DON'T INTERRUPT THE SORROW, DARN RIGHT (Part Three)

(do I need to say this? Please read parts 1 and 2 first - thanks)

Trying to keep a huge round glass bowl full of red water animated and in front of the TV cameras 24/7. That was the hardest part of the whole operation.

Sure it was distracting to be monitoring every last electronic signal coming in from everywhere in the world, all jammed into one computer complex and being categorized and sorted automatically and pared down so that Boss only had to actually view or listen to maybe 2% or 3% of them. Even that small percentage meant Boss had to cover millions of separate pieces of data every second. How could he do this? Why would he do this? And all of it channeled through the chips of a stupid camera phone. Wouldn't you think he would centralize his intelligence in something with a bit more in the way of cajones? Maybe a few more ringtone options or something? Winston refused to let the word "apps" enter his thought processes. It just pissed him off.

Winston Three tried to stop this line of thought and turned his own enhanced memory back to the business at hand, which was channeling and sorting the date, or the percentage of it that got to him, then sending it on to Boss. So Boss could take action and then send those orders out to Winston Five, who was the conduit for outgoing information and instructions. It was really a simple system, organized like a newspaper route or something. Yeah, times twenty billion or so.

Winston Three could never understand computers even though essentially he now was one. It was kind of ironic. The philosophers could say "Know Oneself" but if oneself is all electronic and digital and shit, how do you know even what you know? Three had no clue.

The program projecting the giant pitcher of diplomatic and magnanimous Kool-Aid was acting up again. he was supposed to be tipping side to side a little bit when he ran around, but not to the extent that he was spilling himself all over the carpet. And he wasn't supposed to keep changing color either. He was supposed to be a cheerful pinkish red color at all times. But he kept switching from red to green to yellow (nice effect there, nine hundred gallons of piss jumping around and talking to you, splashing out onto the floor). A lot of the time colors got mixed and he looked like a big round bowl of sewage with a grin and a glass handle. Beautiful.

It all seemed pointless to Three. Almost nobody still believed that a giant pitcher of homemade soft drink mix was running the world governments. Three was sure of this. This whole business with the Kool-Aid was just part of Boss' sick sense of humor. Most likely everybody knew this sloshing and grinning front man was just some tricked up animated ding dong gimmick and not an actual three dimensional creature. Just another program. They had to know this.

Of course so much of the rest of it was real that it did lend some credence to the possibility that the Kool-Aid stooge was for real as well. But Three knew he wasn't.

Once a human, Winston Three was now something you might ca a "cyborg" if you were into that science fiction shit. Parts of his human brain remained and were responsible for his cynicism, what remained of his sense of humor and also his general laziness. Most of his mental functions were performed by sending a bunch of 1s and 0s slithering every which way. The circuitry, or whatever it was, that Boss had developed for installing in about anything he wanted, could be spread from one entity to another instantaneously like a thought wave, at the will of the "Ringtone in Chief" (Winston Three thought that was pretty damned funny but most of his sense of humor had been replaced). Winston was also physically enhanced to enable him to work endless hours at incredible speeds. Yadda yadda yadda. He wished he knew where he could find a decent blueberry pumpkin cake donut in what remained of the world's bakeries. Now that was important stuff which had plumb eluded him.

Boss could inject his instant circuitry or whatever it was, into almost anything, as noted. Step right up and gecome a sentient being, albeit probably a crazy one. He favored plastic or metal toys, and also animals (Three figured stuffed animals coming to life was too creepy even for Boss). But lots of other things had been "enhanced" also. Even some insects for some reason - not sure what kind of intel you could get from a mosquito but apparently there was some advantage to be had. All the Blackberries, iPhones, and of course every computer and other form of electronic communication and information gathering device. TVs, stereos, alarm systems. In most cases cartoon characters posed a barrier that could not be breached, and had to be operated holographically like Tubby the Kool-Aid Dimwit. But there was some evidence that even this rule was not absolute. Three had to confess he did not understand how all this worked, even with his brain enhancements. Three felt like he was kind of the Number Two in the operation and should understand this more. The total defection and disappearance of Winston One had left a gap that Boss had not really dealt with yet. He was still trying to find One even though there was something about him that made him immune to most of the methods that Boss had for tracking people or information. What a screwed up setup.

Three's brain was so fragmented he couldn't keep track of what he was thinking about - he couldn't account for what information was being passed on or why, he didn't really know what orders he was giving, anything like that. It was all functioning on some level below the surface of his consciousness. But it all seemed to be working, as far as he could tell.

And he still had time to ask himself: Why? Why was I "born and bred" for this function over forty years ago, before there was even such a thing as a computer? How was this possible? And why is Boss causing all this chaos? Why does it seem like he is instigating the end of the world? Wouldn't the humans have fucked it up on their own soon enough? And most importantly - once the human population had all been converted or eradicated (Three figured that had to be the goal here), then what? What in hell would a bunch of smart mouthed cell phones and recalcitrant DVD players do when there were no stupid human beings around to fool with?

It just didn't make any sense. Three wished he could talk to his uncle, Winston One - last Three was able to find out he had left Chinook, the small town in Montana where he had been for years before all of this began. One was a Winston Churchill before this whole thing ever started up; he was the "Second Generation WC" or so they called him. As far as Three knew, at this point he was one of a kind and that had something to do with his immunity to the influence of Boss. Three was sure that he knew what was going on.

Meanwhile all the digitalized data that was pounding in and out of his mind was driving him nuts. The remaining human part of his brain was developing a king sized migraine. Three wished the built-in miniaturized pharmacy in his stomach would hurry up and produce some kind of pain reliever and get it into his blood stream.

* * * * * * * *

Every dog has fleas. Where and when the dog bites just tells the fleas where to go next and when to do it. Fleas have no sense of time except as is determined by the bite of the dog. They have no goals, no purpose, no expectations - except as delineated by he jaws and the teeth. There is no moral imperative except such as is imparted by the chosen time and place of the host's aggression.

The flea takes more than blood from the dog. When they bite they are defined - or rather they become so when the dog bites back. The vulnerability of the host is underscored. Even though the perpetrator is nothing. A flea.

No dog can actually harm a flea. A flea is too small to be injured or killed by something as large as a dog. They can be displaced. Their lives can be turned upside down perhaps, their futures redefined. But no death can come to them on the jaws or claws of the canine they inhabit. That death is reserved for the larger, the more visible, the more important. As death often is.

My name is Frank Lloyd; at least now it is or so I will claim. I am currently living in Rapid City and I am trying to do so in complete secrecy. And these observations about the dogs and the fleas, these are my thoughts, as I stand on my tiny balcony (a "lanai" I suppose it would be called nowadays) and watch the tableau that unfolds in the street below.

I don't know where it came from exactly, but along the curb below my third-story vantage point there is now an impossibly large sofa (call it a "davenport" if your memory goes back as far as mine does). Where a straight-line sofa would typically have perhaps three segments, this one has five - and by segments I don't mean separate sections, detached pieces to be strategically positioned in order to establish the proper feng shui. Rather I mean the sequential presence of large cushions or the dividing demarcations on the sofa's back rest, along the overall framework of the piece. Five segments is an incredibly long in-line sofa, which was no doubt assembled at some factory by workers who envisioned it spanning a single wall in some vast living room or lounge somewhere. The number of homes that might have accommodated this antiquated beast has to be small. And this one in particular, at this moment - would be very difficult to find a spot for.

Since it is engulfed in flames from one end to the other.

I did not see who or what placed it here in the street. It's nighttime and most likely it was carried in by hand, but of course by entities that don't actually even have hands - my guess is some good sized animals who could stand upright sufficiently to maneuveer down the street with such a large, cumbersome object in tow. Most likely it was dogs, large dogs. Dogs that are now functioning as fleas, as it were. Ironically it was probably police dogs.

I came to look when I heard the commotion, mostly caused by the police who were shouting and blowing whistles. I could hear their desperate shoes scuffing along the pavement in the dark. There was a fire engine in the distance, howling away. The flickering light from the burning sofa crossed the paths of the police occasionally as they scampered comically about, apparently seeking the perpetrators of this act of vandalism. Said perpetrators were of course long gone by now.

The fleas had chosen their spot, they had inflicted their bite, and when the host provided a somewhat predictably delayed response in the form of a violent kick of sorts - well, the offending parties were far removed from the spot by then, on their way to the next destination. Such is the way of fleas.

I heard my wife enter the room behind me. She had been out in the hall, talking to someone even though I strongly tried to discourage this - probably they were discussing the pandemonium that seemed to be blasting away almost worldwide, as far as anyone could tell - engulfing us all in flames as we floundered helplessly like giant pieces of furniture; out of style, rendered almost immobile by our stature, virtually without purpose in the "modern" world. mostly right now I was wondering why the police and fire departments, as fractured and frantic as they were - why were they even iinterested in this small, localized criminal act? Weren't there bigger concerns to be dealt with?

Illyana stepped closer to me, framed now in the balcony's doorway. The backlighting silhouetted her tall slim form. Her dark hair was pulled up severely. She wore a form-fitting printed blouse and black pants that clung to her tightly. She was about five feet eight but so slim and elegant that she seemed even taller - she was a woman who generally did not look her age.

"Winston? Honey, what is going on out there now?" I thought she sounded tired.

"Lana - I told you before, stop calling me that! You don't know who could hear, and we are hanging by a thread here in spite of our advantages! Damn it!"

She hung her head and I knew I had probably overreacted. Suddenly she looked old after all, and when she spoke again her voice sounded so very tired. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'm so sorry, Frank."