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