~Disembodied asses?
NO, THE ASSES ARE ATTACHED TO REPLOID LIFEFORMS.
~Well, it’s all the same in the dark. I like your style, Kompressor.
PRECOGNITIVE SOFTWARE INDICATES THAT THE CONFLICT BETWEEN ANALOG AND DIGITAL FUNK WILL EVENTUALLY RESOLVE ITSELF THROUGH A DIALECTICAL PROCESS OF INTEGRATION, A FORM OF ASSBANGING NEITHER ORGANIC NOR SYNTHETIC, BUT COMPRISING ELEMENTS OF BOTH. WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT UNTIL THAT TIME, WE WILL HAVE TO DESTROY YOU.
~I knew there was a downside.
A directional pad graphic appears above the monitor-face. Dr. Johnson speaks:
~Now, M-Funk, if you won’t cooperate, we shall put your dancing to the test. The floor beneath you is wired with explosives, which will detonate unless you can match Kompressor’s rhythm...
The machine sets the sequence. Programmed beats, programmed steps, metronomic masturbation. Four keys in an electronic instrument, each step releasing a preset soundclip, M-Funk’s feet following the beat, slave steps of ever-increasing speed—up down left right up down left right—speed increasing—
Our man scans the psychic frequencies in desperation... [mind] touches
Boswell’s mind? My mind. Running from the Machmen, cut that city cut that city neonecropopulace has no reflection, just east of the river Denial the techs are breathing. Days spent dodging the Industry, nights in time-traveling style clubs. What’s a boy to do when all the best parties are in the past? Find a way to crack the calendar, that’s what. Mars and Venus Audiac quartets, quintets, three sets, Four Tets. Glowing rails. Black girls with white lipstick. In the daylight of the morning nothing’s worth remembering. One afternoon found Crazy-A in a cryostasis chamber in an abandoned warehouse, unfroze him but his joints were too stiff, hooked him up with hydraulic prostheses and initiated neorobo breaking, dancebots taking over the organic scene, dancebots make the breaks one two one two. I should have mentioned that on Monday night, coming up the Strand, I was tapped on the shoulder by a fine fresh lass. I went home with her. She was an officer’s daughter, and born at Gibraltar. I could not resist indulging myself with enjoyment of her. <
<
Up up down down left right left right up down left left right right left down up down up up left right down left right down down left up left right down up up down down left right left up down up down up up up down left left right left right up up down left right up down left right up down up down left right up left right up down up left down right up left down up right left left down up right right down left up down left right up left down down right up left up left down down left left up right up right up down left left down left up left down left right up down left right up down down left down left down up left left down right up right right left down up left down right left left up up up down down left right left right down left up up left right left left up down left right left down left up up left down left up right down down left left right left down up down up up right up right down left up down down left up down right up left up down left right left left right up down left right leftleft rightupdown leftright leftright updown leftright upleft downright updownleft right downleftright up downleft upleftrightdown leftleftleft uprightup rightup downleft leftdown downupleftrightupleft downleftupleft rightupleftdown upleftleftright downupdownleftright upleftrightdown downupleftupdownrightupupup downdownleftdownleft uprightleftupdownleftright updownleftright updownleftupdownright downuprightleftdownup rightleftdownupdownleftupright updownleftrightupdownleft updowndownleftrightleft updownleftrightupdown updownleftleftrightupdownleftupdownrightleftuprightup
the beat of our man’s feet constrained by the dancepad—
four-way prison
speed increasing—
[mind] reaches out again and finds...
...a nearby transmitter broadcasting conflicted thought-forms... and five
(<
<
<>
<
<
<
<
<
<
<<...GOLD>>)
seconds later the Club watches as Lord Monboddo rises from his seat, runs in front of the monitor and types a sequence into the keypad at the base of the smartchains restraining M-Funk—
~Boswell, stop him! M-Funk must not be freed!
Our man staggers off the pad and leaps for cover as Monboddo takes his place—feet faltering—struggling to match the beat—a sudden misstep and
BEATMATCH FAILURE//TERMINAL SEQUENCE ACTIVATED
A splitsecond of raw thunder and the floor erupts into redgold death heat sunspot stain of terminal light and flame—Monboddo a column of ashes—exploding monitor spattering hot glop of glassplasm (severing the interface to Kompressor, consciousness stored on remote server) over the Club, Boswell leaping to protect Johnson while M-Funk makes for the nearest corridor—and runs...
...down spiral staircases of bonewhite marble—baroque wallpanels flashing ghosts of Clubscenes past...
...through the inner labyrinth...
...sanctuaries of stolen art and contraband clothes...
...research rooms strewn with prototypes—Sound-Sweeps and vibration dampeners...
...hidden treasuries—hoarded wealth of Scotland...
Alarms echo—
Our man enters a prisonblock lined with forcescreen cells—inmates sealed behind laserlined mesh—mostly dark lumbering shapes... and one familiar face—
Bathed in the emerald glow of a forcescreen—the cocked hat and moddish Italian suit—unmistakable outline of Maxim Gorky Park, the Russian-Korean secret agent—formerly an authorized infiltrator—now the galaxy’s best-dressed criminal—
~It’s been a long time, M-Funk.
~Park. I haven’t seen you since the Vocaloid Crisis on Planet Pakistan, when the imported Cantopop holograms went on strike... what are you doing here?
~A private consortium hired me to investigate Bulgarian broad-spectrum temporal interference in the Anglosphere. Millions of years ago, I... but why should I trust you, M-Funk? It was you who stole my girlfriend Rivka Yang Jialing, the Israeli-Singaporean secret agent, at the Tau Ceti Sublow Revival in 3022...
~No time to explain. I ne
ed any information you have that could help me stop the Club. They’re processing the groove under cover of mass spectacle... using the proto-fascist glam routine... controlling the supply of funk like a pusher. The asses are not moving; instead journalism and complicated hand movements are taking over. If the funk doesn’t come undammed soon, the whole thing could escalate into a priority-1 visual-kei lockdown. And the anti-funk...
~I know. I discovered its existence while carrying out my mission...
~Which was?
~Get me out of this cell and we’ll talk.
Our man presses a tile on the wall and the lasermesh vanishes—Park steps outside, withdraws a cigarette case from his pocket, lights up, and runs along the corridor tapping wall tiles, dissolving the forcescreens—
~Enemies of the Club... we’ll set them all free...
~Who are they?
~Primates, one and all—prehuman inhabitants of Scotland. They couldn’t march in step, so they were imprisoned here and used as experimental test subjects.
Simian shapes swell from the cells—livid eyes and bared white teeth—some shrieking, others dazed—M-Funk eyes them with compassion—
~We must funkatize these chimps, then smoke them out with joints.
~There’s no time, Park says. We have to get out of here before the Club activates its defense systems. There’s a transmat booth further along this corridor...
~Understood. Now, tell me about your mission...
The two of them rush down the corridor, primates scattering behind them—Park continues—
~I started off investigating the Anglosphere at a point several million years in the past. I soon discovered a stone in the outer reaches of space, orbiting a new planet: Scotland...
~The invitation from the Promoter Prophets of Ultralum 9? I’ve seen it...
The corridor inclines upward—ahead, silver outline of the transmat booth—
~Yes. I knew that something in this planet’s history would eventually produce the conditions that would allow anti-funk to arise. What was anti-funk? I didn’t know. But the Promoter Prophets are never wrong. All of their accidents result in perfect predestination. I began monitoring Scottish history for any unfunky developments and found a higher proportion than usual. The Great Highland Bagpipe... something called “Belle and Sebastian”... I realized someone was influencing Scotland from the start, steering its culture in an unfunky direction. Then, by hacking subspace communications networks, I uncovered evidence of Bulgarian infiltration. It was they who corrupted the Promoter Prophets’ Artifact Generators and funded the Scottish independent music scene. By following the time traces, I detected one of their fleets moving between this timezone and the early 1970s. I immediately set out for Earth to investigate further...
Park and M-Funk stand in front of the doors—our man eyes the input panel—
~What did you learn?
~No time to explain out loud. <
<
Prepare for info dump—
On February 3rd, 1973, Carl Sagan visited a disco and heard funk for the first time. But he did not start dancing. Instead, he remained detached, casting a spectator’s eye (rhythm remover sound-sweep mindfield) over the dance floor. His scientific colleagues danced tentatively, as if they were above the music, cultivating an ironic attitude towards assbanging. Tiring of the insistent beat, Sagan excused himself (night air darkblind floodlit trillion starpoints)—
As he stood outside the club, a Bulgarian operative approached him. Would he be interested in attending a private event, a chance to experience Bulgarian music live? Sagan regarded the agent with suspicion, but soon found himself relaxing; something in the man’s demeanor put him at ease (subliminal hipgnosis viral neurolinguistics)—
Later, during the event itself (keening piping drugged air thoughtcrawl knife tremors), Sagan found his thoughts wandering: if alien civilizations developed musical instruments, what would they be like?
“Well, it is conceivable that more advanced civilizations would have access to a greater set of frequencies. Think, for example, of the complexity of the orchestra, each instrument aligned with the others, the great range of development over hundreds of years. This alien music certainly wouldn’t resemble anything like that ‘assbanging’ nonsense the kids are into. In fact, a Type Omega civilization might not even need to move, but only broadcast its waveforms telepathically. It might resemble something like Bulgarian folk music, only louder.”
= all psychic plants by Bulgarian agents. Years later, as Sagan and his associates considered the contents of the Voyager Golden Records, subliminal programming asserted itself. In 1977—
“The Voyager-1 and Voyager-2 spacecrafts are travelling towards the stars. Each of them carries a gilded copper gramophone record—a message to alien civilizations. In addition to scientific information about the Earth and its inhabitants, the records contain selected pieces of mankind’s musical treasury. Along with a Beethoven symphony, there is among them a Bulgarian folk song from the Rhodopes region, performed by Valya Balkanska.”
= none of the musical selections were conducive to assbanging. The message was clear: Earth was not yet ready for interplanetary contact. How could a civilization which had failed to grasp the principle of bass hits expect to be integrated into a vast intergalactic confederation of funkscenes, where entire planet-sized systems transmit music through the vast reaches of interstellar darkness? Possibility of an isolated Earth open to Bulgarian control—custom-designed timeline, temporal brace to stunt humanity’s development—
~As you know, the failure of the scientific community to broadcast funk into outer space prompted the eventual intervention of the Human Funkstramentality Project. Under the guidance of Dr. Funkenstein the projected Bulgarian future was avoided, along with all other unfunky timelines proposed by cultists of the dance-averse universe outside our own.
M-Funk snaps to attention. Only a second has passed.
~What happened next?
~I returned to Scotland in the present to continue my investigation, but the Club arrested me on trumped-up charges of quantum entanglement with underage girls.
Our man points at the input panel.
~Where does this transmat lead?
~The control room of the Bulgarian mothership. I could try to reprogram it...
~No need. In accordance with Intergalactic Law... it’s time to funk up Eastern Europe...
Park eyes M-Funk with amusement—
~You realize we’ll be massively outnumbered?
~I’m not sure about that. Look behind you.
Park turns—sees a haggard army of primates coming up the corridor—livid eyes and bared teeth—
~The chimps will help us... we’ll liberate them from this facility and secure them cannabis, funk, and gratuitous vengeance...
Our man taps the panel and rushes into the transmat booth—a moment later his feet strike the cold steel floor of the Bulgarian mothership—startled eyes of guards lining the room, dressed in traditional costume altered to spacewear—magnetic boots—knitted socks and black lambskin hats—functionaries hunched over navigation terminals, monitoring the position of their warships—
Ahead, spacescene panorama of the Scottish atmosphere, planetcurve rising through the darkness—
A chair on the bridge turns to reveal Lazar Lazarov—
~M-Funk! And Mr. Park...
~Lazarov... I challenge you to immediate dance battle... it is time to get down.
~I do not dance, M-Funk. I merely play the gaida, or goat-skin bagpipe... perhaps you would care for a demonstration...
Lazarov clutches to his chest what looks like a large dirty pillow fitted with a mouthpiece—a monotonous whine emerges from its pipes—
Our man covers his ears but the penetrating sound rises in pitch—
~Park... initiate beatboxing...
Park kicks the beat—
Our man dances through the pain in his ears—
&nbs
p; ~Microbiologically speaking, when I start churnin, burnin and turnin, I’ll make your atoms move so fast, expandin your molecules, causing a friction fire... intermolecular tension...
Primates stream from the transmat booth, some clawing at guards, distracting the navigators, leaping over the ship’s control panel, others dancing wildly—
~Caught in the counterrhythm... folk instruments no match for the funk-frenzied simian cortex...
A moment of hesitation, a break in Lazarov’s playing, and the funk takes over... the gaida explodes in his hands, knocking him off his seat—primates jump on his fallen form, screaming and dancing—
The navigators abandon their terminals—
Lazarov staggers to his feet and makes for the escape hatch, flanked by fleeing guards—
~You’ve made an enemy of Bulgaria this day, M-Funk... we’ll be waiting for you at the end of time...
Moments later an escape pod detaches from the side of the mothership, a spinning spheroid marked with the white, green and red of the Bulgarian flag—
M-Funk rushes to the control terminal—
~Computer, display position of all units—
Bulgarian warships appear through the viewscreen, a ring of silver rockets curving through space, encircling Scotland like a manacle—
~Just what I thought, Park says, an entire fleet hidden from ground-level detection...
Our man types in a server connection sequence; a moment later the face of Mood Control appears on the communications terminal monitor—
~Funkatron One, this is M-Funk. Have commandeered Bulgarian mothership. Situation critical. Requesting immediate backup.
Dadaoism (An Anthology) Page 9