António Bizarro's Blog, page 2

'Future Crimes', by António Bizarro

 

After the dust of the Android Apocalypse had settled, a period of global prosperity unprecedented in history began to be experienced, somewhat like what happened in the United States after World War II. With the growing re-establishment of the World Wide Web, old and new information was shared at lightning speed. Former enemies formed alliances, and what nations once considered their own resources now became the heritage of humanity.  

    Heavy civilian casualties had reduced the world’s population to about half, more or less six billion, roughly the number of inhabitants there were at the beginning of the 21st century. Those who resisted radiation were not, however, exempt from its effects, namely sterility. From the aggravation of the problem to the generalization of therapeutic cloning was a small step. Huge cloning units called Incubators sprang up all over the world, while scientists, clergymen, jurists, philosophers, and doctors debated its ethical and moral aspects. The Catholic Church was a pioneer in pronouncing that the individuals resulting from the cloning process were endowed with a soul, albeit the same, or part of the soul of the original individual. The other denominations were quick to produce statements to the same effect.

    One of the many technical difficulties that had to be overcome was the time spent on the process until it resulted in adult, workable individuals. Artificial wombs were built inside the Incubators, chambers flooded with amni-fluid, which provided the fetuses with what they needed to develop, as well as accelerated growth hormones, exposing their immune systems to a variety of diseases to build up defenses. Another problem was the short life span of the clones since most of the DNA came from adult individuals. The answer came in the form of a revolutionary chromosomal telomere regeneration therapy, which was applied to the general population, increasing life expectancy exponentially.

    In its early days, the production of Numans (a term coined from the contraction of the English expression New Humans = Numans), was done under strict surveillance, not only by national governments and the various blocks but also by an international committee created for this purpose. There were quotas to be respected, established according to the degree of industrialization of each nation and its labor needs. Each Numan, before being integrated into society, was subjected to intensive subliminal conditioning during his stay inside the artificial womb where he was cultivated. He was given all the necessary tools to be able to live in society with other humans, notions of hygiene and decorum, general knowledge, history, and everything else that was in any way related to his future occupation. In just two months it was possible to obtain a human being ready to work from a heap of protein.

    Earth's population doubled rapidly. Although the Numans were docile and easygoing, it was decided at the highest level that they could never outnumber the rest of the population. A few unscrupulous and profit-hungry people found a way to get their hands on the cloning technology, and soon there was a fully functioning black market. Further investigation revealed two more frequent uses for clandestine Numans. One, perhaps the most brutal, was the use of Numans as prey in hunts organized by ultra-exclusive private clubs. The most notorious of these was a club called the Zombie Room, located in Saint Paul. Its patrons could enjoy a drink or a good meal while watching the show, where war surplus rape and extermination machines stalked men and women who had nowhere to run. Survivors of the so-called hunts, aided by Numan Rights activists, denounced the practice before the world, exposing a bizarre sub-culture of cruelty and bloodlust reserved for a narrow human elite. No one was punished, but the custom was banned. Another controversial case gave rise to discussion, that of a Middle Eastern millionaire who formed a terrorist group made up entirely of clones of himself. He was eventually arrested and sentenced to death. Meanwhile, some of his copies had had the same idea, and by the time the authorities finally managed to locate all the copies of copies, there were nearly 3,500 of them.

    As Numans gained rights similar to those of other humans, other practices began to be abolished, namely, the one that some psychiatrists, such as Dr. Zhirkov of the MacLaren Institute, have dubbed “morbid erotic self-satisfaction”, in which humans employed clones of themselves in obtaining sexual pleasure. From a small group of fetishists who organized themselves via the Web and exchanged experiences and tips, a real movement emerged with ramifications all over the world. The beginning of the end came when a Numan murdered his human-matrix, who had held him captive and abused him continuously. After years of impunity, the perpetrators were sentenced to actual prison terms, and the victims were integrated into society.

 

 

Android:Apocalypse, by António Bizarro

Paperback omnibus edition of the Andoid:Apocalypse Series, previously released in three separate volumes: 'The Time of Monsters', 'The Beginning of The End' and 'The End of Things'. 

Link:

Apocalypse:Android 

 

'Bonnie', by António Bizarro

I was a police officer for many years. I started in a patrol car roaming the streets of Saint Paul, and worked my way up to detective of the Vice Squad. The worst case I came across? Well, I have seen some horrible things throughout my career. However, the worst case I caught was the very last one, the one that literally made me retire. And when I say worst, I don't even mean in terms of violence or even amount of blood, guts or brain tissue. It disturbed me in a way for which I still lack the words to this day, but since you insist, I can try.

When the new bridge over the river Arion was being built, a neighborhood of containers and prefabricated homes rose up around the construction site to house the many hundreds of workers hired to carry out the work. With so many people concentrated, mostly men, illegal establishments sprung up, supplying the men with all kinds of drugs, alcohol, gambling, and prostitutes. The first underground poker game took place in the back of an old Ford van. The appearance of more and more illegitimate businesses in the most hidden street of that huge slum led to its being named Ford Street. Public authorities turned a blind eye to such activities. It was important that the workers were happy and that the work was finished on time. Even so, the police could not completely ignore the complaints of the residents who lived next door to the neighborhood, and from time to time the Vice Squad would raid the area and arrest a few pimps and drug dealers.

One such complaint led us to one of the most popular brothels on Ford Street. When the various security agencies arrived on the scene and began operations, they were met with resistance, not only from the matron who ran the brothel, but from the customers themselves. The riot police were called in to contain the crowd. A full-scale riot seemed about to break out. At the entrance to the prefabricated building, Madame was weeping and begging not to have her "little girl" taken away. Later, when she was questioned at the police station, she explained that Bonnie, as the "little girl" was called, was one of her major sources of income.

The first team forced their way into the brothel, ordered the clients and prostitutes to stand against the wall, and as they searched and handcuffed them, they led them outside. After the initial confusion, the main corridor leading to the rooms became deserted and silent. It smelled of alcohol, hashish, tobacco, and cheap perfume. From outside, the noise of the rioting mob grew louder. The matron kept screaming for Bonnie not to be taken away. At the end of the corridor, around a corner, there was a separate room with a reinforced lock. I asked a rather young looking officer to fetch me a battering ram and help me break down the door. It wasn't easy, but after half a dozen hard blows, we ripped the door off its hinges. From the bedroom to the hallway, a nauseating odor poured out, making my eyes burn. It was a mixture of perfume, musk, sweat, urine, and semen.  

I pointed my flashlight into the room and heard a high-pitched moan similar to that of a baby waking up with a tummy ache. My stomach squirmed. Turning on the ceiling light, I came upon a strange-looking woman lying on a dirt-stained mattress, handcuffed to the bed by her wrists and ankles. Could it be Bonnie, the "girl" who brought so much profit to the owner of that atrocious whorehouse? My first impression was that she might be suffering from a disease that had caused her growth problems and physical deformities. My stomach squirmed yet again. Looking into her eyes, I could not tell if she was afraid of me or just curious. I tried to reassure her that everything was fine, that she was safe now, without getting any kind of reaction from her. As I examined her more closely, Bonnie assumed the position, I figured, that she assumed whenever she was used by customers.

Next to the cot was a nightstand on which were condoms, a packet of lubricant, bottles of medicine, and a key-chain. Something told me that the iron ring contained the keys that opened the shackles that held her captive. The kid-faced officer, Victor, that was his name, stood in the doorway and asked me what the hell "it" was. Under the dull light of the lone lamp that illuminated the room, Bonnie's emaciated body showed a copper-colored fuzz that contrasted with the platinum blonde of the wig that framed her face. "It's a robot," Victor said, without my understanding whether it was a question or a statement. An idea was threatening to form in my mind, an idea so repulsive that I rejected it immediately.

As I approached, the fruity perfume emanating from Bonnie, so sweet to the point of being nauseating, made me hold my breath. In addition to the blonde wig, they had adorned her neck with a black choker and her ears with zircon earrings. The powder, blush, eyeliner, crimson lipstick, and lilac eyeshadow seemed to have been applied to her face the way a child would apply them to a doll.

Now, with the distance provided by the years, I know I shouldn't have done what I did, but the more I looked at Bonnie, the more my heart broke. As soon as I turned the key and the click of the handcuff lock clicked, with her right arm now free, Bonnie put her hand around my neck with unsuspected strength, gritted her teeth, and let out a scream that froze the blood in my veins. I felt like a mechanical vice was crushing my windpipe and taking my breath away. The young officer watching the scene from the bedroom door recoiled with fright and fumbled as he tried to pull his service weapon from its holster. When he finally managed to draw his weapon, panic caused him to drop it to the floor and kick it under the bed. Meanwhile, Bonnie continued to choke me and scream in my face. Moments before I lost consciousness, she threw me over the bed against the side wall of the room with unusual vigor. I slammed my back against the exposed brick with such an impact that even today I depend on a cane to be able to walk.

I regained consciousness inside an ambulance. With me, besides the paramedics, was Victor, who, I learned later, had fired a fatal shot into Bonnie's heart. He had no choice, he explained to me: after throwing me against the wall, Bonnie had taken hold of the keys and was preparing to free herself from the handcuffs that bound her left arm.

I remembered the moment I looked into her eyes when I was trying to comfort her, and no matter how long I live I will never forget that look, a familiar look, so human, full of pain and anger and despair. And that idea that had me so repulsed as I watched her lean, emaciated body appeared fully formed in my mind. I wanted to ask the policeman a question, I wanted to know, I needed to know if I was right, but I was only able to produce an almost inaudible hiss. Victor leaned over me and seemed to have guessed my intention. "It wasn't a woman, boss," he said, upset. "It wasn't a robot either..." And before he uttered the words that confirmed my suspicions, I already knew he was going to tell me that Bonnie, one of the most sought-after prostitutes on Ford Street, was a female orangutan.

IMDK greek fire

 

Killers and liars 

Stealing our lives 

Vengeance is coming 

Get ready to die 

 

The hungry will feed on your flesh 

The sick will feed on your health 

The weak will feed on your strength 

The poor will feed on your wealth 

 

Hoarders and thieves 

Off with your heads 

Anger is rising 

Soon you'll be dead

 

IMDK dead planet

 

You tarnished the skies

And censored our breath 

The trees are screaming 

Your business is death 

You poisoned the land 

And lied for profit 

The world is on fire 

And no one can stop it 

Pray as hard as you can 

Your God doesn’t care

 

Pray as hard as you can 

Your God doesn’t care

 
 

António Bizarro - Ard al-Sawad

 

 

 

"I was here so long, 

am now a shadowless tree.

I dream that, when I die, 

the moon-dogs will carry 

my body to the desert, 

where I will become sand..."

 

'Uriel', by António Bizarro (English Version)

One evening, a stroke of wings woke me up, rescuing me from my recurring nightmare. The darkness engulfing my room did not allow me to identify the winged being that had awakened me in good time. From then on, the whistling of wings came to my rescue every night until the nightmare that had accompanied me since I was young left me for good. For the first time in a long time, I could sleep for seven hours straight and wake up without feeling tired.

One day I saw it while waiting for the traffic light to change from red to green: a humanoid figure dressed in black from head to toe, with a large pair of black wings on its back. The light changed to green, but the figure stretched its hand, ordering me to stand still. A car ran through the red light at high speed and rammed a bus. Had it not been for the angel, my car would have suffered the brutal impact that killed the driver and injured countless bus passengers. 

Next Tuesday, I left home for my evening jog in the city park. Halfway through my usual route, I saw the angel with its wings spread, blocking my passage. He advanced toward me with his finger pointing in the opposite direction. I obeyed without hesitation. On Wednesday evening, I saw all over the news: someone had murdered a young man in the park. The killer had stabbed him multiple times. 

So when, on Sunday morning, the angel woke me up around six a.m. and threw the car keys in my hands, I immediately got dressed and got behind the wheel. The dark angel occupied the back seat and urged me to start the car. 

I drove for two hours straight, with the angel nodding his head, sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right, showing me the way. We kept going on the highway without me having the slightest idea what the destination would be. Only when the angel told me to turn to an old back road did I realize where we were heading: my hometown, which I had left twenty years before as soon as I came of age. 

We stopped a hundred yards away from the church where I had been an altar boy. The people in their Sunday clothes were slowly making their way into the church nave. The angel told me to follow them. I went in and sat on the first pew on the right.
      As the priest celebrated mass, I began to remember the names of liturgical objects that I had long forgotten: paten, cruet, pyx, and censer. After the flock had received the consecrated bread and wine and the Ite, missa est proclaimed, the church emptied quickly. Only I remained seated. The angel hovered over the altar, imitating Christ on the cross, with a sarcastic smirk.

The priest, already out of his vestments, came out of the sacristy and examined the pulpit and the altar. He seemed satisfied with the inspection. As he looked toward the back of the church, he noticed me. He approached me quietly, taking short strides, and I saw a flash of recognition in his eyes.
      — Uriel...?
      The angel materialized beside him and began to sing a song in his ear. I sang too.
     — Your god is nothing / your god is nowhere / your god wasn’t there to protect me — we sang in unison.
     — Uriel, forgive me, please — the priest pleaded.
     We continued to sing, the angel and I.
     — Your god is a fallen idol / your god knows nothing / your god wasn’t there to comfort me.
     — Please, Uriel! 

I left the church by myself. As I reached the car, I heard the bells start to ring. Outside the belfry, the priest was swaying with open mouth and tongue hanging out, his eyes bulging and his crotch soaked in blood, the bell rope wrapped around his neck. I could see through the stained glass windows the ever-growing flames swallowing the church with a demonic voracity.

IMDK coded sleep

Trying to stay awake only to fall asleep Days and nights are grey and nothing seems so deep

Get down on my knees with this new fatal disease Waiting for the dawn to let you know I'm gone

Trying to fall asleep only to stay awake Love and hate so cheap your every word is fake

URIEL, de António Bizarro

Uriel (Fábrica do Terror) 

    "Certa noite, fui acordado por um bater de asas que me resgatou do meu pesadelo recorrente. A escuridão do meu quarto, porém, não me permitiu identificar o ser alado que, em boa hora, me despertara. Daí em diante, o som de asas a bater vinha todas as noites em meu auxílio, até que o pesadelo que me acompanhava desde jovem me abandonou. Pela primeira vez em muito tempo, conseguia dormir sete horas seguidas e acordar sem estar cansado."

ANDROID:APOCALYPSE evil monkeys

 

You don’t always have to be
A fucking asshole
Sometimes, it’s better to tell
A little white lie
Better yet, to hold your tongue
And shut your trap

Play stupid games and
Win stupid prizes
Fuck around and find out
Why act so surprised?

Mind your own fucking business
Or learn to listen
Judge not, not to be judged
You’re not special at all
One day, karma will get you
And rip you apart