Joe Backhoe stands for you, raised up as a braised sweetmeat, a toothsome beast of burden, a morsel of muscled means. His example is the gristle on the chisel; he’s the blueprint for how industrialists lap you out. Authorized personnel are working in Virginia, satellites in the arctic circle, for your connectivity to their mainframe. Their monitors float beyond perception until your eyes go out or the sky rejects them, which could happen any day.
Joe Backhoe is only one of several beef-laden prototypes filling expansion slots nationwide. He’s undercooked and overclocked– his warranty is void- nothing in the tangible universe is meant to last, least of all him. Don’t try to grab the lightning or his taser. Your ability to fight with fried knuckle and smoked brain will be significantly curtailed.
KraftKunt Industries assembled some nanofood to batch feed him, to further soften his scrambled interiors ensuring the squishier bits can be sucked through those hair-like threads he picked up in the excessive packaging. The brands he trusts from the retailers he prefers. The infrastructure chiefs fondly call this The Live Stream of Anguish when the plebs are out of earshot.
Pick your server like a full nose and just you try to shake it off your finger.
Let the pixels fall where they may. He’s been pricked before. He knows something’s different but can’t place when or where the shift occurred. The filaments. They passed under his awareness in fine strands like living spider silk, working their way in. He didn’t even know it because he hadn’t yet noticed that lump in his armpit, either, If he was paying attention, that lump is far more noticeable than the needling microhairs.
Working their way in.
They were in the packaging of his phone and his tablet. He picked up the packages. He unpacked the contents and removed the labels etc. That’s when they covered his hands etc. That’s when they started working their way in.
‘It’s so simple it’s genius. It’s almost as genius as salad bar/buffet restaurant terrorism.’ This is how the Director’s Chief Asistant described the dandelion style of dispersal employed for The Sponsor.
‘Nano tech or Listeria? Joker’s Wild.
Love it or leave it love it or leave it
Choke on it or eat it choke on it or eat it choke on it or eat it.’ The Director and his Chief Assistant wave their champagne flutes aloft.
‘THEY’LL PICK THEM UP FROM THE PACKAGING ON THEIR PHONES AND COMPUTERS. THEY WILL EAT THEM FROM THE INSIDE OUT! DUMMIES!’ The Director downs his bubbly and holds out his empty flute for more.
Meanwhike Joe Backhoe knows something’s wrong, from deep within his hollows.
He’s jumping at notifications:
Screaming in the comments section…
itching, restless. Squeezing out bland logs of content.
Back at Malfeaus Technologies, the Director waxes tangential:
‘There’s other stuff to worry about. Like at the salad bar. They… and by they I mean THE MEN WITH THE REFLECTIVE SKIN… don’t make test strips accessible enough for a reason. They don’t have the propruh sensitivities. That’d be because they want all the conical slobs who eat at salad bars to die off. You won’t even know if the blue cheese contains infectious semen or the Italian contains tuberculosis snot. EEEEEEEEEEEEE. COLI De-light! Ha! They say nothing can live in dressing. But, I don’t believe it. I don’t even think a quack like Dr. Oz would agree to that. I’ve lived in a pool of straight, white vinegar for months now… but, Bleu cheese… how I loved you.’