Cure for Sanity - Chapter Nine
Cure for Sanity - Chapter Nine - Songs that Make the Young Girls Cry
Pex had solved most of his issues, or so he thought. But there was still the problem of assassins seeking the Nazarene as an infant. Although Jason was unaware of his powers, writing the song was all it took. A thought, or something spoken, may or may not stick around, but something written has enormous lasting power.
There was hope. He looked ahead and saw that Jason would lose most of his anger toward the religious and spiritual. Most. Not all. In fact, Pex managed to find a conversation in 2011 in which he expressed regret over writing it in the first place. Of course, by then, he had an inkling of what was going on, and the implications of his actions.
It was fortunate that his first bands Lucretia and Entity didn't record it, or Pex would have to seriously bend the rules to avoid catastrophe. He managed this by allowing a breeze to blow the sheet of yellow legal paper behind his dresser, where it was forgotten about.
Eventually, his mother found it, and threw it away, disgusted. Even balled-up in a landfill, the song radiated power for years, nearly eight, before the paper fully dissolved. Even then, the residue itself held sway for nearly two more, all the while broadcasting its malignant orders to all who would listen.
Initially, when he'd written it, he was severely unfocused and undisciplined. He no more believed in magic or time travel than he believed in attempts to organize spirituality. But disbelieving in things doesn't always make things go away.
On one hand, he'd done enough LSD and pot to mostly tear away the barrier that prevents the illuminated from gaining mastery over their own powers, and hence the universe. Or at least their slice of it.
But Jason loved to read and think. Logically, if possible.
When Pex tried to impress Prail by exploding, one of the things he wrote during that moment was "Atlas Shrugged".
Okay, technically, he didn't write it. A kajillion realities ago, Ayn Rand wrote it. All Pex did was regurgitate it in another world, with a few embellishments. As far as he concerned, copyright should only be honored for the duration of the owner's universe. Once your sun blew up, your intellectual property became part of his vast pool of resources.
The problem was, Jason embraced Objectivism to a large degree. It was sound, logical, and wrong, wrong, wrong. Perhaps when it was written, there was a single objective reality. Pex doubted it. At this point, he supported a general ban on the word itself. It had far less meaning than 'Belgium', if it had any at all.
For instance, Rand posited that nothing could exist outside of existence, therefore, no creator, Q.E.D.
Pex wanted to leave her in a box with Schrodinger's cat for a few days. Her universe would be a tiny box. Imagine her surprise when she emerged to find something existed outside of her perception of existence. Pex wondered what God would think about that, then realized God hadn't paid any attention to Nietzsche's "God is Dead" pronouncement, so he probably wouldn't have much of an opinion at all.
"As long as she's happy," he'd say.
Jason got Rand's point, and completely failed to pick up on Pex's cool little sci-fi subplot. He had embedded proof of the divine in her own epic. Proof that refuted all of her carefully constructed beliefs. It was brilliant, but it would probably take the metacritics a few more existence cycles before anyone picked up on it and wrote about it. Continuity tended to go by the wayside when your universe imploded, or at least until you got a grip on it and adapted.
What bugged him the most was her short-sightedness on the entire subject. If she hadn't already been taken into the matrix, Pex would have given her an eyeful. People living in simulations have no reason to doubt the existence of a creator. Or creators.
It was probably Prail's messing about with their motivations that caused them to disbelieve, well, everything. It's a part of diversity, she would tell him. Makes for a better sim. Pex grew slightly interested in whatever she was planning, thinking about these things.
###
Somewhere in a church in Austin, 2011, Jason saw Ayn Rand and smiled, atheists no more. She smiled back, happy to meet her savior face-to-face, even if it did negate her life's work. She'd rather be happy than right.
But the forces unleashed by the song in '84 were tireless. Since he was so unfocused, the first to respond were nameless leviathans from beyond our senses. They prowled around just beyond our perception, seeking opportunities to invade and complete their task.
These monstrous creatures, beings of pure evil, powered by hate, weren't particularly bright. The lacked the ability to break through on their own, and weren't particularly adept at understanding time, either. But they had help.
There were a few on Earth (H.P. Lovecraft was one. Clive Barker was another) who actively sought to tear a hole in the fabric separating our dimensions. Mostly because they liked peace and quiet. Like Pex, they loved the perfection of the void.
Things got much worse when Jason remembered the song he had written. By then, he'd begun to come into his powers. In an act of rage while in jail in Houston, he sent Venom, Slayer and Exodus on a massive killing spree. They, like everyone else, were long dead. That solved a lot of problems for them up front. The dead are not constrained by time.
But when they got to year zero, all they found was an empty manger.
###
Janique checked back with High the next day regarding the DNA test he'd conducted.
"Well?" was the first word out of her mouth.
"Good to see you, too, Janique."
"Sorry. Tell me."
"Well, it's funny, and you won't believe it. It's your DNA...almost."
"Almost?"
"There's a difference of point oh oh oh oh one percent. You could be sisters."
"Who is it?"
"I have no way of knowing. If anyone would, I thought it would be you."
Janique had an idea. It was so disturbing, she didn't want to consider it. Instead, she reacted as though she knew the answer already.
"I need weapons," she said. "Germs. Poisons. Exotic stuff. You got a guy?"
"Actually, I do. Want me to set up a meeting?"
"Yes. I'd really appreciate it."
He nodded.
"President Gorlax," he said to the room. There was a slight delay, and the a voice said, "High-C! How goes it?"
"Yo, yo. You tight?"
"I am good, sir. Taking it easy. Swapping out my blood and marrow."
"Fuck, yes," High said. "Detox just to retox."
"So, to what do I owe the pleasure. It's not like you to make casual inquiries like a common theremin salesman."
"I have a...client. A friend. She'd like to visit one of your showrooms."
Having mastered the art of killing, Gortician instead now supplied advanced weaponry to other planets.
"Saves me the trouble of killing them myself," President Gorlax once remarked.
"Well, a friend, you say? A female, at that? I might have to attend to her personally."
"You have no idea," High said, looking at her. He thought about mentioning her name, but didn't really think Janique was intergalactically famous yet. He only knew of her from back issues of 'Fortune' and 'Business Week'.
"Give her my co-ords and tell her to drop by anytime. War."
"Thank you, High-C," she said sweetly, kissing him on the cheek. He blushed and realized that simple act was, coming from her, more intimate than a blowjob.
"So what do we do about Superlove?"
"Fuck it. Use my DNA."
"Makes sense. I wonder if it will change things at all?"
"Yeah, it'll make it better."
"Heh. I'll let you know after I synthesize it and try it."
"Did you try the other one?"
"Not yet."
"When you do, let me know what you think."
"Sure. So how do we do the bulk deal? I assume you have zero-gee nano-capable manufacturing facilities?"
"Uh, no," she said. "I sell pussy, not dope. Until now," she amended.
"That's too bad. I'll wholesale to you, but I'm going to tax you."
Janique would expect no less. Ruthless in business was expected, if not admired.
"We'll talk about it later. I've got to get to Gortician."
"Now? You're serious, eh? I'd hate to be whoever is on your bad side."
"Never forget that," she said with a smile as she left.
Pex had solved most of his issues, or so he thought. But there was still the problem of assassins seeking the Nazarene as an infant. Although Jason was unaware of his powers, writing the song was all it took. A thought, or something spoken, may or may not stick around, but something written has enormous lasting power.
There was hope. He looked ahead and saw that Jason would lose most of his anger toward the religious and spiritual. Most. Not all. In fact, Pex managed to find a conversation in 2011 in which he expressed regret over writing it in the first place. Of course, by then, he had an inkling of what was going on, and the implications of his actions.
It was fortunate that his first bands Lucretia and Entity didn't record it, or Pex would have to seriously bend the rules to avoid catastrophe. He managed this by allowing a breeze to blow the sheet of yellow legal paper behind his dresser, where it was forgotten about.
Eventually, his mother found it, and threw it away, disgusted. Even balled-up in a landfill, the song radiated power for years, nearly eight, before the paper fully dissolved. Even then, the residue itself held sway for nearly two more, all the while broadcasting its malignant orders to all who would listen.
Initially, when he'd written it, he was severely unfocused and undisciplined. He no more believed in magic or time travel than he believed in attempts to organize spirituality. But disbelieving in things doesn't always make things go away.
On one hand, he'd done enough LSD and pot to mostly tear away the barrier that prevents the illuminated from gaining mastery over their own powers, and hence the universe. Or at least their slice of it.
But Jason loved to read and think. Logically, if possible.
When Pex tried to impress Prail by exploding, one of the things he wrote during that moment was "Atlas Shrugged".
Okay, technically, he didn't write it. A kajillion realities ago, Ayn Rand wrote it. All Pex did was regurgitate it in another world, with a few embellishments. As far as he concerned, copyright should only be honored for the duration of the owner's universe. Once your sun blew up, your intellectual property became part of his vast pool of resources.
The problem was, Jason embraced Objectivism to a large degree. It was sound, logical, and wrong, wrong, wrong. Perhaps when it was written, there was a single objective reality. Pex doubted it. At this point, he supported a general ban on the word itself. It had far less meaning than 'Belgium', if it had any at all.
For instance, Rand posited that nothing could exist outside of existence, therefore, no creator, Q.E.D.
Pex wanted to leave her in a box with Schrodinger's cat for a few days. Her universe would be a tiny box. Imagine her surprise when she emerged to find something existed outside of her perception of existence. Pex wondered what God would think about that, then realized God hadn't paid any attention to Nietzsche's "God is Dead" pronouncement, so he probably wouldn't have much of an opinion at all.
"As long as she's happy," he'd say.
Jason got Rand's point, and completely failed to pick up on Pex's cool little sci-fi subplot. He had embedded proof of the divine in her own epic. Proof that refuted all of her carefully constructed beliefs. It was brilliant, but it would probably take the metacritics a few more existence cycles before anyone picked up on it and wrote about it. Continuity tended to go by the wayside when your universe imploded, or at least until you got a grip on it and adapted.
What bugged him the most was her short-sightedness on the entire subject. If she hadn't already been taken into the matrix, Pex would have given her an eyeful. People living in simulations have no reason to doubt the existence of a creator. Or creators.
It was probably Prail's messing about with their motivations that caused them to disbelieve, well, everything. It's a part of diversity, she would tell him. Makes for a better sim. Pex grew slightly interested in whatever she was planning, thinking about these things.
###
Somewhere in a church in Austin, 2011, Jason saw Ayn Rand and smiled, atheists no more. She smiled back, happy to meet her savior face-to-face, even if it did negate her life's work. She'd rather be happy than right.
But the forces unleashed by the song in '84 were tireless. Since he was so unfocused, the first to respond were nameless leviathans from beyond our senses. They prowled around just beyond our perception, seeking opportunities to invade and complete their task.
These monstrous creatures, beings of pure evil, powered by hate, weren't particularly bright. The lacked the ability to break through on their own, and weren't particularly adept at understanding time, either. But they had help.
There were a few on Earth (H.P. Lovecraft was one. Clive Barker was another) who actively sought to tear a hole in the fabric separating our dimensions. Mostly because they liked peace and quiet. Like Pex, they loved the perfection of the void.
Things got much worse when Jason remembered the song he had written. By then, he'd begun to come into his powers. In an act of rage while in jail in Houston, he sent Venom, Slayer and Exodus on a massive killing spree. They, like everyone else, were long dead. That solved a lot of problems for them up front. The dead are not constrained by time.
But when they got to year zero, all they found was an empty manger.
###
Janique checked back with High the next day regarding the DNA test he'd conducted.
"Well?" was the first word out of her mouth.
"Good to see you, too, Janique."
"Sorry. Tell me."
"Well, it's funny, and you won't believe it. It's your DNA...almost."
"Almost?"
"There's a difference of point oh oh oh oh one percent. You could be sisters."
"Who is it?"
"I have no way of knowing. If anyone would, I thought it would be you."
Janique had an idea. It was so disturbing, she didn't want to consider it. Instead, she reacted as though she knew the answer already.
"I need weapons," she said. "Germs. Poisons. Exotic stuff. You got a guy?"
"Actually, I do. Want me to set up a meeting?"
"Yes. I'd really appreciate it."
He nodded.
"President Gorlax," he said to the room. There was a slight delay, and the a voice said, "High-C! How goes it?"
"Yo, yo. You tight?"
"I am good, sir. Taking it easy. Swapping out my blood and marrow."
"Fuck, yes," High said. "Detox just to retox."
"So, to what do I owe the pleasure. It's not like you to make casual inquiries like a common theremin salesman."
"I have a...client. A friend. She'd like to visit one of your showrooms."
Having mastered the art of killing, Gortician instead now supplied advanced weaponry to other planets.
"Saves me the trouble of killing them myself," President Gorlax once remarked.
"Well, a friend, you say? A female, at that? I might have to attend to her personally."
"You have no idea," High said, looking at her. He thought about mentioning her name, but didn't really think Janique was intergalactically famous yet. He only knew of her from back issues of 'Fortune' and 'Business Week'.
"Give her my co-ords and tell her to drop by anytime. War."
"Thank you, High-C," she said sweetly, kissing him on the cheek. He blushed and realized that simple act was, coming from her, more intimate than a blowjob.
"So what do we do about Superlove?"
"Fuck it. Use my DNA."
"Makes sense. I wonder if it will change things at all?"
"Yeah, it'll make it better."
"Heh. I'll let you know after I synthesize it and try it."
"Did you try the other one?"
"Not yet."
"When you do, let me know what you think."
"Sure. So how do we do the bulk deal? I assume you have zero-gee nano-capable manufacturing facilities?"
"Uh, no," she said. "I sell pussy, not dope. Until now," she amended.
"That's too bad. I'll wholesale to you, but I'm going to tax you."
Janique would expect no less. Ruthless in business was expected, if not admired.
"We'll talk about it later. I've got to get to Gortician."
"Now? You're serious, eh? I'd hate to be whoever is on your bad side."
"Never forget that," she said with a smile as she left.
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