Category: fiction

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com or martinantonsmith@gmail.com

I am about to leave what is known in the business as the ‘pre-live environment’. To imperfectly describe it – it is a non-physical world. A world where theory is a very real thing – in fact it’s is all there is. It is a cold logical world. It’s been a blast, a great time to think and gain knowledge – but my tenure is now over. Too much of any one way of being is damaging.

They – the designers – don’t like to keep any being here too long without a physical world beam-down. All beings that know they exist don’t like being dis-embodied without end – we miss the feelings a physical body can give us – elation, sadness, tiredness, the making of things like bad paintings, feelings of love – even the ‘bad’ feelings of hatred, pride and envy are better than no true feelings at all. And so it is with myself – Anton Antonov.

I walk up with my hologram body to the ‘life designer’ – who also appears as a hologram sitting at a desk. The non – physical world require a lot of holograms in day to day life. The ‘life designer’ or just ‘the designer’ is using a boring office worker types hologram. He looks like an office executive from the mid-late twentieth century. He wears a suit, is rake thin with what is known as an ‘international look’ – that is you can’t pin down what nationality he looks like. His holographic desk has no computer, and is made of a dark mahogany rendering. He has a two piles of paper – one pile is has records of the beings already sent into the physical world today, the other ‘to be sent’. The ‘already sent’ pile goes all the way upwards without end.

I am about to be put back into the particular world called ‘The Wringer’ again – it’s been a while since I’d been back there. Last time I was an Australian bartender who became an minor success as a television actor in these amateurish modified stage productions they called ‘soap operas’. It was a interesting time in a physical sense, but of no higher consequence whatsoever. This is the usual situation for anyone who has their turn at a beam-down. The place for higher order realities and thought is in the non-physical holographic world – not in physical beam downs.

This time I wonder what kind of inconsequential life I will get? Will I work as a gruff but highly attuned bullshit sensing ditch-digger? A materialistic CEO with no sense of morals? A Lawyer that bucks the trend and ‘fights for the little guy’ on a pro bono basis? A Gas pumper with a sense of humour that’s better than any professional comic? A Farmer who hates a sheep but loves a cow? Of course as I have said – it doesn’t matter what I do – ultimately it is all silly stuff anyway with av few rare pockets of brilliance.

Of course while living down there in these roles they – that is the folks that you mix with – love to pretend a mean CEO is ‘better’ than a funny gas station petrol pumper – this is why we don’t take any of it seriously on an intellectual way. To us in the holographic non physical domain, they are all essentially babies in a sandpit. That is no criticism – just a raw fact. It’s a matter of levels of awareness.

I walk confidently up to what I can only describe as the intelligent green mist – it is the designer. The closer I get the more it morphs into the clearly defined ‘office guy at a desk’ holographic rendering. Now I am standing there looking down at him. He is furiously writing on a piece of paper with the big bold times roman heading

“Anton Antonov – beam-down assignment to The Wringer case file PY- 4764-CH-34”.

I say the standard catch all greeting we have in the non-phys world – “Good-Gla-tat-a-tat” the less formal version of “Gla-tat-a-tat” is more common. The intelligent being that will be sending me on my beam-down has the perfect earnest and effective type exterior. This is due to the perfect hologrphic rendering which has created the look like a old-world seriously minded bureaucrat.

He is the ‘case manager’ that I am assigned to for this particular bounce. There are of course other case managers. So here I am waiting for his attention as he continues to furiously write. Finally he has finished his paragraph. Without replying to my greeting he simply looks up from his page unsmilingly as says “so what kind of life do you want?”. He says this slowly, dryly and with an accent you cannot in anyway discern. It is the definition of a ‘generalized Earth-based accent’.

Of course I know what you’re thinking – ‘why would the case manager appear as an unfriendly earth like bureaucrat?’ Isn’t that a little ‘low-brow’?. I mean aren’t you talking of a realm of higher consciousness? The answer is they like to appear as they say in the acting game, ‘in character’. A character that would fit it well to where you are going to to – in this case I was going to the mid nineteen eighties earth – a place where there was a lot of offices but not many computers. By the late nineteen nineties Computers would soon populate the Earth like a virus. This is why on my beam-down I requested the nineteen eighties. It was commonly known as ‘the last good decade’ on Earth.

Anyway back to the present day holo-world. I had to now answer the holo-bureaucrat’s question. His question of ”what kind of life do you want:?’. So I will answer. As is a habit I clear my throat – which is only theoretical throat – a hologram – as I have not yet left this thought-based reality. But I will soon, just as soon as these formalities are over. I simply answer his question like anyone else would in my situation – we all know whatever we say it won’t matter in a material sense. The beam-down will be the same – a particular variant of the same kind of general sillyness that is always experienced down there. But we beings are ok with that – we are there to feel and to experience all the interesting things you can do in a physical world – drink beer, go swimming, chase butterflies, play tennis, argue with people, play pool, sleep in a bed etc. I begin to answer the designer confidently and professionally.

“I’d like a drudge of a life please – and make it a nine to five affair with lots of waiting in traffic listening to music on the stereo – oh make it the mid nineteen eighties please. That would be great – they were a more simpler time than what came after – the zombified twenty-first century where computers were everywhere, in every room, every house, every office and then in every hand all anyone did was to ignore their physcal surroundings and their fellow man and stare at a screen like walking-dead-zombies – no thanks to that!”

The desk man, the designer, my beam-down case manager, a construction – call him what you will – said in a little more of a breezily way this time than before:

“Sure Antonov – it’s funny everyone says that. No one wants to go to the first half of the twenty-first century. I don’t blame ’em. It was silly era even by their child-like standards. They put to much faith in those things. They forgot who they truly were. So yes – you can go to the nineteen eighties. And I’m sorry but I have to ask this questio: Do you want children, a car, an office job, a wife & a mortgage?”.

“I said I wanted The Drudge didn’t I?” I said.

“Ok Ok calm down calm down” said the designer. “I have to ask these questions, you know – it’s a time honored tradition – I have to appear like they are down there – a little clueless”. He said so matter of factly, coldly but he was not truly annoyed in any way. Just like a twentieth century bureaucrat would.

“That’s ok I said, I understand – I’m just practicing my bad temper for the coming ‘Wringer World’ – they all have bad tempers down there – that’s what you get having a half lizard brain still strapped in your skull though’ ” I smiled, although I was of course putting on the humor act. Humour was not a true thing up here. Humor was one of the big reasons why we like to go down there. They have it, we don’t. We can only glibly pretend for ceremony, such as now. the designer replied.

“No that’s fine, I get it – yes you are right they are bad tempered – gloriously so. They are indeed saddled by their past with their early lizard brain structures forming the base of their psychological reality. Particularly so on the era you are beaming down to. Now I’m reading you’re requests – do you really want to be a closet functional alcoholic?”. The designer squinted his eyes a little at that request. It was not a totally uncommon request, but it was still pretty rare. Most going on their beam-downs preferred to be – to use the lingo of the Twentieth Century – ‘clear headed or social drinkers’. I wanted to be at least a little different on that matter.

“Well yes – let me explain – I need something to to take the edge off The Drudge – so yes sign me up to being a ‘functional alcoholic’ please”. I was really just being pragmatic. Most people on a beam down tried pretend they didn’t want to at times drink to excess for stress relief or for fun. Leadership in the holographic realm were still a little too prudish on this matter.

“Ok no problem – it really doesn’t matter anyway, and better that than a cocaine addiction – those make for messy messy beam-downs. In fact there was one last week that went totally haywire down there and we had to abort. So what kind of alcoholic do you want to be? Choose your poison base – is it beer, wine or spirits?”

“Well let’s go for beer – that way my skin will stay young & I also won’t risk dying too early and so ruining the beam-down – I wouldn’t want to create another messy abort like the cocaine guy last week”.

“Yes good idea – we don’t like to have to redo the whole beam down, it’s such a waste of time and energy. After all it’s not fair to quit the ‘Game of Drudge’ down in The Wringer World early is it? Not fair and certainly not standard beam-down protocol”. The designer fondled his thin black tie as he spoke.

“Yeah exactly – I don’t want to be a shirker at the Game of Drudge, and I wouldn’t want ruin any of the paperwork up here – you designers work, so hard so to speak”. I used the term ‘so to speak’ because work didn’t really exist here at all. Things were to streamlined and non-physical for that. The word ‘work’ was one of the many terms that were heavily Earth-defined.

“Oh great!” The designer seemingly cheerily said. “You’re using the right terminology already – well done! Calling holo-work paperwork! That’s the spirit! Ok Antonov we are doing well – and do you want they call down there ‘a sense of humor’? Or do you want none at all – some like to have one and others don’t. It’s a value judgement kind of thing. Some want the lack of humor but then don’t like how their face looks because of it – hollow cheeks, wrinkled foreheads, a downward smile, no vibrancy in their eyes – things of that sort etc etc”

“Make me as dull as possible when sober, but a real hoot when I drink”.

“Ok – But why is that exactly – why this kind of hybrid approach Antonov?”

“Well that way I maximize The Drudge but minimize the pain – and my face won’t look to dreary, my eyes will be bright when I look in the mirror or when others see me in the flesh”.

“Oh yes – that’s wise. I understand completely – a hybrid situation it is then. I’ll program you with a full sense of humor, but I’ll put a block on this during office hours, that is nine to five Monday to Friday. This will give you the dual functioning, hybrid type sense of humor you want. It’s a smart move – you’ll look a little haggard but you will have a happy tinge in your appearance. So that’s almost it….oh there’s just one more thing”

“What’s that?” I said trying to hide my creeping boredom. You can indeed get bored up here, but not as terribly so as down there. With so many possibilities up here, boredom can be ‘snapped out of’ so much more easily. Last week – although of course we do not really experience ‘weeks’ – I did this by simply being a ‘fly on the wall’ at the Battle of Waterloo hologram record. All I needed to do was think of it. So you can see that ‘boredom’ is not the affliction up here as it is down there. The designer continued with details of my coming beam down.

“In the Wringer World, while on The Drudge program you’re going to be a Teacher – now would you like to work in the Private Schools or the Public Schools?”. I didn’t like the sound of what the designer had just said. I could not let this fly by unchallenged.

“Wait a minute – I never said I was happy about being a Teacher? – are you sure that’s right. Can you double check the paperwork?”. I added a little earth-like emotion to my words. I say the designer look down at his holo-page again, flipping the page back and forth.

“Oh wait I was looking at the wrong page – that’s the file about ‘jobs in purgatory-world’ – sorry, forget that – I’m a little tired today”. Strange as it may seem – there is a form of tiredness up here. It happens when one type of task is concentrated on beyond it’s perfect proportion. Up here the concept of balance is very strictly adhered to. This is mainly to stop the silliness of earth like ideologies forming in a beings awareness.

“That’s ok” I said these words happily relieved that I would not be a Teacher – I did that on a bounce down once – never again. during that bounce I found that being around so many children that my mind slowly morphed into that – at best – of an overgrown teenager. Once in an infinite existence was more than enough.

“Ok so I’ve decided the best job for you in the Wringer World – are you ready for it”?

“I’m ready – hit me up, tell me what I’ll be drudging away at!” I said with forced cheer. By now I was becoming quite bored. The designer told me what I’d be. It wasn’t much better than being a teacher, but I told myself it didn’t really matter anyway, given than all beam-downs are at base ridiculous and silly affairs.

“Ok – I’ve made you not a Teacher, but a Principal at small town high school – I know it’s not perfect but as you were a teacher in a prior beam-down, the system likes to make you a Principal at some point. We like themes to occur you see. But don’t worry I’ve made the position more of a ‘backroom manager’ role – you will only have to talk to the teachers once a week on a Monday and only for ten minutes. The rest of the time just read the newspaper or a novel in your office. I know it’s not perfect but it’s the best I can do at short notice.” Of course these were made up reasons, but it didn’t matter, I could handle being a lazy, barely ever seen high school Principal. I had to do something between the weekend drinks and humorous wasted times at the bars as a functional alcoholic anyway. I replied to the designer again feigning exuberance.

“Great! I can handle that. This beam-down will be just what I need – a break from non-physical! A break from logic!. A Break from reasoned rational communication!. Beam me down designer-man, I’m ready for it all! Twentieth Century temporary insanity here I come!”.

It always pays to lay it on a little think in these situations – that way they know the timing of the beam down is right. They – the designers and I guess whoever is in charge of them – like to see you are already taking on the personality traits of ‘one of them’ down there. The trait of ‘false enthusiasm’ is one of their favorites and is used so often in the day to day interactions with each other down there. The designer now piped up with his final pre-beam down, final ‘pre-live’ words and instruction.

“Ok Antonov – we are basically ready to beam-down. But before I do, just promise me one thing”

“Sure, anything what is it designer?” I said chirpily, again being sure to engage the spirit of The Drudge, more of the Wringer World’s false enthusiasm.

“Sorry I have to be so crass – but the paperwork says I must mention it – just make sure all ‘drunken shenanigans’ are done outa the town where the school is. That’s a prime requirement of this role, the beam-down can summarily abort your beam-down if this rule is violated”. The designer has his deathly serious look on as he leaned back in his chair and twiddled his pen around his fingers – of course all in perfect hologram rendering.

“Oh sure – of course that makes sense, I remember that actually from the beam-down where I was a Teacher. They all did their wild drunken shenanigans with go d knows who out of town – religeously so”.

“Good, good, I knew you’d understand. Now we are done other than the holo-signature. Put your hand to the paper will you – you know the drill.” As soon as I had put my hand on the file my holographic personal signature was recorded we were underway. There was a flash of light.

I immediately found myself with a feeling of being drunk and in the middle of a mostly empty, musty smelling small town bar. It was a typical mid to low brow bar for the time – wooden paneling but softwood not hardwood. Along the bars front perimeter their were large windows with booths nestled. In the middle of the bar were a series of cheap tables in generic grid formation. The carpet had seen far too many beers spilt and was fraying. The bar itself where the drinks were served whoever was a beautiful, polished long one with at least twenty bar stools lined up against it.

Behind the bar was the mirrored shelves holding a huge array of spirits. There was a smattering of people there, mostly around age forty odd. No one looked particularly healthy or happy or wealthy. There was one older fella sitting at the bar – he was perhaps seventy years old. He was half reading the front page of a quant thing they had for telling official lies to the public – a “newspaper”. I noticed The headline. It said something about a leader called Reagan, “Reagan to congress: I don’t recall”. I had some vague knowledge of this leader, but I didn’t care about him or the politics of the day – I looked at the paper out of interest. To make sure I was actually in the late nineteen eighties.

I was standing in the ‘no mans land’ area of the bar. That is – I was in the area between the grided arrays of the cheap looking table and chairs seating and the the bar stools. There I was. I was here. I let out a little sigh. It always took a minute or two to sink in. I could see myself in the mirror shelves that held the alcohol bottle behind the bar. I looked around forty five years old. I had big black rimmed glasses. I was only slightly balding with mousey blonde hair. Perhaps I was handsome, perhaps I was plain – we do not posses the ability to tell this kind of thing. Although going by ‘symmetry rules of a face’ I assumed I was at least average looking. I believe the designers know to make sure we are not ‘too ugly’ – because down here this is a problem. It’s one of those primitive things they have not yet shaken off. So again I was glad the designer had made sure I was not saddled with earth-ugliness.

Continuing to look at my reflection I saw that I wore what looked like a ‘glorified clerks’ uniform – semi formal grey pants and long sleeved flat white shirt, with a garish blue tie. I had and an anorak slate grey jacket. My best point I could see were my brown eyes and nicely cropped short stubbly beard.

I was also standing with a clearly drunk and very large breasted woman. We must have already been talking before I beamed into this body. She wore an eye patch but was looking at me longingly with her ‘good eye’. She was permed brunette with bad skin and was wearing a leopard print top with track suit bottoms. She was a elderly looking and life-battered looking lady who looked ten years older than her thirty nine years. But she did have a permanent semi smile which showed she had survived a tough life admirably in her own way – even if that wasn’t strictly via healthy means. She was smoking a cigarette – which everyone did in the bars back in that time – the room was indeed smoke filled. She was just finishing a sentence, something about her hairdresser making her hair curls well. I could sense that perhaps we’d only been talking a couple of minutes. I decided I would begin talk – it would be interesting to hear myself. I took a punt that I hadn’t properly talked yet. It would be a good test of the social skills – or lack thereof that your particular designer pre-programs you with.

“Hey pretty lady with the nice curls nice ta meet ya”. I stuck out my hand to shake her hand. I had got lucky – my voice was a booming resonant one. For technical reasons voice cadences are assigned at random. Sometimes you get a squeaky one, which is bad if you happen to be a man, but ok if you are a woman or a child. I was happy with the voice as this offset the nerdy glorified clerk type image I had just seen in my refection in the bar shelf mirrors. I looked at her weathered face and waited to see what she’d think of what I had said.

xxx(Edit point 28/04/2026)xxxx

“Oh sorry my good eye is also my lazy eye. I’m not looking at you – I’m actually interested in your friend beside you – what’s his name?”. This woman was curt, to the point. But that’s ok. The people here don’t tend to think before they speak. That’s not always a bad thing. You’ll immediately know what you’re dealing with that way.

I looked over & low and behold the designer that I was assigned to was standing right there – I guess he was there to see the beam-down process had worked, and I was in once piece so to speak, that I was wearing clothes, had five fingers on each hand instead of three or six, that my voice worked and so on an so forth. I had heard a number of funny or tragic stories about ‘glitches’ where suddenly they – for example – appear suddenly naked in front of a suddenly aghast audience, with the only noise being emitted from their mouths sounding like a chipmunk. Though these glitches are ridiculously rare – the mathematics unsure chaos appears.

The math’s of it says that in infinite amount of beam-downs over an infinite number of times, there will be – in fact there must be – an infinite number of glitches as well. Unlike the bounded Earth unfortunately we holographic beings have to with the realities of infinities – although it has its perks. After all I’m here drinking in this dive bar in the nineteen eighters pre internet and computer era aren’t I?.

As I stood here in the bar, I was a little startled. I did nopt expect Pinky to be able to see my particular beam-down designer. Youi see usually the designer assigned to a beam-down was not right there by your side for whoever you are engaged with at the time of beam down to see. If they are there it is usually done discreetly. They usually sit at table a few seats away with their heads down with a coffeel; on a park bench; walking behind you dressed like everyone else. Usually they act in a more voyeuristic, clandestine fashion. I needed to know why. With the designer there, I could just ask him.

“Hey how come they can see you?” I asked, making sure to take him a few feet away from Pinky first. I also lowered my voice to a whisper. He looked different from the desk jockey look he had before in the holographic based world full of infinities. Right now He was looking a lot cooler, wearing jeans and a monogrammed sweater. It was cool for the late eigthties. He was a little taller – perhaps six two. In his face he was also improved. He had brighter eyes than he was before and a squarer jawline at the desk up there. I was eagerly awaiting his reply. He as a being in this world was now more free to talk loosely and chose the local lingo for the time.

“Oh Antonov unfortunately this is what is called a ‘partial glitch’. It’s not really a glitch, but we call it one for paperwork reasons. You see for some reason here in the Wringer World the most craziest bastards can always see me – it helps if they’re a little more loaded or drugged up, and this eye patched broad here is both. Forgive the macho way of talking talking Antonov, but I have to blend in to the late eighties. In these particular kind of ‘partial glitch’, I don’t really need to worry about being seen. This is because no one down here trusts either drunk and highly medicated and manic witness anyway. For example if for example I had suffered a real glitch, & Pinky called me out on…let’s say a blinking in and out head, or perhaps my eyes seem like cats eyes for a split second. I could just deny it and no one would care. Especially so since we are in the nineteen eighties with the computer era not yet formed to the point where everyone records everything and posts it for the whole earth-world to see. In short Antonov, sometimes we designers can afford to be – as they say in this ear – ‘sloppy’. This is definitely the case with this timeline – what’s Pinky going to do? She’ll just put it down to mixing alcohol with her medication again.”. I accepted my designers logical explanation. It made sense, they are all a bit lazy when they can get away with it.

“Oh ok, that’s pretty cool I didn’t know that. I guess it doesn’t matter – you’re right – it’s not like Pinky or anyone in this timeline will ever figure out what’s happening”.

“Exaaaaactly” the designer said stretching out the word exactly like someone would when enjoying themselves and feeling no pressure. He continued “Ok Antonov, well it looks like all’s good. Now tell me – are you feeling ok? As you know, usually a beam-down can make you feel groggy for an hour or two, sometimes more”. I recalled my prior experiences and recalled that I had been pretty good in terms of this kind of ‘travel sickness’ in the past beams downs to wherever the universe I was going to at the time.

“Yeah I remember. I’m ok thanks – well I’m drunk of course so that may be masking some beam-grogginess, but I feel ok enough – I’m generally a good traveller”. Truth was that I was feeling a little greener than usual, but I didn’t want to make a point of it – I knew it would wear off anyway and I knew the alcohol would numb it nicely. ‘It was not my first rodeo’ as they said a lot in this era. That was one of my favourite Earth sayings. It was right up there with ‘I didn’t come down in the last shower ya’ know?’ It was always interesting to see how the language changed between the eras down here. Of course on a prior beam-down to the Globe Theatre in London in the sixteenth century to watch a Shakespeare play was hard to eclipse from a language-style point of view. This is incidently one of the problems with infinite beams downs – the more you experience the harder novelty can become. Luckily The Drudge program down here on Earth is one of the kookiest places full of strange things and behaviour you can ever hope to see. This is why it is prime destination for us. This place is an ultra high-emotion quadrant of the universe. With all well, the designer now said a perfunctory farewell.

xxxxx (Edit point 01/05/2026 )xxxxxx

“Ok Antonov – I’ll leave you to your partying – by the way it’s now Friday nine pm, you’ve already had three beers and this place where you are now is a bar called Flopsies, which is in the small town of Gunktown. You’re a mediocre to good high school Principal at a small town called Schlumpton – some seventy miles East of here. The inside of your wallet has all the details you need to get home, get food, and go to work on Monday and all of the other trivial tasks you may have. See you up there when we meet again – and of course we both no we will. After all ‘infinity breeds infinity’ does in not?

“Gotcha and it surely does” I said. ‘Infinity breeds infinity’ was a common saying up there in the non physical holographic realm. We use it whenever someone casually forgets about the nature eternity. I looked at the designer and then a green mist like effect phased him slowly out of view completely. The designer dissapeared on cue, unlike me he wasn’t there to drink. He was to use the lingo down here – ‘just working a job’. Pinky now screeched loudly, but it wasn’t an unpleasant screech.

“Hey where’d your friend go?” Said Pinky, the large breasted eye patch wearing lady with the lazy eye. This time I knew she was talking to me. I wasn’t worried about her hearing what we were talking about – our conversation would have been cloaked so she would have only heard small talk – about the local baseball team, the weather, how busy and tired we both were – that kind of thing. Anyway I had to answer her – I wasn’t here to intentionally play games with the people down here. I’d try to be as honest as possible under the extraordinary circumstances of how I got here in the first place. Of course that said, it’s a given that I wouldn’t violate the prime rule for us when we are down here – ‘whatever you do don’t tell anyone’. Time to answer Pinky as truthfully as would allow.

“Uh, first tell me what you saw – what did the man you think you saw look like Pinky – just humor me ok?”. I wanted to double check the voice cloaking had worked, and that his human rendering was also fine. There was no need to do this, but I always liked to do it when down here. While down here with with a human body you can’t help but worry about things you have need to worry about. Again this is why we are here – to experience the perfected embodied imperfections that Earth – particularly in this era -offers us – the formerly holographic. Pinky now replied.

“Ok….he was six foot three in a great suit, nice hair, twinkling blue eyes, and a broad ear to ear smile, and he had big head….I heard him mention to you that the Schlumton Rockets great victory in the penant last year…. then I looked down at my drink for a second, looked up again – and now he’s just vanished!”

She said the words animatedly and in true ‘bon-vivant’ expressive style – talking with her hands. Her description was interesting – the designer can play with their minds to appear – in this case – like a more attractive human being than his holograhic rendering – I didn’t know that. I put these thoughts of ‘red tape’ out of my mind and started to live my mission.

“So lady – er, I mean Pinky…just forget about him ok? You got me instead – that’s your bad luck huh?! I’m only just under six foot my nose is a little crooked, and I walk with a partial limp. But I can tell you won’t care about that. I can tell your an ‘ideas gal’! So why don’t you tell me something interesting?”. As I heard myself say those dull words I noticed I was already drunk, and had a half-full glass of beer in my hand. It was a bland thing to say to her – but then again I wasn’t trying to impress Pinky. I was just talking to the first person who happened to be in front of me already, as was programmed.

“Hey silly, I told you this only ten minutes ago! Oh well who cares, I’ll repeat myself. I always have to anyway – especially in dive bars like Flopsies. I’m used to talking to knuckleheads in this dive bar. So I just paint rocks & sell them in the market stalls each weekend – other than that I just drink at this bar.”

When she said “I just paint rocks” I didn’t know if she was underselling herself, but she probably was. After all, ironically most people down here don’t really do anything creative or interesting. It’s like they don’t know how much a privilege it is to be here and to able to hold something physical, rearrange or introduce it’s constituent parts so to make something totally beautifully original. But then again, Pinky at least told me she was actually creating something original. I played along nicely. This being the case the beings here often play themselves down. They don’t know it but up there we love their amazing creations. The best creations from all the beam-downs throughout the universe are copied in holographic form and are displayed in our holo-galleries. I wanted to know more about her art.

“Wow sounds like a blast – what do you paint on the rocks?” I said genuinely intrigued and found that my hand was fondling my chin as I asked the question.

xxxxxx (Edit point 02/05/2026) xxxxxx

“Well I paint flowers, birds, rainbows and happy faces mostly – that’s what sells you see. People don’t want a picture of a high rise, a guy in a suit or a picture of a dollar bill. Of course I can do way better stuff than that – like pen and ink pictures of bridges, but people in this town love the cheap low brow fun stuff.”

“Oh yeah, that makes sense – people want to have something to lift their spirits – so to speak”. It was always sad that down here everyone felt the need to be smaller than they could be. They so often shrink themselves to fit in. In all my other beam downs, almost no other locations with sentient life were quite as backward to be like that. it was sad, but also made for a wild ride. Pinky continued the rock conversation.

“Oh yeah, before I figured this market out I used to paint pictures of fancy cats – but lady who ran the stalls stopped me from painting them”.

“Oh did they? Was she a dog lover then?” I wasn’t surprised at her story of this kind of petty-ness – after all this is why we call this place The Wringer World, this is why we call it ‘playing the game called The Drudge”. If I was one hundred years earlier she would have been selling her pen and ink paintings of bridges at great prices. There had indeed been a cultural regression in this place since that time. But there are different levels to bad eras – ‘it’s all relative’ as one of the smart ones down here famously said – I think his name was ‘Einstein’. It wasn’t the ‘perfect era’ in many ways, but at least here in the ‘nineteen eighties’ the computer-zombie-screen-staring-era hadn’t properly begun yet. And this era was a great ‘drinking in bars era’ – which was why I chose it. Pinky replied with vigour to my question about the – to use the current eighties lingo – ‘bitch’ who owned the market stalls Pinky had an ‘artistic rocks for sale’ table at.

“Yeah that bitch was real bitch, a real bitch. Yes she was a dog lover – good guess! It was a pity the goldrush didn’t last. Those cat pictures on the rocks sold like hot cakes – in fact I sold more than they girl that sells hot cakes – the cat rocks were flyin’ out the window and the cash was comin’ in bloody strong!”.

Again I played along with the small talk stuff that is all part of the game. “Oh well you can’t win them all!”. then I wanted to drink properly. I proposed some harder liquor. “So lets get this party started – let’s slam a couple tequilas at the bar! What’s you’re name lady?”. I was anxious to get more drunk – you can’t do that in the holographic higher plane – there’s only logic entwined serenity and rationally seeded peacefulness. It’s funny but you can actually get sick and tired of that. This is why we come here – to experience the edginess and imperfectness that is everywhere, like a thick fog. It’s the high emotion guys like me love down here on this beam-down. Pinky of course was keen to ramp it up a little.

“Ok sure – I love tequila slammers!. My record is ten in a row! By the way – my names Pinky – what’s yours?” She thrust her hand out for me to shake. Again we were programmed to know the generic social ways and rules down here.

But I couldn’t shake her hand yet. I didn’t know my name. To shake hands you have to at least know your name. For some reason when beamed down I didn’t have it pre-installed in my brain. It must be a glitch I thought. Then I remembered. To know my name I’d had to get my wallet out of my pocket – like the designer had said earlier. To make this seem normal – that is reaching for my wallet and taking it out as she waited – I made this all seem part of our conversation. I was able to ‘think on my feet’ as they say here in this era.

“When people ask my name I always show them my drivers license”. I said confidently, but i noticed a strange feeling that I calculated must have been the one they call ‘anxiety’.

“Ok do your thing then, show me it fella” Said Pinky playing along happily.

Sure enough a wallet was in my right trouser pocket. I took it out & opened my well worn leather wallet. Down here for some reason the sex they call ‘men’ always let their wallets become threadbare before replacing them. It was strange phenomena gallacticaly speaking. It’s like they all couldn’t let go of their pasts or something. The wallet was a proxy for their past-orientated risk adverse minds. But then again another factor was this nineteen eighties was a part of a larger epoch of a culturally declining era. So that ‘male disintegrating wallet tendency’ made perfect sense.

I now had the crusty wallet open. I shuffled through the first compartment – there was a thing called a ‘video rental card’, there was a thing called a ‘library card’ and then there it was. I saw the drivers license with my name & photo on it. I took it out and showed it to her. She leaned forward and squinted her ‘good eye’ at it as best she could. I felt this thing that they called ‘relief’. She hadn’t guessed at all that this was the first time I knew my beam down name. Thank god most of them in this eighties don’t know about telepathy yet – that wouldn’t happen for another fifty years. Pinky had the card in her hand and was reading aloud.

“Graham….Findlay…Southampton – boy that’s a fuckin’ posh name!” Pinky made a mock ‘bow down to the king’ theatrical type gesture. My pre programming of cultural gestures, as loaded by my case-designer, was again was working well. I decided in order to gain rapport, I’d copy Pinky’s rough but vigorous style of language. Again i was happy I’d been programmed to know that the concept of ‘gaining rapport’ was very important down here.

“Yeah I like people to read it – otherwise when I say it I sound like an utter fucking knob – hazaar! – it is I Graham Findlay Southampton! – and I am certainly not a fucking knob whatsoever, undoutably so”. It felt nice to swear like that for no particular reason other than to exaggerate. This kind of thing is why I’m here after all. I also felt another emotion – I think it was ‘pride’ – I was happy I’d made a witty comment using my imagination. Pinky replied, taking my side – ‘playing nice’ as they say in this era. I guess she too was trying to ‘gain rapport’.

“That’s a good idea Southampton – because I can tell you’re not a knob – and I like to think I’m a good judge of character! I’m not as stupid as you probably think! I’m not just a dumb small-town gal with bad eyes ok!” She again slapped her legs and let out her cackle laugh. “For example Southampton, I can tell a old perv at this bar instantly from afar just by looking at him for three seconds”.

“Cheers – I’m sure you can Pinks!” I thought I’d shorten her name, because my programming tells me that also gains rapport with the listener. “I don’t think I’m a knob either – but I promise you do have one”. My programming was telling me to be lewd. I thought I’d talk like my environment wanted me to. Pinky loved that ribald witticism. I could tell that the designer had got that part right – ‘to have a sense of humor, but only while I was drunk’. You could never talk like that up there – and you wouldn’t want to. Up there it’s impossible to feel the feeling of what they would call down here as ‘rebelliousness’. Again this is why I am here. This place has a very high ‘rebelliousness factor’, even on the inter-galactic scale. Pinky kept the conversation ‘flowing’, as they say here.

“Well Sir Southampton, I will take you’re word for it ya fine fucker. But then again, this is a working class bar – so it wouldn’t be the first time some lad whips his tackle out – it happens nightly past midnight. There’s a coupla local idiots that do it all the time – no one cares to stop ’em either”. Pinky said this dryly and then started laughing loudly, slapping her large thighs making a loud ‘crack’ sound. I wasn’t surprised to hear this factoid of course. The gritty-ness of this talk was great. I knew this would be a good beam-down I though to myself.

xxxxx (Edit point 06/05/2026) xxxxx

“Oh really, this is the first time I’ve been here – so I wouldn’t know how often the men pull their tackle out”. I replied in a way that implied I’d seen this kind of animal behavior many times before. You do become a good actor over time in this game. I looked around at the bar. I would describe it in the lingo of the day as a “dive bar” that was trying to “not be a dive bar”. There was a flavor of gaudy-ness – things looked modern-ish but with also had a big side of grime. There was a dank musty smell coming from – well everywhere – but in particular the well-worn, beer-spilt carpet. Ah beautiful grime I thought to myself. Audacious invigorating delectable grime and filth!. You can’t get true physical grime up there. I thought again. I then took in a noticable big sniff, a big nose breath. Pinky noticed this then yelled loudly and maniacally at both my words and quirky actions. Pinky being lovingly half-mad of course loved quirkiness in all its forms. She now wanted to drink more.

“Time to get the sexy fuckin’ slammers Sir Southampton!” She said loudly. “We’re gonna get ripped” Again she laughed loudly but this time a little hoarsely – like one of those by now dying breeds of old construction worker – those types only held fully together by whisky fumes and cigarette smoke. Pinky took my arm much like a schoolgirl would, and pulled me over to the bar to get the tequila slammers she was screaming for.

The bar itself was at least half empty. Perhaps there was thirty others there in total. They were all sitting down, other than one old codger holding up the bar. The old codger kept giving me a little nod as if he’d seen me before. Of course this was surely not the case. He was probably just lonely. I gave a little nod each time to be polite.

As myself and Pinky waited at the bar, finally the bartender came over from the back after changing a keg over to serve us. The bartender was female in her mid to late thirties. She was attractive but not in an alarming stumble-with-your-words type way. She was striking you might say. She was about five foot five, had an angular chiseled face, dimples, straight blonde hair, wide brown eyes, and seemingly had quite a big head for her body. Upon seeing me she had engaged a big ear to ear smile. When she did this she greatly seemed more attractive. I wondered if that was natural or was she just putting it on? She was doing a good job if it was totally fake. Her smile and firm eye contact but no words I guessed were inviting me to order. I slightly stumbled when I spoke. I took that to mean she was having a slightly emotional effect on me. It was a nice feeling mixed with what was probably called anxiety. I enjoyed the feeling.

“We’ll have two tequila slammers please”. I hadn’t had any of those before on previous beam-downs. I had no idea what I was ordering.

“Sure coming up” she said, again engaging that big smile – as I watched her move I was starting to realise she was more attractive that I had thought. She had a unique stone statue type of movement. This was also why I was here – the feelings and uniqueness of these kinds of things down here. I could feel the various chemicals being made inside me as various emotions and feeling happened. It is very interesting how these human bodies are their own natural drug labs. Up there being holographically based there’s is none of that thing happening. Again – this is why I am here. As the bartender turned her back to get the tequila bottle, Pinky whispered something in my ear. Pinky being Pinky is was a very loud whisper.

“She’s a fucking bitch – I can’t stand her, she thinks she’s hot shit. We’ve got history me and her ya know Southampton!”. Pinky’s faced was now a little more screwed up than before. I had seen via prior knowledge of how human faces look very ugly and screwed up when the chemicals relating to negative emotions surge in their bodies. I also knew that when humans get like this it’s best to stay neutral. I already knew that Human beings tend to blindly copy the emotional state of the others around them. It’s a pity really as most intelligent beings in other parts are far beyond this backwardness.

“Oh really – is she really a bitch?” I said without anger. I was very suspicious of Pinky’s crude “she’s a bitch” assessment. I had known from other beam-downs that on Earth female to female competition while around males was quite ruthless. This was especially so when one of the women was less attractive than the other, and the aggression was displayed by ‘reputation destruction’. This was the case with Pinky right now. with this other female bartender. Pinky was only what they call down here at these crude times as a ‘six to six point five’ – the bartender was at least a ‘seven’ to ‘seven point five’, and an ‘eight’ with the ear to ear smile engaged. And – excuse me if I steal another crude eighties term – when ‘fully dolled up’ – the bartender is probably even an ‘eight point five”.

Of course we in the higher plain of the holographic realm would never talk using those barbaric nineteen eighties and twentieth century terms. This blatantly objectification way of thinking – that is rating attractiveness of human women by way of numbers – was simply because I was a human in the Wringer World. And I was here to be human with ‘all their warts’ as they say here. Once again I was happy because I was here for all of the imperfections, the crassness, the various sexisms, the strange mental feelings, the chemicals and the pulsing then receding hormones. I was here to entertain madness as a fellow actor employed in The Wringer World and in the silly game called The Drudge. Pinky now went on with her words aimed at lowering the value and status that the as yet unnamed striking and big-smiled bartender had installed in my eyes.

xxx(xxxxx Edit Point 17/05/2026 xxxxx)xxxx

“I’m telling ya Southamton she is a bitch. She’s like those ones that used to pick on me in grade school. She never says much to me, never asks how my day was, and she just has this queenly air about her. Sure I might be wrong there’s a slim chance I’m projecting but I still reckon she’s a ‘grade A double bitch’ even if I am half projecting all my crap onto her”.

I figured I’d try to calm her – not because I didn’t enjoy the anxiety associated with her wanting me to agree – I do – but because ‘calming the people down’ here on Earth in particular is looked upon fondly by the designers. They rather we calm these backward highly emotional souls than truly inflame them. It’s understandable, after all we are not here to destroy. Of course from our point of view all of this is a fine line – we like to experience their vigor but we don’t like it when they have their regular ‘melt downs’. I’d try my best.

“Well, never mind let’s just have this tequila for now”. I realise I could have done better than that as I sounded far to as they say here ‘fatherly’ vs a friend. The bartender was in earshot. No doubt she heard Pinky’s accusations but was unfazed. She stood firm and straight with the tequila bottle and empty shot glasses in hand. She had a polite professional half smile. She placed them with a firm clunk on the wooden bar in front of us – which to my pre loaded observation programming was clearly a veiled message to Pinky, telling her ‘who was boss’. The Bartender was now pouring the alcohol into the little glasses. Pinky now belatedly replied to me.

“Ok sure thing Southampton – I’ll shut up about her…..for now”. Pinky whispered in a way that for a full human would be way close with spittle going into into my ear. Of course I was not truly human at all so I enjoyed it. By now I had noted that Pinky’s social skills were – as a diplomatic human might say – ‘not fantastic’. Pinky was far too obvious about not liking the bartender all the while pointing at her without even making sure to hide the pointing from the bartender. She started speakign in her spittle type way with a hint of a slur.

“Southampton I love tequila…I love it ta get the night moving…movin’ into the gutters”. I loved het honesty. Her rawness. There is no rawness where I am from. And from what I’d heard there were far to many drunks and in fact even non-drunks who pretended they were classy here in the Wringer World. No one wants to admit they are like babies for life down here. In some ways it is a pity they have a problem with ego. It is what it is. Up there we all know eventually they all moved up a level. But from this arbitrary point in the nineteen eighties that point is still a few hundred years away. It was time to drink harder.

We each grabbed the drink and slammed it down. I simply copied Pinky’s actions with only a slight imperceptable delay so I didn’t look like I had never had this kind of drink before. As soon as we’d finished I turned to the bartender and ordered another. Again I was well programmed to know that functional alcoholics don’t wait around between drinks. They were poured on the spot. We slammed that down too. This time my arm, neck and head movements flowed far better. Then I ordered a beer & she ordered a cheap house wine. A tab was running. I was pre-programmed about how alcoholics like to have ‘tabs running at bars’ that to pay after each drink in iterative fashion. I noticed my brain – well, I should say the The brain of Southampton was telling itself it was time to ‘talk loosely’. I complied.

“Ah Pinky – I feel so much better after that – I’m all loosed up now”. We were now over at the far end of the bar with the nice bartender lady well out of earshot. I’d roll with Pinky’s company. I was loving the feeling of talking with no exact reason rather than just thinking purely in logico-holographic ways as we do up there. The sensation of breathing was very nice too.The moving up and down of the chest area was soothing. Feeling my heart beat was also an amazing experience. We of course have no ‘organs’ up there. I noticed that this piece of organic machinery went dum-da-dum then a pause then another dum-da-dum. I found the rhythm was quite enchanting. I immediately knew from feeling this that the heart was a very special thing to a human being down here. As I listened to my own heartbeat I thought to myself.

This is very cool. The engineering of a human being was something else – so many moving parts all working together in one and in sync. It’s both primitive and complicatedly impressive at the same time.

xxxxx(Edit Point 19/05/2026)xxxxx

Pinky was seemingly telling me she was relaxing more now too. “Yep Southampton me too – relaxed relaxed relaxed relaxed relaxed RELAXED!” Though I did notice that with every extra “relaxed” she uttered sounded more and more like one of those horrible shrieking hell birds called Galah’s that live in Australia.

Pinky was still obsessed with the bar girl who I still didn’t know the name of. She hadn’t elaborated about her particular beef with the bartender. That is as to what the details as to why. Normally a man like Southampton would be running a mile at this point, but the ‘travelling alien’ presence in me of course stopped that. I was here for the emotional madness of Earth’s child-like adult humans. If Pinky was talking softly or shrieking wildly like a ‘Galah’ – I was all ears, as they say down here on Earth in the nineteen eighties. I was after all on holiday in a battleground – why not soak in the sights on offer? Pinky continued, and I was happy to finally learn the bartenders name.

“So I saw you looking at Kirsten….you know that bitch bartender – you like her don’t you? DON’T YOU!. I can tell. Tell me the truth Southampton. I WANT THE TRUTH THE WHOLE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH!” She was sounding a little possessive already having known me all of twenty minutes to half an hour. Again my programming told me that this was an example of a human being with poor social maturity levels. But again I had signed up for it so I was content.

“Well she looks interesting – what can I say? I also like the way she moves. I don’t know anything about her though – maybe she is a bitch, but you would need to tell me why”.

“Well she is a bitch Southampton, and since you are being so lawyer-like, I will convince you by telling you this story ok?” Pinky said standing stout with hands on hips and a using glare-mode with her one good eye. Again I was happy. I was being entertained.

“Sure fire away – sorry for sounding like a fucking lawyer – I can be like that sometimes. It comes with being a school Principal. After all my teachers are basically criminals.” I said with not a tinge of regret in my voice. Pinky began.

“Yeah well I can understand that – all my high school teachers were either sleazes, lazy or teaching stuff that was plain wrong. Well Southampton ok I’ll tell you why Kirsten is mega B-I-T-C-H. It all began about a year ago. I was going out with this cute tall jacked guy name Tom Tillmark, who I had met here at the bar while we were both drunk as skunks. We hooked up on the first night we met. Then we came to this bar all the time together after getting loaded on cheaper drinks at his place. When that bitch saw we were an item, Kirsten was all of a sudden making eyes at my guy Tom all of the fuckin’ time – it made my blood boil Southampton. No girl likes another woman learin’ at her guy all the time. In small towns like this we ladies don’t mind rearranging another ladies face when the need appears Southampton”.

“Sounds bad, but it can’t be too bad – after all you and Kirsten are still in the same bar together, and you’re not locked up, she’s serving you tequila slammers too. And Kirsten’s face doesn’t exactly look re-arranged either”

“Well…..I was banned for six months.”

“Ok, well lets hear the full story then”, I said again knowing it might be boring but again the feeling of ‘boring’ was all new to me anyway.

“Ok so I was with Tom – boy what a hunk! Yeah he was probably out of my league but I got personality Southampton and with guys that goes a long way. Most gals have personalities as interesting as dry bread. I’m a quirky firebrand Southampton! So anyway, Tom worked in construction – that’s why he was so jacked. He had big bulging arms, nice buns, a cute face, was tall, had a great sense of humor – he was a class act with the rizz to boot….other than the one thing that pissed me off”.

“The sneaky bastard kept makin’ eyes at Kirsten the B-I-T-C-H the bartender almost every time we came in to the bar drunk. It’s like he couldn’t help himself. Now I half understand why he was a man-whore – why wouldn’t he be looking like that and being young? If I was a man I’d be a drunk man-whore around the bars myself”. My pre-programming was now telling me that Pinky was mixed up in a very dangerous thing humans in this era suffered from acutely: romantic jealousy. I was feeling that in these cases you are best not to confront the sufferer – especially if they are drunk and or emotional. Pinky was of course covering both cases right now.

“Well that must have annoyed you – I would be annoyed too, anyone would at their guy or girl always making eyes at another”. I noticed that my conversation skills were seemingly quite good – the designer had programmed me well, I was worried I’d not be able to converse freely, I thought to myself. Pinky seemed to respond well to me agreeing with her and continued.

“Yeah exactly – Graham Findlay Southampton you are a fuckin’ perceptive fella, a fuckin’ good one at that!” Pinky now laughed loud like an old construction worker and slammed her thighs with a shriek that was sounding a little less harsh, less Australian-Galah-like. Again I was happy to be playing along and loving life down here in The Wringer World, playing the mad game with the immature humans that the Holograhic ones called The Drudge.

“So tell me more, you’ve given details but not many Pinks – is it ok to call you Pinks? I feel so comfortable with you”.

“Sure Southampton, me too!. Well I’m not always good on details. I’m a big picture gal. And also I feel tired – and I think I suffer from ADHD so I’ll just cut to the chase and tell you the short version of the ‘me, Tom Tillmark and bitch Kirsten affair’, ok Southampton?”

xxxxxx(xxxx Edit 20/05/2026 xxxxxx) xx

“Ok sounds good” I said.

“Ok so me and hunky hunky Tom had been seeing each other for about three months, spending a lot of time at his place drinking and screwing around both figuratively and literally, then always coming here to the bar at nights. We were here about three nights a week, every week like clockwork. Kirsten was serving us a lot of drinks and all the time making a lot of eyes at my guy Tom Tillmark – MY guy Tom Tillmark”. Pinky was pointing to herself, with her finger tapping her chest over and over as she spoke. She continued the story.

“One night I got too sick of it all, I mean Kirsten’s flirting with MY Tom Tillmark. So one night – when I was ‘drunk as a skunk’ of course – I marched up to the bar and I reached over to her. I grabbed Kirsten’s hair and screamed at her DON’T KEEP MAKING EYES AT MY FUCKING MAN YOU BITCH, GET YOUR OWN FUCKIN’ GUY. YOU’VE BEEN MAKING ETES AT HIM FOR WEEKS ON END”. Of course she didn’t like being held with her face flat to the bar by her hair – but she should have had her wits about her more. But then I let my guard down. While I was pulling her hair and pushing her face into the bar she pulled off an amazingly well timed blind punch. It hit me squarely in the chin – totally knocking me out cold. I woke up to the manager splashing my face with water to wake me up, and Kirsten and my guy Tom was nowhere to be seen.

After here more detailed explanations, Pinky looked up at me like a sad child might have had they had their favorite toy taken away from them. Again I’d just play it cool and non-confrontational. There was no need to go wild this early in my beam-down, that is I mean to say there was no point in challenging an an emotional type like Pinky on my first night here.

“Oh wow – that’s kinda wild” I said – do you think Kirsten and Tom gone off together?”. Of course I knew that was a stupid question. Of course they did.

“Dunno, I never saw him again, not here not nowhere. God only knows what happened to him. I also never saw him with Kirsten either. When I came back to the bar two weeks later they served me with a six month ban. I still have the paperwork”. Pinky took a crumpled piece of paper out of her handbag and handed it to me. It was of course on company letterhead. I opened it up and read it.

13 February 1989

Dear Pinky Pinklowski,

Due to engaging with intimidation and violence at this premises with our staff, we hereby serve you with a six month ban. Please do not enter our premises before the six month period ends, or this notice will be doubled to one year.

G.D. Drinkzos (The Manager of Flopsies Bar & Nightclub).

Again I played it nice. “Oh ok well, it is what it is huh? This kind of thing will always happen when mixing the cocktail of dating, bars, and heavy drinking. A lot worse could have happened.”

“Yeah, that six months ban really sucked – I had to go to the crap bar across the road – McSwanko’s. That place is too full of over forty types that are nose deep into their nine-to-five office slave prison sentence. Those types are deluded Southampton. They don’t know that their the biggest slaves of ’em all, and they all live paycheck to paycheck just like us. But this is the problem in these small towns – there’s not enough drinking options. You can only choose varying degrees of nuthin’ good. I guess that’s my lot to be in this tiny ass town selling rocks at the market stall and talking to the likes of you Southampton. Good ol’ Gunktown can’t beat it or it’ll beat you”. Again Pinky did her laugh like an ‘Australian Galah’ and slap her healthy thighs routine.

I continued to be agreeable. But I realized in taking this easy option I was beginning to experience that thing they called ‘boredom’. Her talk of human-to-human conflict had started to make me want to scream at some poor victim myself – perhaps if I did that I could have some of that good biochemical stuff I’d heard about – I think it was called adrenalin. Up there I’d heard that adrenalin juiced even the already juiced bodies down here. Of course I knew about the other main feel-good human chemicals – dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin. I’m pretty sure I had already felt some dopamine already from the beer. Anyway It was again my turn to talk in return.

“Oh well never mind Pinks – at least the ban was only six months, you and Kirsten are now more or less ok – I mean you aren’t attacking each other – & here we are – drinking at Flopsies and admiring the nineteen eighties type of grunge-grime and faded grandeur!”. As I heard myself roll of some fancier words, I really enjoyed it. These words of the time were interesting. The designer had given me plenty of words to work with.

“Yeah true, it could have been a lot worse – but I still hate that bitch Southampton….I will never forgive her for tryin’ tp steal my hunk….and boy do I miss Tom, wherever he is now. He must have shot through town. But – I love this bar grime and what was it you said ‘faded grandeur’? Ahh…you’re a real wordsmith Southampton!” Pinky again did the slap and Galah routine and then kept toalking.

“I can’t leave this bar. I love this place. It’s my territory. I’ve been coming here forever. It’s like I almost have a spiritual connection to this place. Ah I guess I’m just a sad fucker, I’ve fallen in love with a bar – fuck me dead!”. Again Pinky did her patented roaring shrieking laughter and slap thigh routine. I was having a great time, no wonder we all want to come here. I continued with this talk-reply-talk-reply pattern of communication.

“Ha ha nice pun – ‘spiritually connected’- I like your sense of humour!” I said with a smile.

“What pun?” She said not seeing it. I just left it. I sensed explaining jokes to someone who didn’t understand in the first place was a fools errand – to use the parlance of the day of the late-eighties. We had now both finished our alcoholic vessels at the same time a few minutes ago and so had empty drinks. Empty drinks that wanted to be filled.

“I’ll get the next round” Said Pinky chirpily- “that way it’ll stop that bitch behind the bar making eyes at you again – Southampton you are my guy now”. This time she laughed with a short chuckle without a shrieking big thigh slap. Perhaps Pinky was showing some of what they call ‘subtlety’ in her character?

I was now suddenly feeling a brand new feeling. I was starting to feel something that I guessed was probably that thing they labelled ‘regret’. Regret for being beamed into this situation with Pinky. This confused me – I was really happy though a little bored just a second ago. I guess this was what it was like to be like them down here. After all they are still at that primitive flighty stage. For some ridiculous reason I thought that I didn’t want to be here at all. Of course from my experiences I was wise enough knew that was just the natural human emotionality factor mixed with drinking alcohol that affects their reasoning skills.

Even if I had wanted to ‘quit’ I could not. I had no available choice or freedom to ‘abort mission’, to end any particular beam-down. This made sense, as any beam down was inconsequential to your normal higher holographic life. The policy was that although yes it was annoying at the time if your particular beam-down went pear-shaped, it ultimately didn’t really matter if really bad things happened. It’s not really real, in the infinite higher plane holographic sense of existence.

So when you get beamed down here, yes you can’t ever chose to abort and that is good. Also they make it so that for ninety percent of the time you can’t really choose who is around you – it’s all pre-programmed and pre-loaded from your particular assigned case-designer. To be nice and as a bonus for good behavior, a designer will usually allow a seven to ten percent chance in ‘who you meet’ or ‘what you do’ to be able to be played out randomly during the span of the beam-down.

xxxx( Edit point 21/05/2026) xxxx

I guess it makes sense. I guess if you had more ‘free will’ that would be too ridiculous, too boring, too unnecessary and create too much paperwork up there. It’s far more efficient for the bureaucratic loving designers to pre program as much as possible. At least there’s ten percent free will I thought to myself – but I knew that you couldn’t use it to change the main fixed parameters. So that meant I’d definitely stay a Principal in Schlumpton, I’d stay in Gunktown, I’d stay a functional alcoholic etc.

That was ok I trusted the process – after all I had agreed to the main overarching parameters anyway, such as my ‘nine to five-ishness’. I trusted my particular designer, the guy with office clerk rendering and a big wooden desk without a computer – what was his name again? – I think his name was Asignovic. These human brains are such bad memory systems. In short on this beam-down and like all my prior beam-downs, I was still enjoying it all. So it was easy to trust the system. I would not abort even if I could. There’s really no point rebelling against an infinite personal oasis is there?

Then I saw that Pinky had gone to the bathroom instead of the bar – I guessed she ‘had to pee’ as they cute-ly say in this game down here. While I was standing alone looking at my reflection amongst the bottles, the old guy who was sitting alone at the bar came up to me and started talking. He had a scruffy tweed jacket and wore a flatcap. he had a musty smell. His type all looked the same in the era – ‘the old men who hold up the bar’. These types always looked like a guys from a long time ago – in this case he was dressed like it was still the nineteen forties. I guess the mid to late forties were probably his best years as a young man – it would make sense to immortalize them in your personal fashion. This was common. He also wore a trench coat over his tweed jacket. He spoke up in slightly gingerly fashion, with a stooped posture and pointing his finger lazily at me as he introduced.

“Hey, my names Jack – say you don’t mind saying hello to an old fool do ya for a second while yer missus is away in tha can d’ya?” Of course I was happy to talk to him. We beam downers usually have no reason to be snobs – unless of course we chose to be in the first place. I of course was looking for more human experiences beyond just chatting to Pinky. I told him it was all good and used the eighties lingo as best I could to tell him I was happy to talk.

“Hey no worries Jack – yes fire away my friend! My name’s Southampton – I love your attire, it’s like the nineteen forties Hollywood actors clothes I’ve heard about”. Of course I wasn’t going to tell him that he looked like a nineteen forties Hollywood actor who was playing a scruffy old man who spends his life wondering ‘what if’ and drowning his sorrows daily by holding up the bar decade after decade until he ‘croaks’. In fact quite a few beam-downers actually chose this kind of character to inhabit. I could see his face lift as he now introduced himself.

“Southhapton, it’s mighty nice ta meet ya” he shook my hand and gripped it with huge force, making my hand send a big signal of pain to my – or should I say – ‘Southampton’s brain.

“Ahh shit! Jack that’s a mega firm grip you’ve got!”

“Well – I ain’t no poof Southampton! I’m here for strong experiences! I’m an old codger, but I still love to talk to strangers in dive bars like this – most people think that’s weird. . .but I reckon it’s just how I’m programmed ya could say – understand Southampton?” My mind was telling me that Jack was more than just a non descript drunk holding up the bar. In fact weirdly I felt that as he talked I was the one thinking his words up. I had the following thought. But he couldn’t be one of us. The chances of him being a fellow beam-downer – given we are infinite and go to an infinite number of locations and times – were – and forgive the pun – astronomically small. I decided not to make an issue of it – I decided to ‘flat back’ it as what they say in this epoch when they subtly play someone’s words down.

“That’s funny you say that – that’s exactly the kind of view I have Jack. I like the cut of you jib – hey why don’t you….” Before I could finish the sentence he was gone from my presence – and he was sitting back on the bar stool. But he didn’t just walk over there – he just appeared back where he was as if he had never came over at all. he looked over, I waved at him but he said nothing and went back to his drink, again as if he had not ever walked over and met me at all. It was strange but I let it be. Perhaps I’d get an explantion later. In theory it could be a ‘glitch’ – if it was then this would mean he was definitely one of us, a fellow beam-downer. I could see that Pinky was coming out of the toilet.

xxxxx(xx Edit Pouint 27/05/2026 xxx)xxx

I watched her walk over to the bar where bartender Kirsten was busying herself dusting liquor bottles that had no dust on them. She was in the middle of the bar having only just served the strange old man Jack another beer. I now focused on Pinky’s butt. I guess that’s just the programming, I thought to myself. It was nicely shaped, if a little bit too big, but still nice none the less. I heard Pinky talk to the very striking looking bartender, Kirsten.

“I’ll have two more of the same Kirsten” she glared at Kristen and said the words with clenched teeth and a cold tone of voice. The grudge was real. Kirsten being a long term bartender had seen it all before. After all dive-bar bartenders are well experienced in the dregs of society as well as the dregs of a sputtering almost empty keg. Pinkies cold glare caused no emotions to surface whatsoever. She knew she could handle hot-headed women like Pinky with ease. Kirsten flat-batted a cutting reply to the glare, which was only half a glare anyway with Pinky’s other eye behind what was essentially a dead ringer for a pirate’s eye-patch.

“Sure that’s cool Pinky. But then Alcohol does make your personality a lot better. But then again it’s pretty easy to go upwards from zero ain’t it?” said Kirsten in dead-pan fashion but with a tinge of a smart-alec smile tagged on to the end. This sparked Pinky. Yes Pinky had what the men in these kinds of bars casually called ‘big tits’ but that was beside the point. The point is was more than happy to engage with in battle with another female in true ‘fight fire with fire’ and ‘tit for tat’ fashion.

“Haha Kirsten” at this time Pinky put on her laugh and slap routine instead of the genuine routine she had done while talking with me. Pinky continued. “Just mind your biz bitch and don’t think about making eyes at this new guy I got myself here tonight”. Pinky pointed over to me. She continued with the mini tirade. “ok bitch – look we both know I’m a sad lonely chick who and I don’t want any of that crap that went down like last time with you and your eymy gorgeous Tom”

“What eyes you crazy nut?” Said Kirsten, willfully lying. She had made more than eyes at ‘Pinky’s guy Tom’ long ago at that fateful night that led to Pinky’s six month ban.

“Just don’t do it bitch ok – now poor the drinks okay?”. Pinky was getting more offensive which Kirsten of course noticed.

“You’re pretty pushy given the circumstances Pinky. Ok – I’ll pour. I’ll ignore your schoolgirl taunts. But just remember you’re lucky you’re allowed in here at all – remember that ok? Remember that I stopped them from life banning you” Kirsten said the words confidently, looking at Pinky squarely in the eyes. Pinky didn’t reply. She was rude – yes, emotionally driven – yes. But for the most part she was not stupid. She seemed interesting to me – remember there is no extraverted emotionally driven types in the holo-world that I am used to. To me this jungle-like behavior is truly amazing to see. We holo-men are deeply jealous of the ability to feel emotions at all let alone the turbulent ones seen down here on Earth. The little verbal war I had just witnessed subsided like there had never been harsh words spoken. Sometimes these humans seem to see themselves in the mirror and suddenly soften up before your very eyes. Kirsten handed the drinks over the bar. Pinky ambled back with the drinks at sat down returning to her spot on the bar stool right next to me. Pinky sat in silence until Kirsten was out of earshot.

“Did you see that? I told you she was a total bitch B-I-T-C-H bitch, Southampton”. I thought it wise to defer to her yet also try to divert her attention to something not Kirsten.

“Well we got our drinks lets talk about something more interesting than “Kirsten The Dive Bar Bartender”. I even used the quotation hand signals. This was the influence of this Southampton’s brain I was inhabiting side by side with. But would my upfront words stop her obsessing about Kirsten?.

“Ok, what will we talk about” Pinky said perkily, a little too perkily – almost like she was a bit manic. Which she was. I’m sure she had a depressive side too. In my various beam downs here over the millenia I had noticed there were a lot more manic depressive types than manic only types. But that wasn’t a surprise Pinky was a little ‘off the wall’ as they say in this era. I had already picked up on it. And anyway – look where I was. Dive bars and quasi dive-bars self select themselves for troubled people. But the strange thing is people who choose troubled environments often delude themselves that they are the kind of beings that can ‘swim without getting wet’ as it were. Or as one of the smarter philosopher ones down here said “if you stare into the abyss long enough you can be sure that it will stare back”. Here I was in Flopsies, an abyss, a dive bar where you swim and you will definitely also get wet – well unless at heart you know your a holo-man like me that is. Now back to me and Pinky’s conversation – she had asked me ‘what we should talk about’.

xxx (Edit point 30/05/2026) xxx

“You decide” I said. After all I was here to listen to humans, observe and of course laugh. Not always at them. I had a slug of my beer. I was definitely starting to realise I was trapped with Pinky for at least another hour. After that I might be able to escape, then I could slip in to the next bar – McSwankos, the bar that was right over the road. I didn’t want to go home early. That would go against the whole reason I was here. As per how I was programmed, I was a boring guy with a steady job I didn’t like, who lighted and lightened up via booze at night – I was programmed by the designer to be a functional alcoholic. That being the case, I wasn’t going top go home before midnight no matter what. Pinky was about to tell me what she wanted to talk about.

“Ok I’ll talk about the rocks I sell at the weekend markets” Again she said this even more manicly – her voice had gone a bit more chirpy and shrill like.

“Ok shoot away”. I said. I knew this would probably be boring – but the ‘I hate Kirsten’ stuff was to much to bear. So I opened my ears and hoped for the best.

“Well, everything was going great at the market when I was doing the pictures of cats, I was selling a lot to all the lonely old people that love their cats. But then that market-owner-lady-bitch-dog lover ruined it all. How dare she stop me from painting cats! That’s what the bitch did Southhampton! I was making so much money and she ruined it!. The flowers, rainbows and Suns I do now only sell about half as much as the cats! That bitch Lucille has totally garnished my income I had to return my car – I had this ’68 Camaro on payments, and with the reduction in sales due to that bitch Lucille, I could no longer afford it”.

“It seems you have a lot of run ins with females Pinky – but then again I only have two data points – Kirsten the bartender at Flopsies, and now Lucille the Saturday stall – market manager. Am I wrong in my assessment?”

“Well I do get on better with men – I’ve always been a tom boy – I even used to climb the tree out back all the time when I was a little girl – a real tom boy cliché, don’t ya think – oh Graham Findlay Southampton?”.

At last she showed a genuine smile, and she looked a little more playful instead of frazzled and manic. I hoped it would last but I doubted that she’d stop talking about the various “bitches” that had wronged her. The third B-I-T-C-H would surely pop up in conversation soon. Or maybe she would walk in the bar at sit near us – or more correctly sit near Pinky – like a lamb-to-the-slaughter. Pinky replied to my question so now it was my turn to talk.

“Well there’s nothing wrong with being a tom boy these days Pinky – after all that way you’ll have more fun as an adult and navigate life better – I bet you can change a tire for instance – correct?”

“Sure can!” She did her laugh & slap routine, then continued. “I can even fix your transmission if ya want – no bullshit either!”

“Wow” This was good – she was becoming more interesting. It was about time. She wasn’t just a woman who didn’t like other woman. She actually could do a lot of things in the real world. She wasn’t just a talker. I thought I’d keep going and delve a little.

“So this means you can do a lot of trades type handy stuff? Like you can probably fix a leak on the roof when it rains?”

“Check” she said again looking happy and not manic.

“You can probably build a wooden table?”

“Check, I built all my furniture actually – I even have a small woodworking shed out back. I organized it all Southampton. I ain’t JUST no jive talkin’ dive bar drunk-o ya know!”. I enjoyed the poetic words very much. It is these times is when I am extra glad to be here listening. I continued the back and forth,

“Wow Pinky, you have a lot of talents!” I tried the slap and laugh thing – but it came off far too wooden, and Pinky rolled her eyes and too a slug of her drink. I didn’t let it rattle me. “Pinky – you’re actually bloody interesting and have potential – I’m sure you can meet another Tom”. As soon as I had said that I knew I’d made a mistake. Within seconds I saw her face go from pink to white to orange to red, and then to purple. Then she started to scream.

“TOM!!!! FUCKING TOM!!! I FUCKING MISS TOM!!!!!! HE WAS THE ONE!!!!! THAT BITCH!!!!! THAT BITCH KIRSTEN RUINED IT ALL!!!! THAT BITCH!!!!”

Then it got worse – she threw her glass through at the wall. It smashed loud and crisply. Pinky then ran over to Kirsten. Being a little overweight she was jiggling with each step. She somehow jumped over the bar in one go, landed with a thud and started going off at her- she was howling and pointing and spitting in her face. She was repeating the same line over and over YOU FUCKING BITCH I HATE YOU!!!

Kirsten was toe to toe with Pinky the bartender. Kirsten tried to remain calm, and was doing it well. This is what I heard next from the relaxed position of my barstool.

“Pinky, calm down. I’m warning you go back to your seat, you better not do what you did last time or you’ll get a lifetime ban – GO BACK TO YOUR SEAT NOW!”. Kirsten pointed to the fallen over barstool beside me. She was firm and confident. She’s seen it all before. And then I was surprised at what I saw. Pinky broke down entirely. Her shoulders slumped and she started to cry uncontrollably. She wasn’t just crying – she was wailing.

Kirsten saw it and must have after all the years of bartending in dives, had somehow managed to maintain a beating heart in her chest. She started to hug Pinky, consoling her. “It’s ok don’t worry about it, come on I’ll take you to your stool, and I’ll call you a taxi home”.

Boy that Kirsten was a talented lady I though to myself. Kirsten took her back over to me and her empty fallen down stool, hugging her all the way the way ladies do to support each other. All the while Pinky still sobbed like a schoolgirl. The other patrons looked shocked, but only mildly – as ecperienced drinkers in dive-bars, they had seen it all before and much worse too. I got up and helped her as she sobbed and got her to sit down. Kirsten then left us and went back to behind the bar and called for a taxi. I tried to console Pinky with some well thought out heartfelt words. I pored he a water from the full water jug that was in front of us. As I did this without thinking, I thought how well the designer had programmed me to do this. I tried more calmign words for Pinky.

“Hey Pinky, don’t worry – I can tell you’ve been through a lot. Anyone who loses half their income because of some controlling bitch who doesn’t want you to paint cats because she’s a nutty-machiavellian-narciccisstic-dog-lover is gonna drive anyone to go wild at the nearest dive bar”.

Pinky looked up at me with kind eyes, but then unfortunately started to sob even more – but this time more quietly, more muffled. This was making me feel uncomfortable. It was then I realized that the designer had made an error in my programming. Surely I wasn’t supposed to feel this uncomfortable right now?. It was a real discomfort of the chest tightening type. Then I realized that this wasn’t an error. It all made sense. The designer had to mad a part of me to be intentionally cold-hearted. It had to be this was so as to also make me a party loving by night, boring school principal of a small town by day, functional alcoholic. you could not have one without the other.

The taxi man soon came in and I helped Pinky to the door. I was relieved. the hard wired cold-heartedness was doing its thing. I didn’t have to escape to the next bar. I didn’t need to make some excuse to Pinky. Everything had worked out great! I though to myself. I went over to the bar to make eyes at and try to chat up Kirsten, and of course drink the night away. I was committed to living in this Wringer World, playing the game called The Drudge, just as the designer had programmed me to do. I would do the obvious thing and – as they say here – ‘play it all by ear’. I would not – as they say here – ‘over analyze’, I would just see what ‘popped up’.

Between serving the odd customer, Kirsten and I got on like a house on fire. Pinky was not around to ruin things. I was thinking I had a chance. I could come chat her up over the period of a few weeks and then maybe ask her out. As the night went on me and Kirsten chatted about a whole range of interesting things: How it’s impossible to find a good partner working as a bartender. She liked conspiracy theories: The moon landing (we both thought it was faked); The Piramids (they were from a previous but now extinct, high tech civilization); The JFK Assassination (We agreed it was probably a joint project between the CIA, the military and the mafia – because he was stepping on too many asshole’s toes); UFO’s (I said they are ‘us from the future in time machines’ – because I knew this to be true – she said they were ‘demons’ as she still had remnants of catholic school in here). We talked about even more interesting but down to earth things than that – such of how she used to live in the once wild and rich London in her youth in the late sixties and early seventies. I had the human feelings of being ‘smitten’. Again, this kind of experience was why I was here. I was happy.

While I sat there talking to Kirsten, I dreaded about having to leave Kirsten and the Flopsie Bar and go and have to do the boring side of my life. I dreaded the thought of leaving the drinking scene and going to be a small-town two-bit school principal. Worse a school principal with no perceivable sense of humor. I was starting to doubt my talk with the designer before I came down here. But I put it out of my mind. I was enjoying this cold-heartedness. I was enjoying Kirsten. I was enjoying these feelings.

I secretly hoped that the designer would not jump in and make my heart warmer. That would mean I would lode focus. That would mean I start to worry about Pinky. Then I would start to worry about all the other broken people. The smitten feeling came from this programmed selfish cold-heartedness. I really liked the cut of this Kirsten girls jib. After all as a cute, talkative and intelligent bartender she was the perfect accompliment to my programmed alcoholism. I had a thought that made me feel even happier – she’d probably start giving me free drinks soon!.

For the rest of the night I sat at the bar talking about more heavy but also fun things. The smiles flew back and forth, as did the laughs. The eye contact built on itself. I was experiencing what they call ‘amazing chemistry’. The bar closed just after one am, I said my goodbyes to Kirsten as she closed up. I felt like askign her home – but the designer had programmed me well to know this was not wise. -As they say here in the small town nineteen eighties life – if I asked her home on the first night that would be seen as ‘moving too fast’. I’d also be mixing the two sides of my life – the boring but neccessary (principal in Schlumpton) and the shallow fun (living a functional alcoholic dive bar life here at Flopsies at Gunktown). I even a big smile and a little hug. I was happy.

As I got into the taxi home to start the boring side of my life, my mind was whizzing. I thought of the ‘possibilities’ with Kirsten. Maybe we’d have a wild fling. Maybe I was just fooling myself. But maybe I’m being paranoid thinking I’m fooling myself! And because of this cold-heartedness, there was not a tinge of sadness in my heart when I realized that due to the way I was programmed, that even if things went amazingly well with Kirsten – it was unlikely we would ever marry or be long time partners. I knew things would play out the way they were supposed to. I didn’t know exactly why the designer had played it this way – but I trusted them fully and without question. I had the thoughts: it must have had to be that way. It must have been needed to live this kind of life I had been allocated. I cannot change this superficial cold heartedness, I must embrace it – it is giving me a good time, is it not?. Besides – the dull side of my life that happens monday to friday nine to five helps the people down here, in Schlumpton does it not? of course it does! The designer is always right!

But then again, I was lucky – I knew how this ‘wringer world’ worked. You could say I had been blessed with an unfair advantage. I could just be me, and enjoy my programming as it allowed and how it was always meant to be. I’d have a good time on the weekends, and be bored but somewhat effective and helpful during the week – maybe on a good day you could call it ‘ being caring to the people around me’.

I was philosophical about these uncertainties that had entered my mind as the night had progressed. One day I’ll do something else on another planet, as another being, and I’ll ask the designer to give me a bigger heart – I’ll be more confidant in myself. I was now ok with everything. When you know how the game works, you don’t take life in a beam-down so seriously. This is just a bounce among an infinite number of others. I will always trust the designer intuitively. If only others in the Wringer World knew what I knew – things would be a lot nicer for them. The bad environment these people face down here is really there own fault. People like us can’t be expected to swoop in a save them. It’s a long and personal journey they are on themselves.

That said – towards the end when it’s time to return to have the debrief with the designer about your bounce, there is always that tiny bit of sadness that somehow sneaks in. Sure it is only due to the ‘law of the uncertainty principle’ that is written into every possible universe (and so inside every bounce and every higher level holographic world) but this doesn’t mean it’s not real.

This uncertainty hardwired into all universes unfortunately means no matter how you have been programmed, every entity that experiences a bounce or a beam-down, cannot but help feel at least some regret and sadness for ‘what could have been’. As the designer always drums into me – ‘It [that is fundamental uncertainty] is both a paradox and a law of every possible universe – so don’t beat yourself up for feelings of regret and sadness – they are completely normal’.

And now after my countless beam down and so many bounces, it is also something I couldn’t do without, something I long for – and you never know exactly when it will hit you either.You can be feeling happily cold-hearted on moment, and full of sadness and regret the next moment. You can be making eyes at a Kirsten while being wildly drunk at a dive bar, and then suddenly worry about a Pinky who is crying herself to sleep in her bed.

Sometimes I have this recurring wild thought that this hardwired unchangeable, unprogrammable effect that brings on these softer feelings is the real reason for everything we do inside and outside these bounces and beam-downs – but I always make sure to force myself to discount this possibility. I mean – how could I ever allow myself to believe such a thing? For this would mean I’ve merely been playing what those Wringer -Worlder’s call a ‘side hustle’ but calling it the ‘main event’. I have been doing this for an infinite number of years. To reverse my opinion of ‘why I do what I do’ would be erasing a hell of a lot of cognitive dissonance.

If this thesis was the case – that I’d been living the side show and not the main event – I could not know this to be a fact and also not also have the essence of my very being melt down entirely. It would be just like that night at the bar with Pinky – only infinitely worse. I would be crying infinite tears in an infinite sized bed in all possible universes.

For what if uncertainty was the point of everything? What if I’d been playing all these infinite bounces amd beam-doens in all the universes wrong all along – for all of the eternity that I’d been around? What if I’ve been playing the wrong game. What if indeed. It would mean I’d been wrong about everything. And perhaps that’s why the designer kept sending me here for eternity.

Of course, in the end I decided to not make a decision on this revelation of mine. This meant I had made a decision to stay a fool, to keep playing the game called The Drudge, down here on the field of play – The Wringer World. I would keep trusting the assigned the designers for each particular case I am assigned to. Am I addicted to the wrong game? Hell! – yes, probably. Am I having a good time? Hell! – certainly yes. Will I wonder what might have been? Hell I will! For eternity! Was Kirsten really a bitch? Hell! – who knows? Will I come to my senses and embrace The Uncertainty Principle – and with it the ability to feel more on the next bounce? It could happen. And what about Pinky? Will she ever gain inner peace?

And incidently about this this bounce, there was something that particularly bugged me. For eternity I kept asking myself this – who was that old man holding up the bar anyway? Like me he certainly wasn’t strictly human. He did not seem it. He was very interested in what was going on. He might have been one of us. After all – he certainly looked a lot like me, only a lot older. I noticed that he couldn’t keep his weepy eyes off the bartender girl Kirsten either. Surely he wasn’t me. Though the designer has told me this kind of thing is possible – you can indeed meet a different version of yourself on the same bounce. It can happen.

The End