Saturday, January 23, 2010

The Broza-Child-Protect.

Daryl Weston and his wife had signed to get the new parental control program granted by their Town Lexington. They were naturally anxious people and fond of the new techno-science devices improving their daily lives as much as their social rank. Every morning, the family was busied in a great hurry, for their children had to leave early to join their private college in downtown Boston, where the staff cared for the precious easiness of the well-informed customers.

Actually, the trip to school was quite long, in a train pretty wide-open to random events, say attacks and robbery. This was a sort of morning adventure. Thus, until the children came back and safe at eve, their parents never ceased to get deeply involved in their own business, more than they took heed to the horrorshow inwhich their children travelled. In other words, they were resolute like business fanatics. Truth, the news had reported only one attack on this line during the past year, and nothing before. But the parents thought that under cover of a survey device, nothing wrong could happen in the USA within the brand new XXI century so different from the dreamed past .

As might be expected, the couple had been chosen among thousands of families, to test a new system of parental control implemented on the lines towards Boston City. As a matter of fact, the free parental control would be tried mostly around the residential district in Lexington. The device looked like an invisible software able to detect and record the digital tracks of children when they passed under the entrance portico of the station. Thus, a software robot sent on the spot, e-mails to parents' computers. So they could be immediately informed of all stages of the school-trip their children. Consequently, the parents were, at the same time, informed of any digression their children might try to escape the device, say hurry towards shoplifting and truantery. In that very risky business outa there in what one called the forests of towns, say a gloomy reservation of pervert-solitary-adults.

The service had been called the "Broza child-protect." And the device was hidden in a chip grafted into the transit card to validate the boy's ticket, when he passed under the portico of the new futuristic era. And the sensors followed him closely all along the line. The parents could inquire online hour by hour, the whole stages of the hand delivery their most valuable jewells. However, the child still felt a little fettered by this new pace of progress. It was as if Big Broza and Sister returned to school under the threatening glance and grin of a supervisor encline to uncoil the worst snaky punishment. The children were certainly abuse safe ; apart from parents despotism upon their phones and computer.

Advertising speaker said in a robotic tone that sounds more political than technical, though enthused: "This service is offered by your municipality to fight against acts of vandalism and sometimes violence against your offspring on the road towards school." One knows the barbaric Huns, say the gangs of young unemployed managing troubles. And that threat was probably the last suburb political stake one could debate on TV.

The thing cost $ 30 per month. On more risky lines the thing grew high-raise-costly. However, it is not less than 2000 subscribers who ran this new device to inaugurate this morning at the gate of spring 2020, according to the time zone of the WestWorldCoast.

The Weston had dressed their children, like to meet Britney Spears herself in some afterparty of a crazy shopping. They were so excited to have been registered in the paradise network, as if surrounded by the troops of God's angels who could watch and survey their digital garden. Children left home in some playing scene of hugs in Rockwell Puritan fashion and imagery, openly showing their tickets squeezed by wavy hands to comfort their parents.

Along the line, Daryl Weston and his wife received plenty of mails: "Your child has just passed the portico Lexington Station. And we have the honor to inform you bla bla bla " And this chat lasting, until the children were parked in the college quadrangle barbedwire ringfence.

As usual, Daryl spent his lunch break to nibble some techno-scientific sushi and other news online TV. It happened he chated with a cold fish when broke such worst a flash info he had never heard in the whole U.S., say since the last earthquake that had shaken the whole California. The flash repeated loopingly that a police patrol had invested the most prestigious and popular Mall of Lexington, for the reason that a sniper has shot blindly on the customers.

The event had started like a mere routine visit. A Millicent Patrol, that is the police, had just checked the complaint of a woman threatened by her abusive husband. And when they realized she did not answer, they entered the house to find her dead within a mostly horrorshow crime scene tinged with red krasif of the great natural firm painted on the walls. The crime has been played with utmost violence. Worse yet, the police arrived too late, just after the murder, because everything was still burning red hot.

Immediately, they questioned the neighborhood who had seen, as they told, the ex-husband steal the car of his ex-wife to flee in a train of violence, that the whole neighborhood had recognized as his very brand. But, the neighbors didn't interfer, for they had taken the habit to ignore this domestic turmoil, which could turn into street massacre in full-telly-screen at first provocation or frowning eyelid.

The Millicents had just to follow the bloody tire tracks, and other horrorshow tell-tales of testimony, which led them around the mega mall of the city. There they saw the full range of ultra-violence uttered by the driven-madman. People looked like hungry ghosts leaving the area, squealing all their guts out like rapted piglets, unspeackable words mixed with complaints sometimes strangely joyous for they were out and safe. "The event was heated to white firy violence and passion, " said the maister-cop in charge of the investigation. When he pulled out his heavy blue-steel gun, to shoot the final picture of the devil himself, clearly identified within the Center, where the peace-minded family usually did her shopping on weekends.

Daryl Weston was wholly paralyzed in front of his monitor, it was kinda tsunami of free violence, which stranged him outa his business. Though, all this crap was still behind the glassy screen. On the other hand, he received on the same monitor, and at the same time, e-mails from the parental control, which provided security for her children.

He became thoroughly scared when thinking this mall was in his city, so his family could be shopping there. Except that they were shopping on weekends, and the shooting burst in full week. Inside the Mall, the Millicents numbered three corpses. And nobody could testify the serial killer had been killed. Some suggested he had ended his dirty killings by shotgun, say by force of lack of bullets.

The witnesses could only say the madman firstly cast bullets on the floor, while he entered shops to threaten everything was still moving. Immediately, everybody had already taken refuge under the cheap plastic tables. According to some military or social drill formerly managed to protect themselves from psychotic armed and, say nuclear attacks. Very usefull today indeed !

When the Millicents invaded the mall, they opened fire fairly quickly and started a male gender toughest dialogue evoking the gunfight at OK Coral. Still, a cop fell on the marble alley. When the battle became a trench-warry nobody could longer recognized others. And customers they ran away, and female screamed inaudible words meaning : "He will kill us all".

Flash-info blazed with some background image in three tough characters including two Millicents. Then, one could watch an interview of the maister-cop who took the light as well as the purest seductive male so-called Steve MacQuenn in "Bullit" now in Boston shopping alley. Around, one could smell gunpowder and oil of triggers, mingled with the fragrance of the red and green vegetables splattered on the walls of the supermarket mixed with cold blood.

And some suggested that the killer had been shot by a stray Millicent bullet, fortunately right in forehead between the eyes of the killer, a good job for sure. Certainly, he had gone too far when he threatened the less-than-fifty-years housewives in a gigant supermarket Downtown. Above all, the madman had shot two cops and he had injured other bystanders. There was a sort of unspoken request among the Millicents to get it over quickly, by shooting him dead at short notice. Wasn't this madman the very elected contender for suicide ? Was he ? In short, he was already well trained in connubial intimacy and ultra-violence with his wife to achieve love in the gloomiest hell.

So it was a huge story that left several wounded and four corpses. For the reporter had to remember the ex-wife, who was already in the wooden box within the fridge of the Millicents. There, only families and investigators were allowed to visit the victims of domestic violence, but as it happens oftenly, too late.

Daryl Weston was thoroughly shocked. And he thought again, because it was reasonable and rational, that in the past, violence was common. But this was like a play or movie theater, say gore and never to be included into real life.

When he was deeply involved in his own thoughts about this memorable event, he saw all-over on the screen, two faces who seemed not unknown. While breathless and speechless, the crowd hurried to see what she had just escaped. All crowded to the ghostly horrorshow. And there, planted among housewives dragged to the ground by their heavy bags of plastic barred by the supermarket brand, Daryl Weston saw his two children among the bewildered eyes who gorged themselves of this bloody crime scene.

The parental control device as claimed all day long : the children should be present in a classroom to burst their brains about a problem of calculation of trains that never arrive on time. Frankly, Daryl, struck by this vision of the worst, should acknowledge that something didn't work in this "Broza child-protect." And he had probably underestimated the children skill of invention. Clearly, they had already managed a parade to escape survey.

As good parents, Weston had simply imposed the Broza device. And they never required the complicity of their own children. And so they thought easily, it was the fail in the device, which would be left aside in the weird XXI century. Finally, the Weston who erased their family account ... they did their next shopping together on next weekend, within the mall very hot scene of the crime.

Copyright Demian West 2008

The Censor of Wepon

Outside there was a gray basement still reeking of alcohol and old dung, almost powdered as decaying into dust. The house lay in the outskirts of the heavy symbolic Ulm cathedral and its surging proudest western spire, not far from the higher Baptist architected finger of the cathedral of Strasbourg which showed the celestian way like in the painting by Da Vinci.

There in a cellar, overheaped with garbage accumulated since the last war-of-darkness, one could feel the memories of death and horrorshow getaway across the streets Germany. A viokcho bearded bloke tapped on his oldy Mac-or-PC computer. In the village of this lost district, people called him the "madman" more precisely "the madman wepon". His real name was Piotr-the-censor, which is not very German except the devilish reference to censorship, which was indicative of this very ancient custom, say from medieval or perhaps barocco Germany.

For which reason has he been nicknamed the "madman of wepon"? Well, because he spent his whole blindly time to surf online through gigabytes with dummies, and above all on the website new-citizen-papers kinda gossips-styled and based on rumor Ethics, the so-called : citizen CyberForum or shorter the "wepon ". This space was full of ultra violent chats evoking the slums and suburbs around the 60s, before the continent had changed its name into Europe, nowadays ruled under firm-and-fixed law-and-order.

The whole social violence had transmigrated upon the net. Psychosis, social illness, megalomaniacs, metro-ultra-violence, transexbeasty and techno-Scientologists with all their mud clinging to their punky-underlings-underwears. In short, the whole society on line was like defrocked bastards evoking a new Bastoche revolution ... I mean when you sip your gessamin coffee "place de la Bastille" in a manner of cultivated gainsbourgian provocation against refined society holding down the pavement and the noisy motorcycles vomiting their oily fumes.

He was German, and he hid everything in his cellar for some unspeakable burried reason. Truth, his mother had openly lamented the total defeat of Germany, and especially the announcement of the fuelled suicide of her teen-idol Adolf. It was still stashed in its cellar-attitude in the meantime the German reconstruction after the great-warry. Sometimes, he fancied himself wearing clothes in ancient military-shoulders-pletshoes in Adolphe-style, surrounded by walls all-over pined-up with edited photos in heroic composures and gestures, like a grotesque remake of the clockwork orange aping his mustached icon playing itself-myth.

Unfortunately, little Peter was milk-titted with nazi-mythology. In other words, he dreamed every day from sunrise to serene, to punish and chop heads off designed enemies including the threatening shape of his mother. Well, he had a cousin in Canada who sent him postcards with great views of huge landscapes like Africa, rather under the snow. It calmed him down sometimes when he could see some areas upon Earth with huge vastness, though the ustmost frontier was on the net.

Endless and everyday, he diffused his imprecations against anything that moved and doesn't bite back on the net. Thus he grew like weird ripples through this space of free utterance. The net was already full of pranks and sex-stuffs too. He was the so-called "Censor", for he filled up the innumerable mailboxes to carefully and surely space his censorship towards all popping and stony bloggers. Say, he embodied the old comic reflex of stiffened and eruptive Doc Follamour's-hand in the famous kubrickian style. Actually, the Censor didn't know he was quoting some major masterpiece of kubrickian movie in his psycho-nervous-cellar.

The usual anonymity over the net allowed him to establish perversely his revisionist and false theories about the truth & fake in recent history. At the same time, he couldn't even see the mere daylife in daylight, apart from his computer window alike through the lens of his cutting sighs and sharp impulses of hatred, which were simply the impuls of hate he has to vomit daily upon undetermined zillion of fellows on line.

Since he was totally banned from the real world.

However, people made a start to some gavarite, that is a debate, in little downtown-Ulm around the City Hall. And governance of the said city launched a walk to take a little sight in this funny jap-house stashed on some ultra-warry-island as a reservation of this neo-viking warrior living in his gloomy den. For this madman couldn't see any ending of the starriest warry of the twentieth century and its troops of deadly horrorshows. The Mayor and his team came in a undetermined cautious procession quite alarmed, the number of police in white chest-wholly-upholstered sauntered kindly eventually to manage the full protection of the madman himself. They knocked gently at the door of the beautiful German barracks that has been built before the war, with wood and every noble stuffs before the plastic & formica crap-era, say a massive roof in Hanseatic style who should subjugate the toughest barbarian troops to the deepest soviet Urals.

When they forced the door, they stumbled on a stray letter they had sent a few days ago in case the madman had not yet lost all his common sens, as an announcement the Mayor will come soon. The whole story looked alike a crossing the threshold introducing some new worse movie "Psycho", say in some natural remake. In this odd and weird mood, the visitors stumbled again on piles of waste which adorned fantastically the shadows, as well this crap diffused a smell of unburried corpses from some gore cemetery of the last after-life housing crisis.

Frankly, this sight was a real shame cast into the public eye. Actually, the old man was literally welded to his machine by several of its most bodily secretions and limbs. Like in the story told recently by a little old ptitsa ladyship who was a social-worker. She was in charge of poverty emergencies. And she had met in the lobby, an old lady who lived alone for decades and without any family to care for her old days. What had shocked strongly the doctor was that the small viokcho had glued her slippers at his feet. Because she never get undressed, even to sleep and finally even to die. And doctors had to skillfully scalp or remove her slippers with all their needlework finest art & craft ... A great jeweller job but rather disgusting, according to the testimony on telly prime time of vomiting.

Similarly, Piotr the Censor had become a kind of bionic monster, but merely by the means of his custom of tapping endlessly. Thus, his body fluids and secretions became slowly and naturally some strange link or glue melting his flesh with the machine, obviously a bit outdated proto-computer-design.

Not surprisingly, he broke the headlines, but not so much the net-headlines which were rather pretty ashamed ... no! the real papers Ô my Brothers and Sisters, the true ones. Those that heap the street and splatter on your face some monstrous pictures of our wonderful gloomy world that never stops inventing the worst forms of evil or illness, which definitely excite our endless pervert organs .

Although everybody was frankly needy to burn the house in great frenzy to drown quickly the whole story into the babylonic river oblivion, say forget on the spot the whole crap. For it was an ancient and easy custom within Germany, and greatly before that frantic censor and his warry were buried in this cellar.

Copyright Demian West 2008