In the umpteenth day of the sixth month of the double-thousand-some-odd year after the invisible man hung himself on a giant mathematical operator a medium-sized hairless monkey sits down in the middle of a large, empty room in front of a giant supercomputer to write a manifesto. This is what he says, more or less, though because he is a monkey and becaue he has been drugged by his capitalist captors, he is wont to make clerical and thought-process errors that would make most beasts’ hair stand on end:
– Something’s gotta turn out right
– But maybe not for a long time
– We refuse to serve anyone not wearing a shirt, especially women
– On the road to St. Ives there was no-one who didn’t also appear in Candide
– There has never been an end to slavery
– You gotta sing to yourself and rock gently a little or you’re just another schizo
– Death is joy
– Joy, joy, joy (melodic)
– This is my manifesto
He stands, looks around, and pulls his arms off. Hairless and bloody, they lie there like modernity on the concrete until the wardenkeeper comes to take them away. Later, he will fed them to his small, hairless children.
It is a Gacy world, mostly.