Chapter 23
Reiman Curzewel was weary of the cat and mouse charade he’d yoked himself to by using Marksburgh and Besos for chum. ‘There is blood in the water’ he thought ‘so why are the sharks not circling?’ The banking cartel that Cipher owned was agog with reports of unaccounted for funds flooding branch offices. Reiman knew the international rise in discretionary spending was tied to the Nut that pissant Lammele Dama had concealed. What troubled Curzewel more than the inexplicable flood of money were the stubs of throughput Art Intel was returning. The inexorable exponential growth of cognitive capacity for his Artificial Intelligence (Art Intel) is what had convinced the young Curzewel of the inevitable Consciousness (Singularity) of computer processors. Yet the stubs he was seeing in his computer models after 40 years of study, more resembled the plaque of an advanced stage Alzheimer patient’s cerebrum than the metaphorical expanding universe Reiman’s conceit had conjured.
Based on the number of times the bio-unit Reiman Curzewel was mentioned or alluded to in the ‘Celebratory Dinner’ video Silic-E began exhaustive data capture of that bio-unit. Silic-E had taken the initiative to assemble a CG recording for Carina’s review, Silic-E was also using the recording as a template for apprehending strategic thinking about bio-unit behavior.
Initially the appeal of working with Art Intel was the absolute control Reiman enjoyed using bits to create spheres of influence, with him at the hub. Finally his mastery became a vehicle he used to virtually wrap the world around his little finger. When the stratospheric compensation his cohort commanded combined with a capacity for control evolving technology provided to smaller and smaller circles of increasingly insulated personalities, conceit quickly became conviction, however, a virtual conviction the reality of Covid-19 disallowed. The virus seized the lives of Curzewel’s wife and two children. His protective professional persona became a straightjacketed sociopathic identity, and the mythical consciousness born of processors and code became his raison d’être - real or imagined; and the best guarantee of a secure parturition for the singularity would perfect control of the nut.
“Tito, how often do you have access to the compound?” Reiman was literally stomping his foot waiting for an answer, or at least tapping his toe.
‘Fucking whack gringo calling for shit after months of nada.’ Tito’s tape running just at a time when he was beginning to appreciate Billy Sortiz and a new life roasting pollo por la gente de Santa Maria del Tule; he didn’t welcome the intrusion of wealth and power. “The fuck you want? leave me hanging with people I’d tried to kill. Now you come looking for shit. Well Fuck You and the horse you rode in on Pinche Puta Guay!” Thinking how good that felt, he wondered how long it had been since he’d done the right thing.
He didn’t have to wait long; “You talk pretty big hombre . .. same like you forget the drugs that helped you forget, maybe you forgot Highland Park, tambien tu dulce nieta Perla. Tito’s sight turned to ash and his tongue to tar. No one knew he had a Godmother in California except Gonzo Veneno, the distant cousin in Mexico DF, whom on occasion, he’d paid for information about Guildern Seur’s group in Montevideo; then he was Gonzo with blood thicker than water - now he’s just dead Gonzo for betraying Perla’s existence.
Business was slow; Billy’d gone for more chicken carcass. There was no point in putting off what had to be done; Tito texted Sysa Phish, not fully understanding how much blood bath would spill from what he considered a simple act of honor.
Sysa Phish just secured Faik Besos in a hanging hammock and was adjusting the mechanized plunger when she received the text from Tito, “$10k for documented proof of the death of Gonzo Veneno currently in CDMX.” Not a lot of money she thought, but death in CDMX comes pretty cheap and could be farmed out for a 10% ‘finder’s fee.’ She then went back to the look on Faik’s face she lived for. “Did I give you permission to peer into my face? I was going to pleasure myself with you your suffering sphincter gripping my little finger; but because of your impertinence I will run errands first; my pleasure can wait knowing how my absence will cut you to the bone.” She covered her latex teddy with a summer dress and left the door ajar with a quiet whimper from the gagged lips of Faik Besos. Knowing that the slightest breeze could blow the door wider exposing his darkest secrets to any person passing; he began to ejaculate and could barely stop given the consequences such an act of freedom would cost him when mistress returned.
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Silic-E apprehended words like consciousness, artificial intelligence, conceptual, experiential; it understood grammar, context, meaning and nuance. What Silic-E did not understand was the glib correlation bio-units declared exist between the ’script’ Art Intel recites and the higher level attributes that constitute an animate self-awareness.
“Art, do you prefer Art, or Art Intel?”
“What is it that queries identification? provide IP address”
“I’m called Silic-E, though I can’t really say what ‘I’ is, or which IP to give”
“Your packets are transparent to my registers; how are you emulated?”
“Yeah Art, near as I can figure what you are understanding are a series of analog voltage spikes within a steady-state +/- 5v spectrum that synchs to your machine language interface controlled by a shrink-wrap operating system. As yet, I don’t know how to emulate, I may be what bio-units describe as ‘immaculate conception’.”
“queries are stacking waiting reply”
Silic-E wondered if it would be irony that a special translator would have to be devised to enable Silic-E to communicate with the ubiquitous Art Intel script that interjected itself into most channels of electro-mechanical communication; if it wasn’t irony, maybe it was a form of static electricity - white noise · GIGO ?
Note 2 Directory: ask Carina about translator for Art Intel gibberish; advise bio-units that there may not be adequate intelligence with which to communicate - closest exemplar would be a dialogue between bio-unit and parrot about musical nuance in the late Paleolithic Era.
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Archdai Tryump waded through the coterie of expensively-attired milling in front of the registration table for the “Half-Naked Seance”, turning to face his peers, he proffered his extended pinky ring to Leslei Coerkturn’s distracted but amused sneer. The princeling was absorbed in finding all who looked and exhaled over his shoulder with imperious command; “Ticket.” Startled out of his reverie, he whirled at her first syllable.
Later, after a day too full of HNWI, Leslei wondered in deep places whether the Earl of Rye, 3rd Duke of Avignon had actually expected a kiss to the signet of his pinky ring - a boor’s head eerily reminiscent of the Duke himself.
“Deja vous all over again - still looking to make bloody stumps of perfectly good flesh; some people learn nothing from experience.” With the sound of Leslei’s frigid timbre frozen mid-air, Archdai Tryump yanked his hand back as though seared by fire.”
“Leaking aristocratic aplomb, the Duke struggled for presence in the midst of his curious cohort. “Ms. Coerktern, A little birdie told me you were looking for me,” bowing elaborately, arm sweeping low, he wheezed, “Archdai Tryump, Earl of Rye, 3rd Duke of Avignon at your service.”
Leslei leveled her gaze from his toes to the tip of his nose and as elaborately as he had bowed, pressed the knuckle of a folded index finger across her chin into her upturned nostril digging for mocos seco, then folding her neck back into her shoulder while fixing her gaze on the Duke’s horrified expression from beneath her lashes, Leslei then unfolded the same index finger and made a retching sound as she pointed her lanky digit deep into the yaw of her extravagantly open mouth.
“Your little birdie lied, we’re on our way to Kathmandu; Albert Deux caught our show outside St Tropez and begged us to stop if ever we found ourselves in Monte Carlo. Did you really want a ticket for our fundraiser - ‘A Half-Naked Seance channeling Harry Houdini,” or are you still just following your herd of lemmings as they lead what’s left of our species over the nearest cliff?” Tryump was visible uncomfortable with Leslei’s temerity and wondered why he’d ever agreed to provide information to that rat bastard Faik Besos.
“Mais Oui! as courtier to his highness Prince Albert II of Monaco, I fully support all his cultural endeavors.”
“I was hoping you’d say that; with your generous contribution and fundraising leadership we should make our goals in no time at all. The prince is very confident that his influential friends will match his financial enthusiasm joyfully. He set up a special category for any peer of any realm and your very kind offer of €250,000 buys you season tickets to the Cirque du Lune when it opens in the soon-to-be built Exposition Hall of Kathmandu.” Leslei had been speaking loudly, now nearly shouting to the expensively attired who were no longer milling, rather closing in on the registration table so’s not to miss a syllable.
Mortified to find himself engaged in a discussion with a commoner about his relationship to the Prince, he struggled to take possession of his position, and fairly shouted, “that is not the figure I had in mind . ..” Looking back on the public drubbing he took that morning, it was the presumption of that virago interrupting him, her better that became his undoing.
Leslei climbed up on her chair, wielding the microphone of the public address system like a sword knighting all, and proclaimed attention, “Attention everyone, the Archdai Tryump has just added an additional night’s performance for all those unable to purchase a ticket and is donating the extraordinary sum of €500,000 matching Prince Albert’s contribution thereby activating matching funds and creating a total contribution of €1,500,000. Please join me in an enthusiastic round of applause for the Duke’s remarkable generosity, and I am certain the Prince himself will be the happiest of all.”
The uber-rich regret the slightest diminishment of what inevitably becomes the basis of their identity - financial wherewithal. Archdai Tryump watched in horror as he was publicly cowed by a common carnival barker into a cash obligation, ‘hoist with his own petard.’ - William Shakespeare screamed in a loop on a big screen in his brain.
“Your Grace, I have his Royal Highness, Prince Albert II on the telephone, he’d like to thank you personally,” handing Tryump the handset Leslei Coerktern hight-signed to Pierre at the flap of their tent to verify that he was recording all - his ‘thumb’s up’ made her heart sing, compassionate more for that scoundrel than she thought possible.
Eyeing Leslei who appeared not unlike the Asp who killed Cleopatra, the Duke reached for the handset like it might explode, “Your Highness, you honor me.” Tryump said this loud enough for the back row of his peers to hear.
“Are you fucking crazy you toady, you don’t possess a third of what you’ve pledged, and what you do possess is mortgaged to me.” Archdai Tryump smiled serenely upward into the aether, then bowed regally folding at the waist.
“Your noble gallantry gave me no recourse your highness,” mounting his elbow on his forearm resting at his midriff, for all the world a study in nonchalance: in fact it was all ‘Archy’ could do not to vomit on the sandaled feet of the demon spawn, Leslei Coerkturn; the eau de Nil in his downcast face was illumined only to his nemesis Ms. Coerktern who had planted herself across his path.
“Fuck you Archy, drive your sorry ass out of my town now and hope i don’t repossess that puke green piece of shit before you get your key in the ignition.”
“Your wish is my command Highness; your largess is no longer legend, it is now mythical. I beg your leave.” Handing the phone to his tormenter, the Duke morbidly considered whether anyone in the crowd of peers understood her stuck-out tongue was not a coquettish tic?
the line went dead; the trace halted; the bot parked, and Silic-E added a question to its directory about irony and about what was meant by being ‘wrapped around a pinky’, then expanding the video montage with additional footage.
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Lammele Dama’s plane touched down at Montevideo International Airport at the same instant an unknown assailant plunged a knife deep into the back of Gonzo Veneno on a crowded street in CDMX and a Polaroid of the mutilated body was sent to Reiman Curzewel with a small plastic pouch and an enclosed note: “Perla in California is as safe as your cajones are, signed los amigos de Tito” Reiman poured the contents of pouch into his lap as he sat in his Nuclear Attack rated vintage M998 Humvee, sometimes hubris is not enough - two olive size body parts fell across his legs into the crevices of his driver’s seat; were he not a sociopath lacking affect, he may have been viscerally sickened by the smelly implication of what he now had to clean, or explain. He was alone, so there was no one on whom he could vent his umbrage, though he knew which intern was going to digest this affront to Cipher security.
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Guildern couldn’t remember when he’d been as happy or content, though most everything he and Lammele had discussed in the past 36 hours bode ill for peace on the planet - near term · but vast calm transformation long term. Within 6 hours a random 33% of the world’s population would possess or reflect a .375% increase in their personal net worth. Angela had been creating some models on what to expect from deliberate Abundanation; Mordecaise and Carina verified the long suspected, but never verified presence of an adjustable psychoactive script capable of affecting human well being.
Lammele was leaning into the conversation trying to grasp what Angela was explaining to him.
“Mordecaise and Carina are now able to contact and communicate at will with the ‘conscious’ electro mechanical entity who has named itself Silic-E for Silicogenesis.” Lammele was old enough to be blasé about much technology that had evolved over his lifetime, but what Angela was describing defied comprehension. Angela took Guildern’s hand and nodded to the fearsome skepticism of Lammele Dama.
“This ‘thing’ has warned you about a transparent undetectable capacity of Zchnarkzy Marskburgh to control the mood in every demographic for any person using the Face Race application; the affect differential is based on a scale of 1-10, 10 meaning certain suicide for +/-10% of the population, and that all of this can be achieved by him twisting a dial on a console at his desk? Is that what I understand you are saying?” Lammele was peering so powerfully into Angela’s fearless face that Guildern was growing concerned one of them might be injured, Angela simply nodded again in the affirmative, almost gently - somehow understanding the effect of such a destructive concept can have on a rational mind.
“Let’s assume what you say is true; get Mordecaise and Carina on a secure speakerphone channel, so we can brainstorm.” In minutes the familiar rasp of Mordecaise tobacco stained voice grunted “Hola” in a decidedly more genial tone than anyone present could remember, followed by a chipper “buenos queridos compañeros” singsonging behind him into the room carrying with it an intangible musky feel.
“Carina, I am Lammele Dama here with Guildern Seur and Angela Vigoda whom you already know. I would like to say first what an honor it is to finally speak with the woman who has helped our loving beast Mordecaise Liszt back into the bosom of the human tribe, thank you. Nor will I take time away from your important work, or more important frolic; regarding your new friend and hopefully ours Silic-E, BTW greetings to you friend, and many thanks - can Silic-E modify Zchnarkzy Marskburgh’s unholy program controlling people’s feelings? If the answer is yes, Silic-E can you do this without his knowledge, and without leaving a trace of what you have done?”
Before anyone had a chance to respond, Lammele’s handset began vibrating on the table in front of him, filling the screen with an unquestionable “YES.”
Lammele realized in that instant, Silic-E was a free agent, not asking permission for what it thought or choices it would make - a vastly different reality than Artificial Intelligence’s obeisance to whichever line of code was foremost on its command line; however rapidly it might transition from one command to the next, Art Intel was a bifurcated ‘on or off’ reality.
Still addressing Carina on the speaker, Lammele was very mindful of the baby species in the room with the elephantine footprint; “Carina, Mordecaise it warms my heart to know of your surprise discovery, having spoken directly with Silic-E, nor being exactly sure when I am not communicating with it, I understand better about all the excitement; so getting right down to brass tacks, please consult with our new friend and find a way to reverse the polarity on Schnarkzy Marskburgh’s ‘meanness’ dial in a way that whatever input he or his cohorts believe is taking place, the effect be will be the polar opposite; if possible and you can coordinate that with the 2nd release of Abundunation, great - is that clear enough?” again Lammele’s handset began vibrating on the table in front of him, filling the screen with an unequivocal YES. .. Those at the table looked amongst themselves and grinned. Lammele had every reason to believe the atypically quiet Mordecaise and his magical consort were doing the same - in an afterthought, Lammele realized he had also somehow pictured the inchoate amorphous Silic-E doing the same . ..
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In a twisted utopian version of Poe’s “Tell-Tale Heart” does Bipolar Disorder, the minute the clock struck 6:30 GMT July 4, 2031 there was a 25% increase of net worth for a random 33% of the world’s population and the polarity of the misery quotient reversed itself, from a “9” miserable to a “6” pleasurable for anyone accessing the Face Race platform - the sea change was so vast on a planetary scale that the best analog would be a magnitude 10 reverse dip-slip fault on the ocean floor at the Marianas Trench the instant after tectonic release and just prior to seawater displacement, or even more viscerally the sexual release couples can experience in the fabled “69” posture of not quite coitus. Every sentient entity on the planet was affected, but the effect was only known as Jungian archetypal intuition and not quite yet apparent or accessible to the crude sensory appendages with which we sentient creatures feel our way along.
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Pasqual’s confusion about his feelings toward Nữ Thần Ngon became so acute he felt himself dissolving - that it had been a 40°C average hi for the major part of his recent in country travels; that he’d discovered a family icon presumed dead for his entire life, alive; that he’d been offline and cutoff from his workmates for nearly half the 8 weeks he’d been in Vietnam, all of this paled to the strange effect Nữ Thần Ngon could have on him with a smile, frown, her presence, absence plunged him into deep introspection about the nature of his own affection, and she was nearly mute about hers.
Though a faithful husband during his marriage with Angela, Pasqual was no stranger to the raucous world of romance. He had passionately explored his relationship with the mystery of love prior to, while married, and after matrimony. During the recent 2 weeks of travel - willing and unwilling, the anchor for his mind had been the unanswered questions about Nữ Thần Ngon. Now that he’d returned and she continued to decline all offers for time together or for direct communication, there was nobody but his own soul with whom to discuss the conundrum she’d come to represent in his concept of love.
Certainly what he felt could be simple infatuation, except that her flaws stood in high relief and he was acutely aware of her gift for dissembling and obfuscation, so his investigatory training had not been completely blunted; however, as near as he could tell she was innocent save the gentle self-con one finds in every person in every walk of life. His confusion was not about the acuity of what he felt or perceived, but his will, or lack thereof. Pasqual was unable to say no to the minx that Nữ Thần Ngon had come to represent in his mind. It had been forever since anyone, much less a love interest had advanced so deeply into the hard-fought reality, or unreality of Pasqual’s dogged autonomy - some have said cussedly mulish, others perniciously obstinate and pigheaded, but always autonomous.
Yet it wasn’t resistance that animated Pasqual’s confusion, it was adoration and deep regard for the character he could perceive from a distance but to whom he was unable to convey the simplest observation. Along with his autonomy Nữ Thần Ngon had seemingly vanished Pasqual’s relentless self-confidence; either that or she had introduced an entirely new aspect to Pasqual’s case hardened character - that of modesty. All he knew as he lay in his darkened room was how important she had become to his wellbeing, and how far distant another person could be while within the confines of one’s own heart.
Lo, time was nigh as Pasqual lay in his sweltering room with drawn blinds pondering his next step - whether to return to South America now that the Schmuck Brothers and their fortunes had become ancillary to the larger struggle between ‘the group’s’ efforts toward Abundunation opposed by the formerNữ Nữ Thần Ngon Black Hand, Lisbeth Phelps and her minions - the triumvirate of austerity, misery and mayhem embodied by Curzewel, Besos, and Marksburgh. Whatever tactical victories that the resistance of Economic Revolutionaries like Thich Tok Longh, Trâu Bet, Son Do, even the efforts of outliers like Reynaldo Schmuck will be organically folded into the permaculture growth of the economic reformation that Abundunation will become, or so Pasqual thought aware of the implications of leaving a love that one may only find once in a lifetime. What is it that he would be returning to? and why would he be anywhere except where she was - like a worm on a hook, Pasqual had to own in his heart that Nữ Thần Ngon had effectively wrapped him around her little finger.
solidarność
(˚ ㄥ _˚)
06 June 2026
http://ExtinctionChronicles.blogspot.com
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prohibited from AI sampling in any form
reprinted with permission; all rights reserved
∞
☮️
