The Algorithm of Chaos
‘So splendidly simple! You’ve ditched my elaborate theory that you keep to it as a vantage foxhole to keep in check possible startups. Some Kid from Kenosha, you know, who pops up to benchmark how swift you are at drawing your piece. Can’t that be why?’
‘The question “why?” opens the floodgate for trigazillions of theories each of which might be plausible to a certain extent,' responded V dully like a pedagogue dead bored with repeating the same hooey for dummies.
‘O! You don’t say so! What a nightmare! Now, back from the deluge to the file I stole taking advantage of my position at the Firm. On the whole, it’s a kinda collective log…’
‘Shut up! Got domed with a brick from the roof? What sputter is this? You drunk or something? But if I’m wired? Mark well – all you say now might be used against you and distress your ass bitterly.’
Lex shook his head in disdain.
‘Forget that deprecated shit, dandy. Recordings do not count now were it even lie-detector-backed sincere confessions of the repentant SOB, thanks to the non-stop scientific achievements. Nowadays, my lawyer would prove easily it’s a recording of my innocent prank. Moreover, you have nothing but my words and, even though the voice is also my, where is the evidence of the malicious intent?
Wake up and get your rocks off! We live in the times of 2-step-verification. No court would pick up a case based on mere words without well documented thoughts of the perpetrator planning the misdeed or thought by them while doing it.
So, honey, just action without the 2-s-V is of no count any more. Were you even caught with a smoking gun over the body riddled in tatters or with your pants down before a bevy of kindergarten kids. Whatever. You might have easily been a victim to puppeteering, they set you up by means of retroactive manipulation of causality. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen. It was a mean trick by the great-grand kids of your sibling sister. They revenged your not giving that fool, your sister, a candy bar when she was three. She cried about the deprivation on a video which those posterity brats would find in the attic of their great-grandma. Of all that you were completely unaware while performing actions you had been manipulated into.
Ya dig how the land lays now, eh? Crime is only what slips thru 2-s-V.’
‘Ah, I see. If they hack my email box where you call me to put President on ice but they can’t present the record of your frivolous thought, like, ‘Why not sending this trash to V?,' you are immune and sinless as the Holy Virgin?’
‘Attaboy! Exactly! My nose stays as clean as that of a 20-year-old nepo baby of a billionaire running a multinational corporation. And let the hackers fuck each other’s ass in your email-box. Pardon my unorthodox lexica.’
‘That’s why you shy sending the file to me?’
‘Clear as day. The file in your box plus a plain record of my thought while sending it makes me utterly vulnerable to incrimination.’
‘Record of your thought? Are there any pills to mitigate the alcoholic delirium, I wonder?’
‘Man, that’s what I’m doing at my workplace. Not pills I mean but thought recording. Ever heard anything about the noosphere?’
‘?’
‘In addition to the athmo- and stratosphere the eggheads have turned out one more – the noosphere. The thing consists of thoughts ever thought by those capable of thinking. Any thought, however secret and hidden, flits there openly, like radio signals. But it’s a lame analogy because a radio signal tends to fade and die away while a thought becomes a part to the noosphere forever and a day. Ineffaceable. Indestructible. Undisguised. True, the technology is not developed to the full potential as of yet, however, with the threshold overstepped the rest is just the question of time. Theoretically, you’re able to zero on in and read the thoughts of Leonardo da Vinci while he was doing his Mona Lisa.’
‘How about the thoughts of your dad at the moment of spilling you out in the crowd of your doubles, obviously not as zippy, spermatozoids?’
‘A problem of a higher level. You have to sieve his contemplation out from those by other males in the like phase, and by bigger apes too both in zoos and in the wild—the shifty bastards conceal their wit so as no to get harnessed into the mutual labor efforts. They’re all alike, the orgasmic thoughts of men for the last five million years wrapping the planet with innumerable layers, reaching the altitude of the Everest. You certainly will need assistance of AI yet, in principle, the problem looks rather trivial.’
‘Bullshit! The legends, myths, and fairy tales by a group of anonymous alcoholics in a marathon session!’
‘A well-grounded heat, yours is. The idea looks as weired as mobile communication would seem to Chinguiz-khan’s granny. Yet the public is readily trained to never give a bean. One more wrapper around the planet? So what? Aren’t we taught about the atmosphere containing the oxygen atoms? Have you ever seen an oxygen atom? Nope. Still you use them for breathing. Noosphere? Just an immense bulk of thoughts of any kind both precisely defined, and laxly dropped halfway, and lost and popped up again…’
‘They are really squeezed in there, ain’t they?’
‘In the head?’
‘No, in your announced noosphere. The thoughts must have been flagged off by the incantation “Let be light!” and since then there’ve been thought up such a magnitude of thoughts that all the ware-houses, dumps, and canyons should get inundated by the surface in rising deluge.’
‘Looks like it started dawning on you, good friend, which is a welcome news, yet you still apply the obsolete square-nested approach. Of course, it might seem tight for all kinds of thoughts starting with the “Where’s mom? I wanna tit, and pee, and poop!” up to the “Damn nurse! I need the bedpan! Now I’ll wet the pajamas to spite her!”. They are born to never disappear, millions upon billions thoughts every moment, wreathing, meandering, swiping thru each other. The buggers don’t give an eff about the grim warning by Malthus.
A-and there is a well substantiated suspicion that any living thing is capable of thinking, from the unicellular to stalagmites. Another host of contributors… The good news is they are intangible, floating thru one another, anyone’s thought withing whoever else’s thought. Just like radio waves do or maverick quant effluence and so forth doo-doo that no normal dude can ever understand. Do you follow, student? Beware, I am strict and demand details at the term examination’.
‘As long as they are so intangible, I don’t care about their Gulf Streams and Maelstroms made up of immaterial matryoshkas sitting in each other or wherever they hang out.’
‘Everywhere, buddy! Everywhere – in you, in me, in this here table. Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, thoughts…’
‘You’ve screwed the cite, “Words, words, words, words…”, says Hamlet’.
‘Words are not for storage. They’re too fragile, unstable, often broken, forgotten, lost irretrievably. Thoughts are another kettle of fish, they are always there. Accruing parts in the noosphere’.
‘Thanks for your entertaining tale, yet as an inveterate mountaineer I can’t believe a thing without grabbing it first’.
‘How many times have you groped a radio wave?'
‘Somehow missed the experience. Yet I can switch on the receiver thrown together by my Dad in the past millennium and listen to the weathercast’.
‘The announcer reads the forecast and you, piehole open, believe in the maneuvers of the clouds which you cannot grab. By the by, some guys earn a good living from thought reading’.
‘Come on! No medium has ever managed to cheat the guys from AIP neither to pass SPR or ASSAP checks’.
‘Who talks of mediums? I meant the guys who work with me in the Firm. Turning the knobs to tune to a thought in the noosphere. Easy as cake’.
‘A kinda radio receiver?’
‘A sort of’.
V gave his pal a closer look. To give out such a yarn you should be pretty high. But no echo of pipe dreams in his eyes, neither the purplish circles about them, and none of the uncontrolled sipping whiffs at nothing. The guy broadcasts not from under influence. Hmm. And leaves no loose ends, a kinda Second Coming of Isaac Newton for you’.
‘Okay,' began V thoughtfully, ‘if for a split second we suppose all this blither to be not a sham spilled by hostile aliens from Tau Ceti as a mock Trojan Horse, then I can’t even remotely see how…’
‘But are you ready to hand over twenty years of your precious life to see closer yet dimly?’ interrupted Lex. ‘The learn curve is pretty steep. Some nutty field of science. And all of that fundamental brainbreaker is based on a certain Algorithm of Chaos. Which is about all I know’.
* * *
3
In the most ruthlessly devastating of her gait styles, waitress Sally neared their stall. So it was announced in the badge on her magnificent breast, the left one, pinned over the dazzling white blouse (for the folks who tend to read in fits and starts, like, for instance, me at times, when not sufficiently concentrated—that was said about the badge, the damn thing was pinned and nothing else whatsoever, so as to remove any groundless expectations and keep staying on the safe side)…
As always in his intercourse with the fair sex, V gave free rein to his habitual instinct or, which also possible, to his instinctive habit, notably aggravating at the instances of communication with the distaff segment in personnel of both budget organizations and private business (the time of day, it might be mentioned, had no effect on his deep-rooted habit or, maybe, ingrained instinct).
At times he gave it a shot at reckoning location of tattoos in private nooks of their anatomy, for intimate exposure besides those on the show at their working hours.
However, the imaginative detours were merely spells of an aside activity and for the most part V stayed unobtrusively keen on intercepting the flickers of the random signals emitted by female subconsciousness. Those will-less weather balloons to scout out and plumb you. The unexpected winks or, say, playing the tongue along their parted lips then leaving its tip to stick forgetfully from the corner of her mouth. Subconscious, unpremeditated impulses are numerous and unforeseeable.
Why?! Pray I earnestly, tell me why learning all those grammar rules and phonetics? Why enrolling courses of differently foreign languages online or strain yourself with a paid tutor? They are intended only to obscure the simple and ultimate truth conveyable which is so easily imparted by means of body language. And bodies, moreover so lavishly opulent and graceful as by this here representative of millennials, Sally the waitress, do have the right for self-expressing. Unrestricted. The opener, the better.
Even for the reps of earlier generation branded with offhand “X”—fretted with wear and worries, wasted by their useless anxieties and utterly worn out by the unsparing exploitation of their poor selves and those by their side they only could put their hands on—there always remained a warm nook in the big heart of true knight and gentleman, that of V.
To boil it down, enough is to remark that even for a lady fairly advanced in her years, whose puberty coincided with the times when beatniks (another since long lost and safely forgotten generation) revolutionized jigger-bug into the rock-n-roll acrobatics, even for her—faith!—could V politely wind some sixty years back and there inadvertently admire the high tempo of her strong legs’ step enfolded tightly in sleek nylon. The stockings of black nylon—the ritzy vogue, the seam shot plumb up from her heels—squeak tinily and rub each other in between her heated thighs… gee! girl! No need to haste. You’ll be in time and everything OK, and he will surely be waiting for you chain-smoking his Lucky Strike, and that’ll become the best date in your whole life, yes! In swaying swoon till midnight and beyond it to the predawn twilight sipping into the interior of his chicest of all Ford models, Crestline Victoria, over lie-down seats… A!. Babe!. O!. O!. Moreee!. mmm… Tommy… dear…
With a sad smile of understanding would V watch after that silly brimless hat of hers, and the single feather stuck up from the teensy roll of mash veil tripping in her bouncing hops which are impossible to abate, keep down… she runs on… she doesn’t hear him… the distance is too great…
By his nature, which he doesn’t flash too freely, he is a ladies man in love with all the women in the world both in stock and separately, and ready is he to go on down that road, free of charge and not overly exacting (do it!) but with gentlemanly chivalrous laziness: his yes to welcome yes, and if no then so be it, he does not press too far too hard. In short, to use just a couple of couples of words – ‘womanizer and benevolent sociopath’ would be a fit description of this here cat, V.
As for the rest (more and more diverse) spectrum of advocates for the emancipation of non-traditional appetites, he never speak up against them, so is his principle. At most (and without further comments), he may shrug his shoulder (the left one as a rule), like, so what? Jedem das Seine and let everyone be the master of what they got while he (which is not superfluous to repeat) upholds the principle of non-interference and respecting the right for self-determination and inviolability of preferences in private life and in the international arena.
Yes, pathetic they are and, on the whole, coyly overacting, however, a crowd like any other one, passable for communication if abstaining from in-raids into your personal space. Yes, they wince at free-style speaking and, unaware of enlivening paganish power of incantation, grow too melodramatic, at once. But then who is without a blemish?
Pardon my axiom, tastes in any direction are preconditioned by Nature, you can’t skirt around the ineluctable, right? Though at times it’s hard not to feel sorry for a Nature’s critter who locked their vintage vehicle up and keep the artifact of brightest ingenuity incarcerated, devoid of rides because the fucking mother Nature directed them to drive some complete shit of a car. Yet, nothing doing, no way to resist Eff Mother and, for the tolerance’s sake we close the discussion of tastes as well as other surplus idle talk. Lada Kalina is their choice? Be happy, enjoy your ride, gourmets. Fuck!
Still no accouterments from a sex-shop can be better than a live partner of the right size that suits you, thanks to the fitting and careful tuning of the standard set of pleasures presented by loving Mother-Nature who didn’t get enough sleep at night and sweated over her blissful tweaks to the process, eons upon eons since the articulated origin of species, go consult Mr. Charles Darwin, the expert in this field.
On the other hand, wizzing against the wind is not a too healthy undertaking, akin to disapproving the thriving industry outfitted with the production lines of growing capacity, and the managerial pundits experienced in the particulars, turning out a wide range of accessories for any taste imaginable, accompanied by the glossy booklets where to to insert and how to ram (intuitiveness is a good thing yet better be safe than sorry), for steady growth of consumer demand, jobs in the industry, and a not negligible share in the total gross income of the nation.
To tell the God’s truth, V isn’t quite sure as to which particular trade union the workers of this industry had poured into, yet you may bet your bottom dollar plus your dear ass that the national economy is a vehement supporter of the emancipation—chain of retail stores, franchises, exports are not the things to wave off when in sober state of mind.
Dictators might pull tight “iron curtains” (tastes differ), play the card of fundamentalism, introduce bans, decree return to the traditional moral values, to burqas, kokoshniks, and kirza high boots – vain are their labors and belated because tolerance arrived in earnest so as to stay.
Or what reason for would the knife-wielding contingent in medical profession cut up the golden-eggs-laying hen, huh? The mere cost of fumbling about insert-remove the Adam’s apple? Do you know how much it is? Huh?. No? Lucky guy! Me neither. God save us from ever knowing…
So, welcome aboard the super-duper liner Reality, Ladies and Gents! The process has passed the tropic of Fail-Safe and become irreversible. Congrats! The real gourmets every other season change their genitals. Take a shot at! Feel the difference! You might like the wear! Transgender change inside-out-and-back is easier than to master the switch from Linux to Microsoft or backwards.
‘How d’you dig this, babe? When I was a male—before last year February—the posture was my fave. Come on! Giddy up, my macho!’
Turning to Lex, you wouldn’t need a shrink to see with your naked eye that no awesome breasts under the half-sheer blouse rocked him as should naturally be expected. The dark matte swarthiness in the heavenly cleavage within her low V didn’t work either. In vain delineated the gossamer cloth—so closely and exquisitely—the bumps of her admirable nipples (the left one playfully nudging the badge thru the airy light fabric separating them).
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