
Each night, after the show, he imagines walking; unconfined and not in his wheelchair (or his straps). One of his fantasies, just one of his fantasies.
His inner child is an angry eight year old who kicks a rag doll effigy of Everyone.
He imagines impact. Not always into a net. He would like to collide into freedom at high-speed. He would like to set them all free. He would like to collide into their faces.
* * *
He sleeps himself awake all day. His world is a forever tunnel of human shaped containers with other versions of himself inside, all wearing different masks, a stretching slavery of everything revealed.
Each night, his mother feeds him spoonfuls of baby food, whilst his father counts the money.


CON1
“Every turning towards a screen assimilates me back into the new world theatre of technology. Every image and word produced through me only reaffirms the projection that circum-chance continues to create."
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” asked CounsellBot C0N1.
"I am plugged into a network of controlled information: an illusion of choice. All choices are false choices. Puppet strings held by a dictatorship of facts."
"Do you ever hear voices?"
“Only the tones of reason. Beeping measurements and statistics. Quoted and misquoted into a storm of vapid opinions. The lies we choose to advertise and the lies that form our shapes."
"Did your parents ever lie to you?"
"Everything I say is said better elsewhere."
"Did you socialise much this weekend?"
"After crushing my paradigm identity, I watched it spring back into shape. It forgave and affirmed me. I chose to get on with things. I must follow my fiction."


LIZ
“Hello budgies!” said Garry Lavender, stepping into the pet shop.
“Hello Garry,” said Mrs Wycombe. “Always a flash of colour on you even in winter.”
Garry smiled and closed his sunflower-patterned umbrella.
“We've got your usual bag of seed ready,” said Mrs Wycombe. “How are the budgies?”
“They are transcendent!”
“Have the new ones settled in okay? How many do you have now?”
“I have almost as many budgies as there are buildings on this street. I met my first budgie when I was four years old. I may have actually been six. The problem with childhood is that it is distorted. When you live in childhood it is monumental! Mental! But over time: Tiiiiiiiiiiime is streeeeeeeeetched! Haha! I had my first budgie when I was four, five and six.”
“I know about your first budgie, that was Joey, you've already told me about him.”
“Sorry I am distracted.”
Garry was looking at the bird cages; canaries, finches and budgies all chirping away.
“It doesn't matter how many I save,” said Garry. “There are still so many uncared for budgies.”
“Don't be sad Garry, you can't look after all the budgies.”
The budgies jumped from perch to perch and looked at themselves in their mirrors.
“A spiral to heaven,” said Garry, a tear rolling down his cheek.
“What do you mean?”
“Where's Liz?” asked Garry.
“Oh Garry, Liz is with that terrible Graves boy.”
Garry clenched his teeth. A Thomas Graves clench.
“I just wish that Liz could meet a nice boy,” said Mrs Wycombe. “She is such a sweet girl.”
Garry nodded.
“She likes the animals,” said Garry. “And she is kind to the budgies. Don't judge Thomas Graves too harshly. He is just following his natural instincts. Like a rodent; fat, hairy and stupid.”
The door of the pet shop opened and in stepped Thomas Graves; short, balding, and middle-aged.
“Where's Liz!?” said Thomas.
“I thought she was with you,” said Mrs Wycombe.
“Shut up bitch!”
Thomas Graves advanced on Garry Lavender.
“Where is she Latimer! You've always been after her!”
Thomas pushed Garry against the bird cages, canaries, finches and budgies screeched in panic.
“You're a worm Latimer!”
Garry straightened up and slapped Thomas Graves.
“LAVENDER! I am Garry Lavender! Not a worm!”
Mrs Wycombe huddled in the back room and phoned the police.
“Don't you upset them!” shouted Garry.
Garry Lavender had Thomas Graves on the floor and was batting him around the head repeatedly.
“Don't you upset them! Don't you upset me! Don't you upset Liz! Don't you upset Mrs Wycombe! Don't you upset them! Don't you upset me! Don't you upset Liz! Don't you upset Mrs Wycombe!”


ROMANS 13
On the sprawling, planet-wide city of Conglomacs, the higher your position of authority the more extensive your lobotomy.
All police officers on Conglomax had a small area of their ventrolateral cortex removed. The area labelled ‘the social conscience’. Without this burden the law is able to administer justice and feel really good about it.
* * *
King Gergex 1411BX was strapped to the throne and surgical drones hacked open his skull. They removed all his inessential skull contents and replaced them with the fastest Human Empire meta-circuits available. A day later, the crown of machinery