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Why Every Cunt looks like Ringo Starr

And so as the stars fall in on themselves and time its’ self fractures and becomes a myriad of disparate, unequal shifting events; the cosmological version of Alzheimer’s disease, something continues where nothing should continue. A hundred thousand engines burn white, propelling the last city of man outward and away from the crushing chaos where even poor Azathoth must meet his blind senseless destruction. “Worthing ! Worthing ! Worthing !” The last city of human kind, the glowing beauty of earth’s children, the summation of all that was once good and noble; ploughs through the frozen empty smile at the end of time, a pin prick of light in the nothing that is becoming. Worthing with it’s vast inversion energy generator (I. E. G. ) always in balance, always in tune; creating the force bubble that surrounds and protects it in the long slumber, protects the pyramids of gold and the silver spires, the libraries, the museums, the bordellos, the torture gardens, the Chemical Insanity Churches and the gravity freeze banks where the dreamers are stored; but not to dream.

Imagine being thrown naked into liquid Nitrogen while immense gravitational forces are brought to bear and fold the point of your existence into a never ending loop. Imagine the blackness that follows, imagine that death that is not death, imagine sleeping for ten million years without a flickr of thought. Imagine your brain sending a signal to your arm to shield your face and by the time all of human history has begun, evolved and ended; you’ve shielded your face.

And so this is where, technically at least, it all goes wrong.

(above) Observation Bunker 33A

Well, time, it’s a tricky bastard. Some say its’ alive, a conscious entity, and we’re like the bugs and microbe that infest our own bodies; clearly some people are twats. Others that time is like a pond freezing over; that we can only see the edge where we stand above the water and that under the ice in the dark, black void beneath our feet, things flounder, entities that should never be; swim and search for weakness, and when they find fracture in the ice they break through. No one is really sure. What they are sure of is that while everyone was dead but not dead, while a billion stars screamed and died, something moved through the impenetrable force wall entered Worthing from Observation Bunker 33A, ejected all the pre-designed body moulds for the dreamers to awake in, wiped the history files from the computers, and blew most of the city including the museum of DNA. Which most people from the future consider a bit of a pisser to be honest.

So why Ringo Starr ?

This really takes us back to computers and machines and choices. Some would say a bad choice.

With no templates or DNA left from which to construct new bodies the computers set about looking for any DNA they could find. They searched every where and eventually after a couple of thousand years they found some. The last DNA vestige of an entire people and their long and troubled history. In the museum of “Pop” music, donated by a besotted groupie, a bummed dog end of a joint, dropped on the floor of a recording studio: The Sunset Studio and producers workshop in Los Angeles in the summer of 1974. The Album being recorded was “Goodnight Vienna”. Recorded by Ringo Starr. And so, with the only genetic variance being that of gender, the computers set about building the replacement bodies for the dreamers that do not dream; and when they awoke from their artificial death, they wished it hadn’t been so artificial after all.

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