Tag: short story

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.

“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.

“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.

“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.

“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.

“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.

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?”

“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.

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.

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’.

“You decide” I said. After all I was here to listen to humans, observe, do what they do, and of course laugh at the insanity of late twentieth century life as a human being on planet Earth. Not that I wasn’t also also a human – of course I was. Southampton was a human. I was in his body, and had his personality.

I had a slug of my beer. I was definitely starting to realise I was trapped with Pinky for at least another hour. Her personality was now starting to grate on me. After an hour I might be able to escape, then I could slip in to the next bar McSwankos. it was the closest bar to Flopsies Bar, right over the road.

I – that is Southampton was an alcoholic, so I didn’t want to go home early. That would go against the whole reason I was here. I was supposed to ‘do as the romans do’. As per how I was programmed, I was a boring guy with a steady job I didn’t like, who both lighted and lightened up via booze in the nocturnal hours. I was programmed by the designer to be a functional alcoholic so it was only fair and right that I function as an 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’d have to listen about her bloody ‘arty rocks’. And anyway this boredom feeling was kinda interesting in itself. It was a kind of empty feeling, but different from being sad or anxious about something. Boredom seemed to be a lack of something rather than a reaction to something in the environment that was bad. resigned to my fate, I opened my ears for Pinky’s high pitched overly loud voice and hoped for the best. Pinky piped up.

“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 and older single people who live alone that of course really love their cats. But then that market-owner-lady-bitch-dog lover ruined it all. How dare she stop me from painting cats! I’m basically a mental heath practitioner! That’s what the bitch did Southhampton! I was making so much money by helping everyone feel good 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 so much I had to return my pretty car. Southampton it was really shit – I had this ’68 Camaro on payments, and with the reduction in sales due to that bitch Lucille, I could no longer afford it and it got repossesed”.

“You know what Pinky It seems you have a lot of run ins with females. But then again maybe I’m jumpim’ the gun after all I only have two data points – Kirsten the bartender at Flopsies, and now Lucille the Saturday stall – market manager. Tell me – am I wrong in my assessment?”

“Southampton you ain’t stupid are ya?” She did the patented shrill-laugh and slap routine, then elaborated. “Well I do get on better with men – I’ve always been a tom boy after all. 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 ‘bright eyed and playful’ instead of the standard ‘frazzled and manic’. I hoped her positive frame of mind would last but I doubted that she’d stop talking about the various “bitches” that had wronged her though her life. 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. Southampton’s brain seemed to be pretty good enough at that silly human only thing they called ‘small 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 Southampton!”

“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 further into her ways.

“So this means you can do a lot of tradesmen 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 in my place 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 to these so called ‘everyday people’. I continued the back and forth we were having.

“Wow Pinky, you have a lot of talents!” I even tried the slap and laugh thing – but it came off far too wooden. Southampton’s brain knew it was wise to mimic people to get them onside. But my execution was off, and so Pinky just rolled her eyes and took 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, or even a Dick or a Harry”. 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 wildly.

“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 over at the wall. It smashed loud and crisply with a ‘pop’. Pinky then ran over to Kirsten. Being a little overweight she was jiggling with each step. Like a possessed Witch she somehow jumped over the one meter high bar easily 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!!!…WHERE’S TOM YOU BITCH!!!

Kirsten was going toe to toe with Pinky the bartender. It was punch for punch and theatrical like in an over the top by design fake wresling match kind of way. Of course it may as well have been fake as any drunk will tell you that when someone isn’t a ‘seasoned’ fighter then their punches have no force behind them. In this cat-fight Pinky was screaming while Kirsten tried to remain calm amongst the flurry for fists, hair flying everywhere, the ocsasional boob coming out of its bra. And of course the ‘not shocked at all becasue this happens all the time here’ whoops and hollas from the scattered drunken patrons. Kirsten’s poker face and unflusteredness was holding up well. Then the fighters decided to have a pow-wow. I was enjoying it all from the relaxed position of my barstool – the boys and girls up in holo-central would be eating their hearts out with all the late eighties human bar drama I was lapping up. Kirsten spoke up with a good volume and a steady confidant ‘leaders’ voice.

“PINKY CALM DOWN! I’m warning you to get 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!”. This was strange because Pinky had exactly just done what she had done last time. Kirsten pointed to the fallen over barstool beside me that was Pinky’s stool. Kirsten has seen it all before – this was nothing to a dive bar from the old days – I had of course looked into the history files in the holo-world, and I’d seen a fair bit of the mayhem of this era on the odd bounce over the eons. And then I was half-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. This cat fight had broke something open in her psyche.

Kirsten saw it and I saw the empathy break over her formerly stern face. I guess she must have retained some warmth despite after so many years of bartending in dives like Flopsies. Kirsten had somehow impossibly managed to maintain a real beating heart in her chest. My type really enjoy it when we see humans like this – it makes us think that maybe we are all wrong – maybe Earth is not a total sociological write off. Pinky was on her knees wailing with her head in her hands. Kirsten bent down and started to hug her, consoling her. “It’s ok don’t worry about it Pink, come on I’ll take you to your stool, and I’ll call you a taxi home – fuck it lets forget it happened at all – no bans”.

Boy that Kirsten was a talented lady I thought to myself. Kirsten took her back over to me and her empty fallen down stool, hugging her all the way the way Earth ladies do to seemingly support each other. All the while Pinky still sobbed and whimpered like a schoolgirl. The other patrons looked shocked, but not at the violence but the humanity that suddenly broke out between them. Almost always these cat fight endings were exactly the same. They usually went like this: when it became obvious the cat-fight wouldn’t end quickly enough, two random men – usually friends that were at a seat chatting about nothing – put their beers down and then each of them chose a combatant each and then drag them apart. As this happened and as their respective cat’s limbs flailed about this kind of dialogue was shouted at high volumes for everyone to enjoy:

‘BITCH I’M GONNA KILL YOU….NO BITCH I’LL GET TO YOU FIRST. …..DOUBT IT YOU WHORE…..OH YEAR BITCH YOU’RE THE WHORE IN THIS BAR….OH YEAH I HEARD WHAT YOU DID IN THE TOILETS YOU SLUT…HEY FUCK YOU BITCH FOR BRINGING THAT UP HE WAS MY BOYFRIEND……NO HE WASN’T YOU WHORE I BET YOU CHARGED HIM……I AIN’T NO WHORE YOU TWO BIT WITCH…NO YOU ARE BITCH….WHORE….SLUT….(etc etc).

As I sat observing I noticed that the other patrons were all murmuring about ‘how nice it was Kirsten and Pinky’s fight had ended so amicably’ this time around “gee I wasn’t expecting that” one said, another said “Wow Pinky must be getting soft” Another said “Of I was Kirsten I woulda taken advantage of that and gone for the knockout blow. Most the patrons were all abuzz with the entertainment aspect but eventually I at least heard an older lady say “I hate to see two women fight like that”. But just as I thought she was enlightened to the ways of non-violence she added to her words – “But boy I haven’t seen a good cat fight for a while!”.

As experienced drinkers in dive-bars, they had seen it all before and much worse too. It was nothing to them. I got up of my seat and helped her as Kirsten delivered her to her stool she sobbed and got her to sit down. Kirsten then left us and went back to behind the bar and quietly lifted one of those clunky old nineteen eighties rotary-dial telephones called for a taxi.

I – that is me riding as an onlooker in Principal Southampton’s body and mind – tried to console Pinky with some well thought out heartfelt words and also put my hand on her shoulder. I poured her a water from the full water jug that right was in front of us. How it didn’t somehow get used in the fight was just the pure luck that it was an extra meter away from the fight zone As I did this comforting act without much thinking, I thought that Southampton must have been quite a good human being under his functional alcoholic realities. I tried more calming and soothing words for Pinky.

“Hey Pinky, don’t worry – I can tell you’ve been through a lot recently. I mean losing that fancy car, not being able to paint cats. 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-narcissistic-dog-lover is gonna drive anyone to go wild at the nearest dive bar”. It was an imperfect few words of solace. But it was a genuine caring tribute to my new bar friend Pinky. What life is like for humans like her in these ancient times is not something that warms the heart. Humans like Pinky are emotional types who no one has ever really helped or shown true love – and especially not their parents.

Parents of the ‘Pinky type’ and half those in Flopsies were usually always useless, alcoholic, divorced, drugged out, have all four afflictions, or just plain generally lazy trashy. Parents in this joint and in a rare few other backward areas of the cosmos have through a mixture of neglect and abuse of the growing child have all acted in a way that installs in the future ‘fucked up adult being’ a series emotional hair-triggers and time bombs. We in the holo-world discuss these things all the time and compare notes across species and the various planets. Of course we all agree Earth is the worst for bad parents that create bad adults that freak out too easily.

Pinky looked up at me with kind eyes, but then unfortunately started to sob even more – but this time more quietly, more muffled. This time I could tell their was a deeper more reflective sadness going on. This realization of what I was seeing in front of me was associated with an uncomfortable feeling. 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. It wasn’t pangs of empathy I was feeling. It was a selfish kind discomfort. I could tell it was me I was worried about, not Pinky. The designer had to made a part of me – and a big part – to be intentionally cold-hearted. It had to be this way – a neccesary condition if you will. It was so as to make me a party loving drunk by night, but a boring but a ‘just acceptable enough’ small town school principal. The cold heartedness is what made the functional part of the functional alcoholic work. It was great programming by my desogner – a functional alcoholic must be a large part cold – you could not have one without the other. A warm hearted person would make sure they cured themselves somehow.

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. With Pinky gone soon this meant that I didn’t have to escape to the next bar. Alcoholics don’t bar hop. They stay in their bar of choice and sit in their seat of choice – usually a bar stool so as to be as close to the alcohol and alcohol server as possible. I didn’t need to make some excuse to Pinky. Everything had worked out great! I though to myself. Even though these experiences were interesting, Pinky was starting to drain even me.

It was a good time to let loose a little. I now 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’. Surely nothing too bad would happen if I went a little wild – Southampton was functionally drunk wasn’t he?

Between serving the odd down-spirited, usually funny looking and tatty dressed customer, Kirsten and I were = as they say here -‘getting on like a house on fire’. Pinky was not around to ruin things with her emotional explosions. I was observing my host body Southampton’s physical feelings and body chemicals in real time. The feeling and thought was ‘maybe I have a chance with Kirsten’. Of course I went with it without resistance – after all that was why I was here at all.

The train of thought right now as I looked at Kirsten was that 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 and you end up going out with another bartender or a customer. She also liked those things called that the mean people on earth had labelled ‘conspiracy theories’: The moon landing (we both thought it was faked – well I knew it was from the holgraphic Earth file I had read); The Pyrimids? – they were from a previous but now extinct, high tech civilization. Kirsten was right on that too); The JFK Assassination (She thought it was just teh CIA but I corrected her with the wider truth that it was a joint project between the CIA, a cabal leadership group in the US Military, various Zionist interests and the Mafia – Kirsten was right in her basic assesment that JFK was done in ‘because he was stepping on too many asshole’s toes’; On the 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 schooling in her.

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. It was about an hour in to our one on one almost eye to eye conversation that I had experienced the very human feelings of ‘being smitten’. Again, this kind of experience was why I was here. I was happy. The warm feeling in my chest was certainly nice. I guessed this warm slightly confused feeling was a more basic diluted form of the more wild and amplified version called ‘being in love’. Southampton’s memories told me that the humans said their was a lot of talk by a lot of people about ‘love and being in love’ in this particular backward era of the late twentieth century. We in the holographic world have what might be called ‘a form of love’ but the holo-love we experience up there is more akin to deep respect for knowledge and experience than what people feel so strongly about down here. Again that is why I am here. The Earthly ‘Love’ might be totally odd thing but if it’s anything like the ‘smitten’ feeling I was having with bartender Kirsten then I can understand their addiction to it, or feeling it. They can deeply ‘feel something’. While up there we ‘understand something’. It really is an amazing. They don’t know how rare that is in the universe, and they won’t find out their uniqueness on that matter for a few hundred years either.

While I sat there talking to Kirsten I felt the earthly feeling of ‘time disappearing when your enjoying yourself’. This was another very odd Earth-only type of a phenomenon. I dreaded to think about having to leave Kirsten and dusty grime of The Flopsie Bar. I was feeling like I didn’t want to go and have to do the boring side of my life – being a small town high-school Principal. I adjudged that this anxiety going through Southamptons blood was that think Earth people called ‘dread’. I was dreading the thought of leaving the drinking scene here with Kirsten and going to the other half of my life as two-bit Principal. Worse becausue of the duality involved of Southampton I’d be a school principal with no perceivable sense of humor whiel in the confines of the school. I noticed Southampton’s mind starting to doubt his who existence. I took this other variant of uncomfortable stress to be feelings of ‘existential crisis’ that older humans have here at this time. But I felt Southampton put out of his mind. I as the ghost riding in Southampton was enjoying this strange efficient cold-heartedness take over business. I was enjoying Kirsten. I was now enjoying my beer after beer after beer. I was enjoying these irrational often exhilarating and all very interconnected human feelings of Southampton’s.

I secretly hoped that the designer would not jump in and make my heart warmer. I was kinda concerned how easy it was in one of these bodies to become would up in all the chemical highs these bodies create all by themselves. But if my designer jumped in it would defeat the purpose of beign here. It’s supposed to be messy. I mean they are the most backward of the sentient beings in the physical landscapes. If I was made to suddenly be ‘holier than thou’ (as they say here) that would mean I would lose focus in the here and now.

If I was to be made a ‘good two shoes’ (to use their lingo) that would mean I start to worry about Pinky. Then I would start to worry about all the other broken people. The ‘smitten feeling’ I was having and enjoying came from this programmed selfish cold-heartedness. Yes the change in Southampton’s body chemicals as he looked at Kirstens face told me that ‘I really liked the cut of this Kirsten girls jib’ – to use their vernacular. After all as a cute, talkative and intelligent bartender she was the perfect compliment to my duly programmed functional alcoholism. I noticed a though a immature thought slide into Southampton’s mind. The thought made me feel even happier – she’d probably start giving me free drinks soon!. I was seeing firsthand that these functional alcoholics can be so sophomoric, so childish, so immature without trying at all.

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 noticed when someone likes you down here the pupil in the eye dilates. I think I was experiencing what they call ‘amazing chemistry’ in this so emotional era of the eighties.

The bar closed just after one am. I said my goodbyes to Kirsten as she closed up, wiping tables and putting cheers straight again. I felt like asking her home to my place- well I mean Southampton’s place – 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 necessary (School Principal in Schlumpton) and the shallow fun (living a functional alcoholic dive bar life here at Flopsies at tiny two bit town suitably called Gunktown). I just gave Kirsten a big smile and a little hug. I was happy to do that, despite Southampton’s pants becoming uncomfortable while I embraced her.

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. Southampton’s brain was saying this stuff doesn’t really happen in dive-bar environments.

I could tell things would play out just 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! in his programmign and with the specific choice of the earthly host-body-mind person

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 (to live Southampton’s life in his body for a short while) 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. As they like to say in this era of the eighties – ‘it is what it is’. This is just a bounce among an infinite number of others. I will always trust the designer and the designers as a whole intuitively and fundamentally. If only others in the Wringer World (that the human locals call Earth) knew what I and my kind as Holo-Men knew – things would be a lot nicer for them. You see on the whole – other than some of their random outliers such as the humans by the names of Einstein, Plato, Jung – their minds are poorly developed as cold logical purely rational thinkers.

The bad environment these people face down here is really there own fault. Well perhaps that is too harsh. Perhaps it is wiser to say their ‘mental tools at their disposal’ are not fit for purpose across their entire populations. Given this sad fact they are hamstrung in making the best decisions for themselves as a whole. But People like us Holo-Men be expected to swoop in a save them from themselves. It’s a long and personal journey they are on themselves. We Holo-Men are right to use them mainly for recreation and entertainment reasons, and for study with our regular beam-downs. And we are simply the ghosts riding the machines anyway. In our beam downs we have never and would never override a host-body-mind’s own ways of being for our own selfish reasons of our own.

That said – towards the end when it’s time to return to have the debrief with the designer about ‘your bounce-down’, there is always that tiny bit of sadness – well our version of sadness that is – 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’ when it’s all over and you are having your debrief with your particular designer. As the designer always drums into me – ‘It [that is a certain hardwired fundamental uncertainty] is both a paradox and a law of every possible universe – so don’t beat yourself up for post-beam-down remnant feelings of ‘regret and sadness’ – they are a completely normal pathology due to the ‘uncertainty principle’.

And now after my countless beam downs and so many bounces around the various intelligent life forms in the various star systems, it is also something I couldn’t do without. This tiny fleeting contamination effect from the lower emotional worlds to the higher ones like our in the holographic world is now after infinite experiences still something I long for. And due to the nature of the phenomenon, you never know exactly when it will hit you either. You can be feeling happily cold-hearted on a moment, and full of sadness and regret the next moment.

For example in this current beam down I as Antonov Antonov, the Holo-man ghost who was riding Southampton on the Wringer World can feel what seems to be a tinge of nostalgia and pain as I recall my beam down’s emotional highs and lows. I was sure this would happen later on when it’s all over. I’d feel something even as a Holo-man as I sit in the debrief and get that sudden recall. Of being ‘Functional Covert Alcoholic Principal Southampton’ who was gleefully making eyes at ‘Kirsten the sassy bartender in the Wringer World’ while being wildly drunk at a dive bar. i would probably also feel something regarding – perhaps a form of ’emptiness’ when I recall how Southampton worried about Pinky who had cried herself to sleep in her bed that night.

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 as Holo-men as we navigate inside and outside these beam-downs. But I as a wise Holo-man always make sure to force myself to discount this possibility. I mean – how could I as a Holo-man 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 after all been doing this for an infinite number of years. The position is that we Holo-men have important things to do in the rational holographic intellectual world, and that’s our main interest. To reverse my position of ‘why I do what I do’ would be erasing a hell of a lot of our watered down holographic form of what Wringer World people call 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. Holo-men don’t prefer emotionally backward worlds to home – we’ve all held that position all through the infinite.

It would be a treasonous thought indeed. For what if uncertainty was the point of everything? What if I’d – we’d – been playing all these infinite bounces and beam-downs in all the universes wrong all along – for all of the eternity that I’d – we’d – been around as Holo-men? What if I’ve – we’ve – been playing the wrong game. What if indeed. It would mean I’d – we’d – been wrong about everything for eternity. And perhaps that’s why the designer kept sending me and all the other Holo-men here to backward worlds like The Wringer World for eternity. I mean if something was not important, why would it not just – as they say here -just ‘fizzle out’?

Of course, in the end I decided to not make a decision on raising the matter of my thinking to the designer on this revelation of mine. This may have meant I had made a decision to stay a fool for eternity- well, that is whatever the Holographic version of being a fool is – just to safely keep playing for continuing eternity. I Anton Antonov would not ‘rock the boat’ (as they say down here) on the matter of the game we Holo-men called The Drudge. It was call The Drudge Program with the ‘field of play’ (as they say down here) being called – 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 those strange mental happenings that The Uncertainty Principle brings to us in the Holo-world? – the ability to actually feel something in the Holographic world post beam-down? It could happen – in theory. But as I said, I guess I have chosen to be what the Wringer World that is ‘Earth in the nineteen-eighties’ was called ‘being a coward’.

And what about Pinky, Kirsten Flopsies and Gunktown? Well of course I will return to the Wringer World – it would be impossible not to. For when you live in a form of infinity as a Holo-man, everything that is possible, and no matter how slim any particular possibility is – it must still happen somewhere at some point in spacetime. But my time with them on the Wringer World is now over like it had never happened – apart from (thanks to the ubiquitous and universal uncertainty principal) the holographic version of a ‘pang of guilt’. There is only the formality of a debrief with the highly efficient designer. The next beam down is already on my mind: Alpha Centuri, on the planet called Proxima B. The bars are something special there too so I hear – but unfortunately not quite as low brow as Flopsies. Southampton will take care of everything anyway – after all it’s his life and not mine.

And incidentily before I leave you alone and as a postscript about this this bounce, there was something that has particularly bugged me. For eternity I know I will be 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. Surely he was not another version of myself. Surely?.

You know what – I may as well continue the rest of the story. I was going to leave it out – mainly because I am embarrassed about what happened next. But I have decided, I must tell the story. After all – we holographic beings are not afraid of the truth. And I now realise that fleeting feeling of embarrassment is just the contamination effect due to the uncertainty principle. It’s ok – I can handle a little uninvited emotional ghosts from my past silly Earthian bounce downs. After all – it comes with the territory. Excuse me for almost only telling half to three quarters of my story. Let me continue. You didn’t think I’d come down as a functional alcoholic school principal and leave out the ‘school location’ did you?

So I had had the weekend at Flopsies, gotten drunk and somehow got home to my house. If you remember correctly before the beam-down to Flopsies bar I had asked for a wife, at least two bratty children and a big mortgage because where would the real experience of ‘middle-aged and middle-class late twentieth century life drudgery factor’ be without it?. So here I was and the designer seemed to have things right so far at least from the vantage point on this big bed I was now waking up in. I now had awaken back in my tiny village of Schlumpton, the place where my – well more correctly Schlumpton’s – Saturdays to Friday afternoons lived.

I had somehow returned home from Flopsies bar in the small hours of Saturday morning but Southhampton’s brain had lost the details of how I had gotten home from my little functional alcoholic’s paradise of Gunktown. That’s ok – I was here so I deduced nothing bad had happened after Flopsies had closed and returning home.

As I opened my eyes I saw the woman that must have been Southampton’s wife staring at me from five centimeters away from the end of my nose. From her expression I could tell – well I mean Southampton’s brain was telling me – that ‘she as usual wasn’t happy with me’. Including the usual harsh cold look that a married-with-children-and-a-mortgage person had in these times, she looked exactly as you would expect a middle aged disinterested small town school principal’s wife would look like.

She looked so typical of a small town disinterested Principal’s wife that she even had a big wart on her nose that she had not bothered to have surgically removed, even though it would have only cost one hundred dollars and and an hour of her time. Southampton’s brain was about to tell me he was about to – as they say in these times ‘about get an earful’. I watched this woman who I take it was indeed my wife slowly open her mouth. It seemed to open in slow motion fashion.

“Graham Findlay Southampton….You fucking bastard…you’ve done it again…you left me all fucking alone again on Friday with not a peep of explanation…I was supposed to have a girls night out on Friday – I had to cancel you bastard, I copuldn’t get a baby sitter. I hate you more than you can ever imagine….”

I tried t but in a little to apologize. I tried to start to say what Southampton’s brain had thought to say – which was ‘I’m sorry honey – I had forgotten you had something planned my work week at school was horrid, I had to escape a little for a beer’. But I only got as far as uttering the first letter ‘I’ when I was cut off from my wife’s shrill, spirited words that were now flying out and at high volume and pace. I even felt a little spittle on my face as the tirade unfolded.

“I can’t believe I always put up with this crap like clockwork and I say the exact kind of thing each time you come back and open your bloodshot eyes. I’m going to yell at you more later tonight Graham – but for now get out of bed. You’ve only got half an hour to get to school – you fool, don’t you remember that the ‘Area Super-intendant’ Dwayne Maxwell-Jones wanted to see you for a special meeting outside normal school hours?”

My brain – that is Southampton’s brain was registering that he had indeed forgotten entirely about it. There was no time to argue with my – that is Southampton’s wife – about anything. I simply ran around like a headless chicken getting ready as fast as I could which included a five minute shower. As I washed my hair, brushed my teeth, put my feet into my pants, put some toast in, boiled the kettle and made a coffee it was all so easy. Southampton was quite a domestically capable man. He was not a all one of those types that sit like a potato at the kitchen table while the wife runs around and gets him everything like he’s some kind of King from English antiquity.

I rushed out the door to the car parked in the driveway. I’d have seven minutes until Superintendant Maxwell-Jones would be expecting me. My memory of the meeting had now returned and it was now telling he’d be waiting for me outside my office. I jumped in the car which was a stick shift. I had no problems driving at all, and as Schlumpton was a small town I’d make it right on time to see him, perhaps at worst I’d be two minutes late.

Narrator: Southampton’s wife Cheryl could now have a Saturday breakfast now that Southampton and his ‘frantic getting readyness’ had left the building. She would be able get breakfast and eat with their two children Simon and Brenda who were doing what all kids did on a Saturday morning in the nineteen eighties – watching cartoons on a very primitive broadcast device called a ‘television’. They had already been up and were happy doing there own thing, as children did back then.

Simon was twelve and Brenda ten years old. Simon was eating dry cornflakes with a spoon while Brenda had a piece of toast with no plate, eating straight out of the palm of her hand. As they watched the Muppet Show they were laughing and rolligng around on the floor with delight. Simon every now and then can be seen to place a single cornflake on the top of Brenda’s head, and each time Brenda feels it and yells out “stop it” and then punches him, which then creates a punch for punch battle as is the way siblings behave regardless of the particular century they live in. Cheryl as she makes breakfast shouts out ‘did you say good morning to your father or did you totally ignore him as you usually do’, to which Simon and Brenda reply in unison “we ignored him as usual mom”. Cheryl sighs as she pours her coffee and murmers to herself that she should have stayed with Jim Davidson. Jim Davidson who was her now long gone and probably now dead rebellious first love.

I had now arrived at my High School, that is Schlumpton High. I had parked erratically, let myself it after struggling and fumbling to find the right key on my key chain. I was now running down the hallway and could see Dwayne Maxwell-Jones sitting in the waiting chair outside my office. He looked exactly as you would a Superintendent would – mid fifties, totally bald with accompanied waxed head, dressed in a snappy suit. I looked at my watch – It was 9:03 AM, so I was exactly three minutes past out scheduled appointment time. As I reached him I stopped and sucked in a few big breaths. of course I realized I was a bad look. My memory was now rminding me that Maxwell-Jones was a real stuffy ballbreaker. As we looked at each other his steely ex-military look didn’t fill me with confidence. Still panting and bent over I thrust out my hand.

“Hi there Superintendant Maxwell-Jones, sorry I had an issue with the kids sorry for being just a little tiny bit late”. He just looked at my outstretched hand and totally ignored it, and then looked at me squarely straight between the eyes without blinking. He paused and then spoke.

“Southampton lets get this over with. Open your office and lets get too it – I’ll commandeer it for the purposes of our meeting. I know you don’t want to be here Monday to Friday let alone a Saturday – you’ve proved that to me by your tardiness today. When I was a soldier being three minutes late could kill your entire platoon and lose the battle Southampton. But that’s what this place is now isn’t it Southampton. No wonder this school is an embarrassing rank mess. You should be ashamed of yourself carrying on this way Southampton – turning up late, out of breath and with your shirt half tucked in.”.

I tucked myself in hurriedly. It was hard to keep eye contact with him looking at me – that is me as Southampton – with his ex-military cold sniper’s eyes and also like I was a clueless overgrown middle-aged teenager – which I, Southampton basically was. I could feel my chest tighten and any prior confidence Southampton had mustered before arriving now went swiftly out the window.

“Sorry Sir – yes I am sorry for being late, but it really….”. Maxwell-Jones cut me off.

“Spare me those lame feeble civilian excuses Southampton – lets just get to business shall we”.

Without asking he swiftly walked in front of me after I had unlocked and opened my ‘Principals Southampton’s Office’ embossed door. He barreled in forthwith and then immediately sat at my prime desk seat without asking permission. He gestured sternly, theatrically and pointedly for me to sit in the front facing ‘guest seat’ in front of his now prime position. The following thought went across Southampton’s mind.

This is like being a teenager all over again, and I’m the naughty always failing student called into the ‘Principals office’. But why can’t I an anyone stand up to this jerk Maxwell-Jones? Oh well this probably won’t last long. I’ll just blow smoke up his butt and be home in half an hour, forty five minutes tops.

My – that is Southampton’s office – was the typical smallish gaudy finished office that was seen in the interior décor of the nineteen eighties, but at least this one at Schlumpton High had a lift up window that faced the schoolyard. I had watched many a kid be bullied from the vantage point, and had always wondered why it was almost impossible to stop children bully each other, no matter what draconian methods we and I, Principal Southampton and my teachers had tried. Well that’s not entirely true – Southampton had thought about using draconian methods but then the idea had fizzled amongst the debating the teachers about the details of it all. I Southampton answered Superintendent Maxwell-Jones call to begin the meeting.

“Sure – yes whatever you say Sir”.

It was a little sad to hear how meek and subordinate I sounded in that moment – but he was the Superintendent and Southamton knew you have to allow yourself to be pushed around by these powerful types above you. After all Maxwell-Jones had the power to ‘fire on the spot’, put in an ‘overlooker’ or fine the school or shut it down entirely. Of course Maxwell-Jones wasn’t officially a dictator per se – there were other official decision makers that had to always decide to officially agree with him – but everyone knew what Maxwell-Jones said had to happen. Thanks to his illustrious prior military career, he had an immense natural ability to command total subservience among the weaker souls of entire wider Schlumpton region’s educational bureaucracy. And so Superintendent Dwayne Maxwell-Jones began proceedings with I, Southampton.

“Look Southampton – there’s no point stringing this out. You screwed up royally this weekend. One of my people told me a few things. Do you remember seeing an older gentleman that looked like a barfly at that dive in Gunktown that you always drink in on Friday nights? What’s it called Flappies? Flotsoms? Flakies?

“It’s called Flopsies Sir”. There wasn’t anything to do but wait to see what was coming. I felt sweat roll down my – that is Southampton’s forehead.

“Of course it is – how appropriate for a shithole that’s full of drunk losers to be called. Flopsies for all the useless poor disciplined talentless flops in life!. Anyway that old barfly that came and talked to you for a minute at Flopsies last night – what did you think of him Southampton – hmmm?

This was the moment when I could feel my – that is Southampton’s stress levels increase even more. I felt I, Southampton’s heart rate increase with a thump-de-thump. Again I felt more sweat beads roll down my head. I felt my mouth go dry. I felt my chest tighten. I felt my breathing become heavy. As the holographic ghost riding inside Southampton, It was all very exciting to witness this firsthand and more importantly feel it all physiologically – after all that’s why I’m here. It’s what all we ‘holographics’ like to experience in these backward planetary madhouses.

But I as Southampton realized had to pull myself together. I had and reply to Superintendent Maxwell-Jones less he think I was even more of a moron that he clearly already thought I – that is Southampton was. In regards to his line of questioning – of course I couldn’t tell him what I really thought – that I thought that stranger bar flyI saw holding up the bar and briefly talked to might been a fellow holographically originated time-space traveler also riding a human body just for kicks.

“Yes I remember the kindly older fellow at Flopsies Sir. He said hello Sir – he didn’t say much other than a brief hello”.

“Well guess what Southampton – he was one of mine Southampton. You see Southampton that was my game from my military years – intelligence. You always habe t know whats going on in places you can’t be yourself. Things have been so bad here at Schlumpton High lately. I had to do it Southampton, I had to get the spies out on your lazy ass Southampton! The rumors about you had reached a crescendo in your own staff room and around the town. I having my head close to the ground of course heard all of them too Southampton”.

“Really – was their really rumo..” He cut me off mid word.

“I needed to see you ‘in the wild’ Southampton. So I got an old military buddy of mine – Jack was a great sniper Southampton, not that you’ll care about that. You guys all think World War Two was won by itself. My guy Jack saw everything that night Southampton. He saw that ‘Pinky’ lady you were talking to have that mega-meltdown. Did you not know about that that nutty Pinky market stall lady Southampton? She’s rumored to also turn tricks Southampton? I though everyone knew that? You become who you hang with Southampton….did I hang with the krauts in Berlin back in ‘forty-five? No I didn’t Southampton!”

“Ahh..no Sir..no I didn’t Kn….” I was cut off and the Superintendent’s high volume juggernaut rolled on.

“Your too dim to realise this Southampton but my fellow ex military man Jack Smith saw it all that night Southampton – he saw you leering all night long out of the corner of your eyes at that young female bartender – Kirsten – she’s practically half your age Southampton! You could be her father for crissakes. On top of that you’re a married man with two beautiful kids!. A married man with a supposedly respectable job as a High School Principal in this community. You’re a bloody Principal Southampton! Your not some unemployed bum who wrongly thinks he’s gonna be a stoned hippy rockstar ya’know. Why don’t you act your age and your position Southampton?” Maxwell-Jones kicked over his papers in the manila folder that he now had opened on his – I mean my desk. Southampton hung his head down avoiding eye contact and hope that somehow the verbal attack would soon die down a little. It was wishful thinking as Superintendent Maxwell-Jones reloaded his supposedly ex-combat mouth.

“It’s outrageously traitorously pathetic Southampton! Worse than that the intermingling facts is that you’ve really crossed the line this time Southampton!”.

Superintendent Maxwell-Jones coughed a little, his face went a little bit redder than usual with a slight purplish hue. He took a sip of my – that is Southampton’s – water that from a glass that was already on the desk which also had a full pitcher beside it at the ready for refills. He again continued the military inspired verbal barrage.

“Look Southampton – I can handle you pretending to work. Pretending to discipline the staff. I can even handle you pretending that half the kids here aren’t either at the bottom of the cracks or falling down through the cracks headlong with with their blank little faces screaming for help. I know what you do Southampton. I know you pretend everything’s rosy. I’ve seen you walk around the school with that fake big smile ignoring everything while the kids are all bullying each other merclessly and even physically attacking each other in their marauding mobs! I Southampton tried to respond, but only a weak peep sound came out. Maxwell Jones didn;’t even hear it and just rolled on.

“Southampton, you and I know that this school is basically like what the allies saw when they entered Hitler’s bunker at the end of the war – a fucking mega disaster zone littered with the empty platitudes of a failed regime full of madmen and monsters with the coming future plans torn down with bullet and motor holes through the doors and ceilings”. He being the man he was always loved the military similes – and of course he was bang on the mark Southampton High was kind of like the remnants totally collapsed fascist regime. Superintendent Dwayne Maxwell Jones then seemingly relaxed just a little bit. This gave me – that is Southampton -some respite from the haranguing and ear banging. He reclined backwards on his commandeered seat – that is I, Southampton’s seat. Maxwell-Jones took out a giant handkerchief complete with monogrammed American eagles on the corners. He wiped his forehead of the many sweat beads that had formed during his tirade. But I, Southampton was sure the tirade wasn’t entirely over yet.

“Forgive me Southampton – you know I fought in the last six months of the war as an eighteen year old don’t you? You know I saw The Fuhrer’s battle scared Berlin bunker don’t you? I saw his Wagner records floating on top of the flooded knee high water.” He looked at me – that is he looked at Southampton – squarely and in a way that made Southampton’s combined emotional, spiritual, and physical weaknesses tremble all at once. It was a wonderful thing to experience secondhand as the ghost riding alongside or should I say inside him. Again this kind of thing was exactly what I was here for. I, Southampton managed to stumble some words out.

“NNNNo SSSir – I never knew that, I only knew you were ex military, that’s amazing you saw the tail end of World War Two let alone the Fuhrer’s bunker firsthand”.

I noticed how squeaky my – Southampton’s – voice was. It was a little sad to see the body I had inhabited have such a weak backbone – but then again a ex-World War Two vet like Maxwell-Jones is a frightening prospect at the best of times let alone when he’s got a bee in his bonnet or a point to prove. or both. Maxwell-Jones the Superintendent now continued his military style dressing down of I, Southampton.

“Look Southampton – as I said being lazy I can look past. God as my witness I can look well past that. …and I have looked past it with you and all the other losers that call themselves Principals and Teachers in this lousy flea-bitten mess of a scholastic catchment area. Let me tell you something Southampton – as a Superintendent I don’t care if your lazy – in a way it’s good – because you can’t do too much damage that way sitting around with those blunt HB pencils up your asses. But it’s bringing the school down to a ‘laughing stock’ by drunken weekend shenanigans and mixing with ladies of the night that I just cannot put up with Southampton – got it?”.

With that I, Southampton was now sitting silently and sullen just like a naughty fourteen year old schoolboy. I noticed all the stress hormones flying delightfully around I, Southampton’s body.

I now also see as I sat sullenly without speaking, slouching half way down my chair and with arms crossed that Superintendent Dwayne Maxwell-Jones again started up coughing. This time it was almost uncontrollably so. I finally broke out of schoolboy sulleneess and offered him some more water from the water jug that was already on my Principles table. I proffered up the whole jug to him and he gulped it down just like a thirty horse might have. He eventually half-apologized for his state and gathered himself with the explanation of ‘oh don’t worry it’s just my high blood pressure’. Unfortunately for Southampton – but fortunately for I, Southampton who got to experience it – Maxwell-Jones took a deep few deep breaths and giant gulps of water from the now practically empty jug and again continued the assault plan on Southampton.

“Look Southampton, If I leave it like this without taking action, soon you’ll probably soon be shagging strippers on stage at the nearest big city of Wainkooton.,,,and I just can’t take the risk of that Southampton”.

Maxwell-Jones coughed a little more and again took another swig of the last dregs of jug-water and recovered far more quickly that before – but I did notice his face war a little more purple this time. I, Southampton noticed as Southampton didn’t say anything to Maxwell-Jones. No retort, no dissent, no arguing, no spirited last rearguard action, no last line of defense tactics could be mustered. Principle Southampton was defeated – totally and unconditionally.

The truth was the Superintendent had summed up the overall situation perfectly well. I the holographic ghost known as I, Southampton now seemingly felt ‘sorry’ for Southampton. Well as much as is possible for a holographic being. Perhaps I was just witnessing secondhand Southampton feeling sorry for himself. Sorry that he’d let himself become this kind of man – a man who wanted the respect of having a high position in the social hierarchy, but didn’t care about the daily, weekly, yearly responsibility of actually earning of it.

But of course the holographic ghost that I was – I, Southampton aka the mapping construct of the holographic Antonov – I was just here for the ride, for the fun amd for the selfish excitement of it all – it was Southampton the real phyical Earth man of the nineteen eighties that would have to live with himself. He had of course been living with himself his whole life. Now Maxwell Jones continued the ‘Seargent Major’ style ear bashing.

“Look Southampton, I’ve seen a lot of losers in the education game. Let’s be honest It draws them in like flies to horse shit. Most Teachers and indeed the Principals in towns like this are only here for the job security – plain and simple! Most hate the idea of being in the same room as the tough and troubled kids that abound in these two-bit small towns. But Southampton – I know why all you weak failure loving types do it”.

As Maxwell said that he looked at Southampton again with deadly penetration. Again all Southampton could do was sink further in the guest seat of his own office at his own Principal’s desk. But again for me – I, Southampton – as the ghost riding inside Southampton – I was enjoying this Military vs Principal affair immensely – I mean what a unique experience! – nothing as insane as this ever happens on the other planets! But again I as I, Southampton did feel just a little sorry for what was going to happen to the long term human being who was the functional alcoholic from Slumpton, who sneaked away to drink in Gunktown, who was poshly named Graham Findlay Southampton. With Southampton a cross between a sitting duck and a meek schoolboy The Superintendent then again decided to continued on the verbally necessay military operation that was well underway.

“Anyway all these suckers and losers like you Southampton they chose to be Teachers and Principals because they are scared. Scared of the ‘real world’. In the ‘real world’ with real customers and real soldiers shooting back at you, you can’t hide anywhere Southampton. And in summary you guys like you and the ones you hang with all know you couldn’t hack that. Maxwell-Jones again rocked back in Southampton’s comfy Principal’s seat he had commandeered. He looked at Southampton with total suspicsion – exactly like he had when he looked at the ‘Jerrys’ through his binoculars back in crumbled streets of Berlin back in nineteen forty five. He was givign Southampton the exact same look he had reserved for that German soldier trying to pass himself off as an American GI in the last days of the fall of Berlin. You couldn’t fool Maxwell-Jones easily – not then and not now in the later twentieth century of the nineteen eighties.

I as I, Southampton noticed that Southampton started to think that perhaps it was all over and I can slink home to my wife and kids and lick my wounds. But then he saw that Maxwell-Jones started a coughing fit again. It seemed to not stop so easily this time. As the coughing continued unabated Southampton then got up and poured him some more water. The great wartime hero the Superintendent just sat there spluttering and coughing. But he was still a soldier, he somehow decided and managed to also keep finishing his monologue to poor Southampton despite the trying personal circumstances.

“This [Cough Cough, splutter, takes a sip] useless school is full of those weak useless types Southampton, [cough cough face reddens, veins bulge on his forehead] and you’re no different. You don’t give a rats about all the decay and disease at Schlumpton High and you never have!..[Cough Cough splutter, sits forward and sucks in giant gulps of air to recover]….that’s why this school is the top of the list for Teacher’s nervous breakdowns….that’s why it’s the worst in the state for absenteeism – for Teachers AND for students. [Cough, Cough, get soff the chair and starts to lie down by the desk, now holding the jug of water and drinking out of it between splutters and coughs] ….that’s why bullying is out of control here Southampton. This place is a fucking disgrace! I’ve never seen such weakness since the Vichy Frenchmen in the War – I should have fired you at least three years ago….[Cough, splutter, purple face gets even more purple, facial veins bulge out more, jug of water drunk down and spilled over his chest and floor]……[Cough, Cough]….You’ve presided over an embarrassing [Cough] shit-show Southampton and after what my informant told me an hour ago [Cough Cough Splutter]… there’s no way I can not fire your lousy lazy stupid ass Southampton! – do you understand what I’m telling you…[Cough, Cough eyes narrow, voice failing, spittle forming at the side of his mouth]…YOU…..[eyes closing, head falling back]……USELESS…[Cough]…..OLD…[Cough]……PRICK Souhampton!!!…YOU’RE [smaller cough and voice barely audible and now failing]….FIRED!!!”.

As Southampton looked at Superintendent Maxwell-Jones now flat on his back, eyes closed with purple face now becoming increasingly more shades of pale on the floor, and with his breathing becoming lighter and lighter, I Southampton realized that he was dying in front of Southampton’s eyes. I as I, Southampton – the ghost inside Southampton – then felt some glorious psychological and body-chemical relief wash over Southampton. Southampton wouldn’t be fired for his abject incompetence and for the bringing the Schlumpton High into disrepute at all. After all dead Superintendents can’t report you to the school disciplinary board can they? I, Southampton as holographic ghost in his body noticed a distinct thought fly across the mind of the human being Southampton’s brain:

Wow I’ve struck the jackpot!…he’s as dead as a dodo…look how pale he is…he’s stopped breathing, I’m sure of it…I’ve skated through another seemingly unwinnable battle of life totally unscathed….again! I’ll keep my ridiculously cushy small-town Principals job at Schlumpton High!…Ha Har!!! Someone up there must really really like me! I’ll wait half an hour then call for an ambulance using my office phone – if I’m lucky that’ll be the end of him, no one will hassle me about it and I’ll stay Principal Southampton of Schlumpton High. I’ll just read one of my magazines off the shelf until half an hours up, then I’ll call the ambulance – yeah that’s it!.

It was then that I, Southampton the ghost riding the physical Southampton down here in ‘The Wringer’ as Southampton started to think it was about time to abort this beam-down, this bounce. Up until now the immaturity I’d seen was fun. But seeing Southampton feel the feeling joy when Maxwell-Jones had what looked like a fatal heart attack right in front of him seemed a little ‘off’. It seemed to me that it was all based on selfish self interest over common human being to human being decency. I could feel Southampton’s ‘feel good’ chemicals rise, seratonin, dopamine, norepinephrine, and even the chemical associated with love – oxytocin – was rising spectacularly. Southampton was in love with the fact that it looked like his lazy performative low on substance life and educational career had been saved literally at the last gasp – of Superintendent Dwayne Maxwell Jones. The meeting had via a statistical near-impossibility become a ‘battlefield victory’. Southampton had snatched a glorious victory out of the gnashing jaws of ‘certain military defeat’ – and all due to Southampton’s lifelong knack of having what was called down here in the twentieth century as ‘dumb luck’.

As I experienced Southampton shamelessly flicking through ‘Wheels and Cigar Magazine and avoiding the mature task of calling an ambulance for the now face flat on the ground and gurgling Maxwell-Jones – I allowed my holographic mind to make an executive decision. Decision made. It was time to decouple from Southampton and end the beam down and return home to the purely holographic realm. The game of Drudge was over, I would leave the ‘Wringer World’ of Earth in the mid nineteen eighties.The fun had been had. Now the sillyness I was experiencing was obviosly overdue in its ending. If I stayed longer I’d start to really begin to hate it. If I stayed I’d defeat the purpose of it all – ‘to like it despite of it’.

Only a few seconds after making the decision to end the bounce-down, I immediately found myself back where I had left off in the holographic realm – a holographic entity sitting at a holographic desk with the holgraphic designer who was assigned to this particular ‘beam down’ that I had just ended, well you could argue I aborted it given the fact the original plan was to stay another month at least. The designer was the first to speak. He didn’t look happy – as much as that is possible in this strictly rational realm. He spoke with a confident calmness a is standard for all the ‘Holographics’ and especially so for the ‘designers’.

“Antonov – your back early – I won’t ask you what happened because I of course have been watching the uploaded files as they happened in real time. Look to cut a long story short – I understand entirely. I mean that Southampton charachter the way he behaved just now – it was even a bit shocking for me to watch. I mean avoiding calling the ambulance and just flicking through ‘Wheels and Cigar Magazine’ in the hope that Maxwell Jones would die, just so he could keep his undeserved small-town-on-Earth Principal’s job – I would have aborted just like you did”.

“Yes, of course – any sane holographic must feel that way – it is rational. That particular kind of self-serving selfishness is not possible to enjoy at all from out point of view”. It was good to be back in the realm of rational thinking and deduction. But I felt that my designer had some bureaucratic issue on his mind.

I the holographic being Anton Antonov (formerly the ghost I, Southampton playing the game The Drudge in the The Wringer World quadrant of Planet Earth in the nineteen eighties) was very quickly proved right as my particular case manager designer started to explain.

“Antonov, you see we have certain rules about ‘early aborts’. You see if you had aborted an hour later it would have been ok. This period we have seen statistically far more aborts from The Wringer World that usual”.

“Oh really” I said. In all my infinite time I’d only ever remembered this happening perhaps seven times before. Unfortunately I remembered what now was going to be coming next out of the holographic mouth of my designer. the designer’s words came out a lot slower than usual. Also because of the Uncertainty Principle – that nothing can be fully known or predicted – I seemingly felt some residual emotion that had hitched a ride and transferred itself from down on Earth to up here to my consciousness.

“I’m sorry Antonov but you’ve got to go back down for forty nine minutes”

Before I had time to say anything – not that I could argue – he continued with details

“But let me tell you Antonov it’ll be easy enough anyway. You just need to get that forty nine minutes done so that we don’t ruin the TASAN number or in full as you know is the ‘Totalised And Summarised Abort Number’ for this period. So anyway before you go I’ll tell you some basic info”. The designer was flicking through a virtual and vertical word pad that floated in front of him above his holo-desk.

“So down there it’s an hour after you left now. Southampton is now at home and Maxwell-Jones has been taken to the emergency hospital – you’ll be glad to know he’s still alive, and although thanks to the uncertainty principal I can’t say so categorically – it looks like he’ll live and get better. Oh yes – he had a heart attack, but I know you know that already. My systems here say that he’s got a eighty five percent of still being ‘Superintendent Maxwell Jones of the wider Schlumpton Educational Catchment Area by next year – that is nineteen eighty six.”

As the transference from below had now completely worn off, I Antonov simply accepted these as dry facts. It’d be easy enough to for the forty nine minutes anyway. I’d just have to be be the useless fool Southampton for less that an hour. he’d be sitting at home with his wife in the kitchen nook of hois house talking about what happened at the meeting and his two kids would be lying on the adjoining lounge carpet horizontally as they watched a primitive screen called a television like they were possessed zombies. It would be no trouble at all. I looked up the designer from the other side of his holo desk.

“Yes no I understand – the TASAN number must balance. Send me down now lets get this done”. The designer smiled and signed his initials on his floating holo-pad and I immediately found myself as a ghost riding Graham Findlay Southampton. He was exactly where the designer had said he was, and was talking to his wife while drinking a black coffee as the two kids watched television in sight and just a few yards away. Southampton was sitting at the breakfast table in the breakfast nook. He was talking while sitting at one end and his wife Trudy was listening from the other end with a skeptical look on her face. She too sipped away slowly at the coffee cup in her hand.

“So I reckon we’ll be ok babe – even if he lives, he won’t be back at work for a month at least while he recooperates from the emergency ward. There’s no way he’ll still fire me – he probably doesn’t even remember the meeting we just had!” Trudy Southampton’s wife didn’t seem quite so confident. I also picked up some feelings of deception in Southampton’s voice, and his adrenalin levels belied his words to a degree.

Of course as I witnessed this as I, Southampton – I quite liked this adrenalin feeling he was having. Eight minutes of the time left had gone already. I now only had to wait forty one minutes until I’d be released again from Southampton and be back as the Holographic citizen named Anton Antonov.

Southampton’s long suffering wife Trudy now started talking in response Southampton’s usual blind unthinking positivity. Her voice a little shrill and understandably stressed but she was composed – she’d been through all this kind of thing with her husband many, many times before – and had always somehow came out ok.

“I don’t know how you do it Graham Findlay Southampton – you’re always so ill prepared, yet somehow everything kind of melds towards good luck and survival. When you graduated you only passed because the education board retrospectively called forty nine percent a pass rather than a fail. When you met me for the first time at the student cafeteria I thought you were the better looking guy from last week and didn’t click untill our first date. When you became Principal of Schumpton you were the fourth choice behind the other frontrunners – the first frontrunner quit due to a sudden mental breakdown that came out of the blue, the second one had a car crash and couldn’t walk anymore so had to bow out, and the third one was Principal for a week and then quit becausue the kids were calling her “Principal Pam the Perm Addict” and she couldn’t hack it”. Southampton retorted

“I do know my own life ya’know Trudes.,,…and what can I say? You gotta be in things to win things. That’s all I’ve done my whole life. I can’t help it if I’m lucky. You should be thanking me – we got it pretty good don’t we?”. Southampton pleaded with hands outstretched and a forced smile. Then looking for a little extra persuational support he turned and yelled out to his zombified, flattened out bodies and tv-blank-face-mesmerized children – Simon and Brenda.

“Don’t we kids?” There was no answer. He asked again louder this time.

“Simon Brenda – tell your mother that we have it good here will ya’s?” This time his boy Simon answered for both himself and brenda.

“Uh yeah dad I think that’s a good idea – we should do that”. Simon clearly hadn’t a clue what his father had said. But that didn’t worry Southampton at all. He got out of his chair and stood up with arms outstretched as he talked, he gave firm eye contact and smiled. Although the smile was easily recognised by Trudy as ‘put on’.

“See Trudes – they both agree. We have great kids Trudes. They both totally agree without question. They’re so happy! We The Southampton’s of 49 Veneer Lane of Skinnypole Suburb Zipcode 77777 in the tiny town of Schlumpton are happy! We have it good, we’ve always had it good, we will continue to have it good. You know this is the truth I’m speaking Trudes!”.

It was now only thirty minutes to go. I as the ghost riding Southampton aka I, Southampton aka the holographic entity Anton Antonov, was not interested in the various hormones and chemicals and silly deceptions swirling around Southamptons mind and body right now.

I’d checked out of this beam down and was just counting time. Nothing interesting whatsoever could happen from here as I could see it – of course I didn’t one hundred percent know this was a fact – but the designer had already indicated that Southampton, and so by extension also his wife Trudy and his kids Brenda and Simon were all probably going to scoot through life as always. Superintendan’t Maxwell Jones would probably live and get better. He’d decide that since Southampton called the ambulance for him as he lay there of the floor that he being a man of military integrity shouldn’t fire Southampton who had ‘done the right albeit standard required thing by helping a fellow ‘comrade in need’.

It was easy for me to see from the inside out that Southampton also knew that if in the unlikely eleven percent chance event that Maxwell Jones did die, he’d keep his well-ish paid low requirement low effort small-town Principal job at Schlumpton and all would be as usual. He had both cases covered. But then his wife instead of the expected “yes you’re probably right honey – we have a good life and we’ll be ok as we always seem to be” she said something that rattled him.

“Honey – this may seem abrupt given what we’re talking about. Look what you say about you job being ok is probably right. but there’s actually bigger matter going on – as strange as that sounds. I’ve been meaning to tell you something for about three moths now. You won’t like it but I’ll just come out with it. I’ve been trying to bury the guilt but I can’t. I tried for almost two years but my conscious wouldn’t let me. So I have to let it out. It’s the only way. I’ll literally go insane if I don’t”. Southampton’s heart sunk – and I as I, Southampton felt it like a mini earthquake from my front row seat inside Southampton’s chest too. Southampton replied meekly and similarly to how he was when Maxwell Jones was blasting him. Trudy took a big breath and was about let him have it.

“I…I…I..er…..uh…I….I” She was going to tell Southampton that she was going to divorce him. But something stopped her. As I myself watched my host, It was a strange feeling Southampton was experiencing. It was equal parts pure fear and abject joy. As the ghost riding inside, who was just marking out the last now twenty minutes until I could get out of here – it was just the fillip I needed. It was almost as if I experienced a little ‘high’ – in fact I did. Then Southahmpton pressed Trudy for an answer.

“What is it honey? You know you can tell me anything. Then he said something very silly – perhaps the worst thing he could have. After all he was a scooter through-er, not a ‘let’s face this head on and deal with it type’. Southampton said in a theatrical and overly cheery manner, with his patented arms outstretched and overly big forced smile.

“You don’t want to divorce me do you haha?”. Trudy looked at him in stony silence, arms folded, and not breaking her icy cold stare into his now fearfully squinting eyes. Southampton stated to sweat profusely, and started rambling at her as she still stood there immovable and statuesque.

“Honey? You’re not answering. What’s wrong? Nothings wrong – come on I know you don’t want a divorce – we have it great! You know we do you were just saying we did! Look I don’t know how I scoot through life getting everything without much effort – what can I say? I’m just a lucky bastard! I can’t help it! We’ve all profited from it! Look at out big house! Look at our beautiful kids!”. Again as before he looked around at his children who were still zombies, laying flat together forming the a number eleven in the carpet as they lay transfixed at the cartoons on the tv screen. He pressed them again for a response and they finally said something – but both Brenda and Simon’s words were just indecipherable disinterested mumbles. Trudy then finally responded.

“Look Graham, don’t you get it? I don’t want to just be the wife of a scooter through-er-er. I need more that that. If I said I hadn’t thought of divorcing your lousy luck ass I’d be lying to you. And while I’m here let’s talk of what happened today with the meeting with Superintendent Maxwell-Jones. Lets forget that you’re the luckiest lazy bastard in the the entire country. Let’s pretend that your a normal human being who gets what’s coming to him – you happy if we do that for a second huh? huh? This time her body language had an more than crossed arms, stiff upright posture and a cold stare – this time she pointed her chin out dramatically. She waited for his response frozen in that assertive yet confrontational described. After all this conversation had been at least seven years in the making – perhaps a decade.

“Ok ok – let’s pretend I’m not lucky, a mad assumption that has no chance of happening in the real world but let’s do it – I’m all ears”.

Southampton used he usual overly theatrical arm movements as he put each hand to each ear and pressed it forward at Trudy awaiting her next move. This time I noticed as I watched literally from behind Southampton’s eyes and ears that he was letting copious amounts of adrenaline and cortisol onto his system. I hadn’t seen this flood of bio and neuro-chemicals happen with Southampton’s chemical mix yet. If I described it as a tsunami of fear stress and emotion I wouldn’t be ‘laying it on thick’ – to use that great late twentieth century term. I was now only ten minutes from being returned back to the holographic realm – would I miss this interesting ending? I thought it would be a pity if I did. I figuratively crossed my fingers and continued to watch the show as Trudy now spoke up.

“Ok genius – so as I said let’s assume the ‘gods of luck’ don’t save your sorry ass this time. You said before that you reckon that Superintendent Maxwell-Jones when and if he gets better will spare you. You think that when he returns to work he will feel that he shouldn’t fire you as he had planned to, as he actually said to you before he hit the floor – because he owes you a debt of gratitude because you eventually and after messing around like Machiavelli called the ambulance. Is that a correct statement of your thoughts on the matter?”. Again she had the confident rigid body language as before again with pointing chin and crossed arms. In fact be demeanor and body language was a dead ringer for how an expert prosecuting lawyer might interrogate a hapless witness. This is not such a surprise as she had given up a budding law career to raise and home school two children Simon and Brenda. Southhampton responded meekly – similar to how he had during the earlier Maxwell-Jones haranguing.

“Uh yeah…that’s what I think hon, I mean I’m sure that’s how it will go – I have a gut feeling about it and my gut has never really been wrong” Southampton’s was now burnt out from that surge of bio and neuro chemicals. She was sagging, breathing heavily and sweat was now dripping off his brow onto the floor. he wasn’t even able to look at his long suffering but lucky-by-proxywife.

“Well I think that if he makes it through and comes back to work he might blame you entirely for what happened. Did you not think of that possibility? Huh?” Before Southampton could answer she had more to say. “You see Graham-Findlay-Southampton – I contend that for an ex-military man like Maxwell-Jones, he is a man of principle and honor. I know that is true given the fact I’ve met him a number of times. Unlike you Graham Findlay Southampton, he’s made his own luck his whole life, and even survived The War by that very tough grinding personal ‘never say die’ character he has. I would say he has unfinished business with you – I reckon you better hope as he sits in that ER guernsey he must be in now with tubes in his arm and nose that he doesn’t pull through. because you’re toast if he doesn’t Graham Findlay Southampton. Maybe just maybe your incredible, statistically near impossible run of good luck is all about to run out this time. Maybe this time this families totally fucked!

As I was listening from inside Southampton’s now weakened body, I felt the best sensation so far on this beam down in this particular jaunt as Southampton’s inner monitoring but certainly not directly interfering ghost. I could also feel in a globalized sense exactly what Southampton was feeling right now – he was feeling what is referred to as ‘an inner void, an ‘abyss of the soul’ if you will. It was just like those old-world-fables they had here on The Wringer World. From what I could tell right now, and from my prior experiences – Southampton was experiencing a pitch dark blackness that you could feel with every cell in your body and in every other metaphysical reality that existed.

Southampton couldn’t look at his wife. He knew she was right. His gut was telling him that his incredible stupendous run of luck had run out. She was right that Maxwell-Jones would fire his ass when he recovered – if he recovered. Of course he didn’t know the information that I had been given just before by my talk back in the holographic realm. He didn’t know that Maxwell jones had a eighty-nine percent of survival and complete recovery. He didn’t know that this translated – as Trudy had implied – an eighty nine percent chance that he would be fired as Principal of Schlumpton. I now watched and felt the the emotional void that was Southampton move out of the breakfast area. I slumped and shuffled away from the breakfast nook area where he was arguing with his astute and almost-certain-to-soon-divorce him-and-return-to-the-law-profession wife Trudy.

I watched as he emptily went past both his zombified children Benda and Simon watching the tv cartoons like zombies, not even having had recognized what had gone on between their father and their mother. Of course, as children they preferred to ignore any heated conversations or arguments between their parents.

Southampton had reached the big empty white pleather couch that was in the adjoining lounge. He crawled onto it and lay face down. The void was of course still their and would take some trouble to remove – to say the least. Especially if from his perspective the worst did happen just as Trudy had outlined to him. I heard the door slam as Trudy left the house, jumped in the car shut the door without slamming it and calmly drove out of out their driveway.

While their father lay face down only a few feet away both Brenda and Simon still watched and laughed the endless television cartoons played on ad infinitum. From their flattened ‘number eleven’ positions on the carpet they again saw Wile E. Coyote again fall over the edge of the cliff and down to the bottom of the cliff while the road runner simply kept running through the air to the other side, having had the unfair advantage over the coyote for having never looked down.

Then my time was up, the extra forty-nine minutes I had to make up was over. I found myself instantly back in front of the designer and no longer an intimate part of Principal Graham Findlay Southampton’s life. Their would be a short perfunctory debrief but nothing much to worry about – mostly simple bureaucratic matters and ‘checking off boxes’ as they also would have said in twentieth century.

I’d had now had my ‘fix’ as they say in The Game of Drudge in The Wringer World, and it was good to be back in the holographic. The bonus experiences I had in that extra forty-nine minutes would be something I’d treasure for infinity, and I’d now have some great new battle stories to tell the others up here. I was already thinking of what and where I’d go next. It was a little rash to be thinking so early of it, but I was thinking that I should really try somewhere around the first quarter of the twenty first century – maybe it wasn’t as bad as everyone around here keeps saying it was.

The designer gave a rather soulless but acceptable smile asked me to sign the bottom of the file on his floating tablet marked ‘The Game Of Drudge/Wringer World Beam-down file #5891+94S: Anton Antonov. I signed it A.A. with my finger as was nomal, as I’d done an infinite number of times. With him knowing what had transpired already in that extra forty nine minutes, he told me that he was glad he sent me back. I mentioned that I was glad I went back too. We did the holographic realm version of the Wringer Worlds handshake and went about our business.

I then noticed as I holo-walked away, I ‘felt’ something fleeting wash or more truthfully flicker over my holographic being. It was best described as similar to the Wringer Worlds version of what both ‘joy’ and ‘angst’ might feel like if they were combined. It was nice but I knew it wouldn’t and couldn’t last long. It was jus a remnant echo of where I’d been that was already flattening out to zero. I quietly and holo-mentally thanked the ‘Uncertainty Principle’ effect which made this quasi-feeling happen, and went about the process of settling back into the predictable, cold rational and always safe holographic world.

xxxx edit point 15/07/2026 xxxxxxx