November 5 by The Running Son
♝◦ Bishop’s Burden ◦♝
Part One: Bishop
“In eliminating false dreams and maintaining collective ease, we fulfill the great commission of the AmeriPolice.”
Bishop pealed off his AmeriPolice issued PDT (Personal Data Tissue) and studied its surface luminosity. It shimmered opalescent yellow-grey. His target was obviously nearby, and the hardening polar-silks threaded into the toe of his AP issued moccasins confirmed clearly that it was a human frequency. This particular stretch of mud-block dwellings, vacated horse-ties and grime heaps was known for its concentration of border-punks, junkers and zone escapees—and worse: rogue artists and musicians. Raventown, as this 2 mile swath of indulgence and vagrancy was known, grew up at the southwestern-most base of the Wall of America, in the dim early days amidst the settling dusts and immense confusion following the Great Blast. Bishop could feel his fortune shifting to lighter tones even before the hexagonal shaped PDT, attached safely by Viscosity Regulating Bio-matter to the shoulder of his robe, confirmed his target’s proximity by resolving into creamy ocher, then drying stiffer than a wood chip.
Angus’s frequency was so pronounced it triggered frenzied vibrations in nearby Common Proximity Membranes, even when those rare civilian owned CPMs were grown for entirely different race or sex-prefs. Long before Angus entered an encampment or upper caste compound, skinny runners could be spotted abandoning their perches, wild-eyed, sprinting like spooked rabbits anxious to share the news of the slouched figure dragging his dark contraband up the road. Yes, he registered that loud. These menaces were why the AP existed.
True, Angus emitted a signature of such an odd metallic nature that it made Bishop’s cheeks pucker and rendered his PDT virtually unnecessary, but this Electro-Generated Refuse Trail was frankly a sun-send; according to the shadow on his wrist-dial, Bishop had little time before he had to return to general detail. The AP reported Angus was an artist of particular vulgarity; that he brushed his deep-staining tempura hieroglyphs in broad arrogant stokes across both cart and mule, and on private dwellings with zero regard for caste or status. It was said he picked, with cagey fast fingers and clever green eyes, a lamb-gut 6-string sound box, shameless of the Music Pollution Signature released among the dusty vagrant lined avenues and black markets populating the outskirts of the WoA. They said he carved lurid fictions into public trails where any traveling young Elite may stumble upon its de-virginizing imagery. They said Angus attracted crowds of delinquent artists over 100 thick when performing his strange emoti-plays, in which he apparently flailed and lurched with wild looks and frightening vacillations of vocal tenor, unnerving many a respectable Upperclassmen, and upsetting the meat-pigeons bordering the food compounds or perched sacredly around the thicket and thorn-secured Consumption Cages.
By wound and salve! He was an musician. That explained everything.
Under his breath, Bishop recited the AP creed: “This is my Bow. And this is my PDT. By these I am greater than the machines of old, and greater than the dreams that haunt hope. By Bow and PDT emission we maintain safety in our existence, or in our own membrane’s piercing we will be ripped asunder.”
Stay tuned for part two.
by Jim Aldrich (:
Written for the Poetry Question Daily Prompt: All digital technology has been shut down. Write a short-short story about how this would change daily life.
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.