Dead Planet V

Dead Planet V

“a taciturn, sallow-skinned
young man, at times
intractable, with sharp
features that echoed
those of the man that
dreamed him.”
—Jorge Luis Borges,
The Circular Ruins

JJ only shrugged—he didn’t know what I was talking about. Adolescent androids—didn’t dream wetdreams like us humans. They didn’t wake up in the middle of the night—with nocturnal emissions comin’ outta nowhere and scrambling their circuits.

I envied the kid—being so stupid, lily-white virgin and uncontaminated by Martian or Terran memories of the past. No sad gimpy gargoyle parents—clinging to crummy cathedral towers, gazing down & smirking at us mere humans or ringing those goddamn fuckin’ bells of Chartres simplydrivin’ me crazy.

No fuckin’ shitty guilt trips or crummy Earthboy peer-group pressures. None of those skanky Venusian voluptuous vibes either—or those tacky, dreary, rather depressing Plutonic dystopian brooding blues that seemed to be bothering everybody lately for some ungodly unknown reason. JJ was simply just your typical adolescent android boytoy diversion—just another young Nexus dumb droid-slut only too willing to please. At least that's the way it seemed...

After a year living together—well, I suppose I'd pretty much got to know this cute droid-boy’s nice fine little ass pretty good. We'd party on weekends, dancin’ at the Hellas City Vortex Lounge usually—listenin’ to the Luna Lounge Lizards. We’d dance up there in the 3-D Sky Room—with the Reptoid Ratboyz Band playin’ into the night. Sometimes we’d go to the local Ganymede Ghost Mall—just to fuck around. Wasting time watchin’ the latest “Zombie Chicks from Neptune” flick—getting it on in the dim empty secluded balcony of the Dark Magellanic Cloud Cineplex Movie House just for kicks.

But later on that night drifting off to sleep—with the kid in my arms. Well, that’s how I remembered him the best I guess. When it was just the two of us—a couple of poor stoned lost black sheep in the Martian night. Baa, baa, baa—makin’ love or doin' nothin' like me. Just lying there all cozy—staring up thru the skylight at pouty faint Phobos gliding by overhead. The ancient old dying stars lookin' down at me. Funny how some things don’t change—forgotten Terran heartache and lingering human fragility. Even if it’s just with an android kid who doesn't know any better. Doesn't even remember a goddamn thing...

The kid got used to it pretty fast—and so did I. I dreamed about him a lot I guess. Most of the time in fact—like almost every night. I dunno why—it was really kinda weird I suppose. Whether we had sex or not—I’d dream about it later on. We’d always be havin' sloppy seconds it seems—later on in my dreams. He never dreamed he said—didn’t even know what dream-time was like. Maybe he didn’t—but I know I did. He was as real then in my dreams—maybe realer than he is now.

I really don’t know if he dreamed at all about anything or anybody—he’d just say he couldn’t remember that's all. Not that I cared or anything. I liked him the way he was. Clueless as a harelip dummy boy from Poughkeepsie. But then there was a lot of things—he couldn’t remember. Tyrell Corp. had been pretty good at erasing whatever there was in that nice buzz-cut teen skull of his. Which was probably pretty good—I wish I were that way too, you know I mean? Like all that Earth-shit that went down the fuckin' tubes.

That was something JJ was pretty good at—not remembering a goddamn thing. PDK poses the question rather succinctly—do androids dream of electric sheep at night? He even wrote a book about it—and they did a movie. Like Decker—I ended up fallin’ in love with one. He couldn't play the piano and he wasn't very sophisticated. But he was good at it, if you know what I mean. Instinctually, android naked ape stuff. Young male animal magnetism. Somebody knew what they were doin' when they programmed that droidboy that's for sure.

Decker had been going thru a lot—goin’ thru the usual second-thoughts and guilt-trips. About being a bounty hunter for a long time—and offing a lot of them. So one day Decker falls in love with one like I did—his Rachel was a beautiful Nexus 6. A stunning sexy wunderkind model—designed by Tyrell himself.

Tyrell says she’s his niece—and that’s what she believes too. Decker does the Voigt-Kampff test on her—she almost passes it. But not quite—maybe she’s too perfect. Maybe all too human—as Nietzsche sayz. I dunno—I don’t know nothin’. All I know is I fell for the kid—whether he was droid or not.

I knew JJ was a Tyrell Corp. product—like I said the giveaway was the logo under his foreskin. How do they do it so expertly—using all that advanced cloning technology and stem-cell super-science? To end up with a marvel young droidboy like that? It made me wonder sometimes, but not too much. I didn't wanna think about it, I didn't wanna lose him.

But it was a real Artform I thought over & over again. Taking a young guy’s neat smooth uncut foreskin—sliding it back that way. So nice and smooth and streamlined—and there it was staring at you. Like a pair of slit-eyed snaky python eyes? So primitive-looking and seductive—enough to hypnotize even an innocent little canary birdie like me?

So, well, like there it was—that louche logo of corporate power and interplanetary rude patrimony. A mauve male planetary tattoo logo—a sphered world winged and ringed and ready to fuckin’ go. With the TT trademark of Tyrell and TerraForm Corporations. Next to a Nexus nine Roman numeral. Kinda like tellin' you, well, honey: Kiss the Imperial Fucking Ring.

Tyrell had to be a fag—nobody else could get away with such an outrageous thing. Designing and bio-engineering—such a sullen Michelangelo male beauty like JJ. And putting his MS stamp of muy macho young meathood—right there under the kid’s pouty prepuce.

Both prick’s prepuces actually—since JJ was a double-shooter. But only the cocky cognoscenti knew that, of course, my dear—that and only a few decadent outlander connoisseurs of cock like me. One has to meditate and contemplate what it all means—and then lip-synch with it as only you, my dear, I'm sure, knows how to do. Both lean & mean barrels—of the kid’s nice smooth Slan sawed-off shotgun tools.

Personally I didn’t think androids ever dreamed any kind of electric dreams—nor were they wide-awake during the day like us humans were. JJ was neither human or android. He was something else altogether in-between—embedded nice and sleek in my troublesome, skanky lucid dreams every night. Taking the place of Holy Mary’s blind hot date—that seminal Meatboy Angel Divine who got her fuckin’ pregnant all the way.
Jaysus christ on crutches, that's the last thing I needed to go thru dontchaknow, honey. I was in no mood for a fuckin' Virgin Birth or anything like that. I hated the mere thought of livin' in a goddamn dirty manger or a shitty stable full of animals. Livin' with an android boytoy animal was bad enough. And you can take all those fuckin' so-called crummy old Wise Men, to go fuck a duck as far as I was concerned.

There was probably enough JJ jizz in me—to turn me into a fuckin’ droid too. I can say that with or without a smirk. Was it all those teaspoons, tablespoons & runny pints—that did me in. The seminal trick that got me where I was at? Or was it, well, something else about JJ that gave me such a mind-fuck just bein' around him? Something ordinary and all-too-human. Was he learning love from me? Was that the name of the game?

Whatever it was, Tyrell had done a pretty good job of—getting the right nuance and muy macho tartness in there just right. Tangy and zippy as zesty lime or lemon fizz—yet smooth and creamy chocolate like a nice thick slow Hot Fudge Sunday.

Tyrell got the kid’s haughty erect nipples just right too—those tender nubile lovely male-droid tits. Pierced by Titanium tit-rings ever so delicately—enough to keep them in a constant state of erection and homoerotic excitement all the time.

Enough to drive a typical Hellas City scream-queen crazy guy like me—oozin' & slimin’ up the fuckin' wall like a slug. A slug gone mad with desire after slidin’ too slowly — over the edge of a sharp motherfuckin’ razorblade in the middle of the night...

It was like that—and worse I suppose. It was like that—most of the time. Tyrell knew how to push all the droid homo-buttons just right—when it came to JJ being my cute double-jointed loverboy. Each of his long skanky fingers with knuckles that would pop—they were like nervous double-jointed phallic miniature octopus tentacles with suckers at the tips slick as snot.

They were piggly-wiggly-squiggly delicate beautiful fingers—they drove me to distraction when he’d wrap and wind them tightly thru my hair. When I was down there givin’ him head—way down there in the curly-cue patch world of darkness where the pube-thing lived and bred something new and evil.

I started dreaming about Mars again—and Hellas City a lot. Not so much about Earth anymore—or gone New York City. Things were different now—like I was actually livin’ in a different world now. With a doppelganger young dude—a cute young douchedroid double boy. When I was dreaming about Mars and Hellas City—he was usually in there somewhere. Pretty soon—both worlds sort of merged and segued together. Kinda like klaatu barada nikto—the way it made my world fuckin’ stop dead still. Stuck in a dead elevator with a kid from another world.

I was always wide-awake and doing something in these dreams. Usually moving around in Martian dream-time somewhere—or trying to find something I'd lost there. Hellas was a Big City—it was a Dream inside a Dream. That’s because Hellas City—went way down lots deeper than most people thought. In my dreams—I’d always seem to be awake. And falling down this elevator. I held onto Klaatu real tight. Down we went into the Krell depths...

Hellas City had this subterranean subtext—it was built on a much older ancient Martian City. Like the Spanish did with the Aztecs—and the Romans with the Celts. They built on top of something else. People forgot about it. But whatever it was, it was still down there. Double your polis, baby—double your dreams.

This subterranean city down there beneath present day Hellas City—it was the ruins of a vast forgotten pre-humanoid Circular City. A Dream City that’s both here and not here—both above ground and below ground as well. The two Cities exist together in Time & Space—the younger one unconsciously and unknowingly lip-synching what the Older city sayz even now.

Dr. Eldon Tyrell was probably telepathic—why not? Most of the Late Capitalist execs were Lip Synch wonks anyway—that’s how multiple-worlds coexist and how they redefine themselves. There’s this constant dialogic imagination going on—between the One and the Other. It’s going on all the time—it’s going on Now. JJ was plugged into it. But I wasn't. Yet...

And so it comes and goes—it comes and goes. Each Dynasty with their own TPTP intelligentsia—each Zit on the Zeitgeist with its own Agenda. Different dynasties—different Exo-time-slots. Like the doors to a Las Vegas casino—always dialing open & closed. Speaking in tongues—polyvocal Ouija Screens hard at work. It can get kinda scary sometimes. Especially when Adebaran or maybe Betelgeuse—gets on the fuckin’ Line. From way back when—on the other side/side. Long-distance Oort Cloud calls—they’re dime a dozen, honey.

I'll say it here & now rather than back then or later—because I really don’t know. I don’t know nothin’—I never did & never will. Oh, I suppose the Exo-linguists—will come up with a pretty simple exo-syntactical explanation. But what if telepathy—is polyvocal. And translation simply—a matter of exo-lucidity?

When you’re lucidly dreaming—one doesn’t need a translator. It’s already built-in dontchaknow—into the android oneric circuitry. So that when you’re dreaming—you’re not in the third person narrative past tense mode anymore. You’re in a different kind of present tense—when total recall is happening. When it’s all at once & everything’s go—that’s when things get co-contemporaneous and the Riverun Effect runs fast or slow thru other worlds.

Riverrun past Luna and Terra—riverrun from swerve of shore to bend of bay. Teleporting us by a convenient stealthy commodius vicus of recirculation from Hellas City and back to Mars again. Vicus Hocus Pocus—Vico and the End of one World. A way back home again—I suppose. Back home & loved—a long time ago… But then what do I know—I who suffer from a rare form of "android insomnia."

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