Pleased To Meet You It all started with a suggestion. Simple, really. He's at his desk, still benevolent and all that crap, but real frustrated cause he can't get the brain proportions to work out right. Apparently, the intelligence levels are waaaay too high to allow this stupid all knowing/all powerful thing he absolutely has to have. Sorta greedy if you ask me. So I think, “May as well have some fun. I mean, my man's getting sorta high and mighty about all this stuff. Works on it for forever, you know?” And then I think, “It's not fair that he doesn't ever do any real work around here. I'm slavin away non–stop while he gets to sit by himself and sculpt and write and create all freakin day long. What if I wanna make things to worship me?” I stroll over to his desk and start looking at his plans a little more closely and wonder to myself, “How many places could his stupid idea go wrong anyway?” The mistakes are all over the place, and I think, “Well hell, he filled his little system here chock full of entropy cause he absolutely had to have free will for his ridiculous little population. Dumb idea if you ask me. Letting unformed minds decide everything for themselves...how do I tap into that?” And then I think, “Easy.” So I say to him, “Excuse me, Your Reverence? The rest of this little model you're making is water–based, why don't you ditch this 'dust of the ground' idea. Stick to liquid—make em all out of liquids. It would save time, wouldn't it?” So he does. And the apple gets bitten. And I was in it. Heh. ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ Adrenaline hurdles past me on its way to who–knows–where. I end up plastered against some slimy–looking character I don't even know. I introduce myself. Can never have too many allies around here. More freakin adrenaline whizzes past. Jesus. Stupid molecule really. Knows it's supposed to cause excitement, so it's always barrelling around, running into shit, breaking platelets left and right like a bull in a china shop. Try having a conversation with one of em. Man. Things are starting to happen, of course. Thanks to some helpful prodding by yours truly. I flow up to the ocular cavity so I can take a look. ♦ I can see things from Pete's perspective if I situate myself up here just right. Hazy light. Dim and dusty. The group must be in Joseph Merckin's shed getting ready for the fight. Pete spends a lot of time here, helping Mr. Merckin fix cars for free. From what I can see as I float by, Pete's in the doorway, deciding whether or not to enter. I see an impulse float by for going in, so I push that one. I know he won't double check it. Never does. The room is surprisingly empty, and someone has covered all four walls with enormous white strips of cloth. Maybe bedsheets. The uniformity of the walls make them seem to close in, almost as if they were painted black. I know Pete is thinking the same thing because he takes a step backward. His eyes fix on the tank–sized wooden work table in the middle of the room. It's always covered with Merckin's tools—greased wrenches, families of screwdrivers, levels, bevels, scrapers, detailers—you name it. Pete's staring hard at entirely different types of tools. Seven guns waiting patiently in line. A shiver starts near me, and I know this is mine, not Pete's. This is what I wanted. I hear someone say, “Come on, Pete. Grab a piece.” And rattling around me, “I don't know, guys.” Groaned responses. Some of them sound dangerous. Two of the guys step in front of Pete. Crooked nose, scar, shaved head—that's all I can see before I get swept back into the brain. I think it was Jake and Dustin. I'll come around for another look. Have to make a cycle through the brain first. Retinal pathways were designed to flow one-way. Idiotic construction. ♦ Ive got a bit of time to think before I get back around to the eyeball. I've been pushing this fight for a while. The overall goal here is not the ruination of fun, the cessation of progress or even to increase the poverty line—none of these things are in my favour anyway. You may find this surprising. Right now the goal is death. Pretty straightforward, no frills or bells. Just to increase my odds in the whole scene. Cause any death here means more life for me, for us. I'm an individual trying to branch out into a society, just like everybody else. With a little of me in every person, the more humans that die, the more concentrated I can be. More free pieces to use elsewhere. Greater concentration means greater power. This growing population boom threatened to put us away. Eight billion people would be enough to spread me too thin. See, trace amounts in a body aren’t always enough to really influence behaviour. And that's all it is. Influencing behaviour. All people need is a nudge and they won’t look back. That's all it takes. No matter who tries to tell you otherwise. ♦ Six people standing around. Pete knows all of em, so I do too. Dustin with the scar stretching from eyebrow to dimple. Tom with the jittery right hand. Derrick with the unlaced army boots. Jake with the crooked nose from sixteen bar fights. Brian with the dark skin and shit brown eyes. J.C. with the glasses. All of em with shaved heads. And now all of em with bandanas going on. Pete's gang. He's the one that told em Merckin would be gone tonight. Got in the gang for protection. I know this, and he knows it too, but he's convinced himself that he respects what these guys do. I pushed that thought a little. All gearing up to head out. Pete glances down, and I see the pistol resting awkwardly in his hands. Poor kid doesn't have a clue. Pete looks up again and we both see Tom climb up on the table. Pete doesn’t even let himself blink, so I get an uninterrupted view. The visual field shakes and I realise the kid is shivering. “This is it. They been screwin our racket for too long. Shoot hard and shoot fast and we get out of there. No fuckin around. Got it?” Pete's head starts to nod, and I am out of visual range again. ♦ I guess the first thing is know your target. Inside and out. I saw the plans for creation, or the first draft anyway. The original one, back when man was supposed to be the dust of the earth, not 85% water. Stupid book still talks about dirt, earth and dust. Lazy lazy lazy. He constructs the plans, writes the story, then never changes it to match reality—even after I made my suggestion to him. Even after he accepted it. Even after he knew things were gonna turn out much different than he'd intended. Lazy lazy lazy. Book's full of mistakes—needs a good editor. Back when peace was part of the plan, not a suggestion. Back when there was solidity to his concept. Back when things weren't as easy to screw with. I saw all of it. Missed the actual event of course, but who wants show up to a big gala event without an invitation? So the schematics are no problemo. I knew getting in the system was gonna be the tricky part, but that's the thrill of it all isn't it? Isn't that what the game's all about? Once the woman let me in, it really wasn't a contest. More like Titanic. The movie, not the boat. We all knew how the movie was going to end. Even Pete saw that one coming, and he didn't learn to tie his shoes til he was six. I’ve been with him since day one. Day negative 267 to be precise. Most of that was pretty boring. The big mistake was making the prime creation out of the same substance as everything else. Gives an entry point. A weak spot on the death star. I get in one place, I can get in anywhere. Thales was more right than he ever knew. Should've stuck with earth and dust. ♦ I see we're in the van now, but the humming told me that. It's dark. Running lights are all out. The dull red glint of a cigarette burns Pete's peripheral vision. Pete's eyes are fixed on the gun. Rossi Model 274. Pete's mother studied guns in her “Ages of Modern America” history class. She sleeps with her eyes open, so I had plenty of time to memorize the book. .38 calibre special. 2-inch barrel, 5 round capacity. Rubber grips with finger grooves. Unfluted barrel. He turns it over with his hands. Probably doesn't even know how to load the thing. I push a few impulses that float by. They're coming more quickly now. He looks up and I see that Brian nudged him. Brians face has always appealed to me—I can't tell if he's descended from the Native American population, the Indo–China area of the world, South America, South of the Border, or if he's just an Anglo who spends too much time outside. I like people who confuse me at first. Doesn't happen often. We're in every part of Brian. I can feel it. He's an only child. I can always count on him to push and prod Pete—to excite him. His eyes are dark, overcast by his jagged brow. His tongue flicks out, dry and white with nervousness. “Pete, you cover me, I'll cover you, all right? I trust you.” He looks like something is caught in his eye and then mutters again, “I trust you.” From all around me I hear, “I don't know about this man, I mean, they don't even know we're coming. I mean, what's gonna happen?” Sounds pretty whiny if you ask me. Pete is staring at Brian’s tongue creeping out to moisten his lips yet again. Back into the brain. ♦ See, any droplet with a mind of its own can run things. All it takes is an idea, and some forward movement. It's not as hard to be a leader as people think. Not hard at all, actually. Everyone believes it, cause no one really tries. Surface tension, mass movement, these are the things that hold us together. We move where the greatest flow is, we stick together at all costs. I convince enough molecules to head down to the liver for vacation, then the whole mass goes. Even the ones that don't want to get dragged along. Critical mass. I convince enough dumb fucks to go, everyone else picks up the idea cause it's easier than arguing. Newton's first law—I get people to move, they're not gonna stop on their own. I didn't even make these ridiculous rules—he did. That was the big mistake. It's all too easy. The rules were set up for failure before I even got here. People don't wanna be alone. Cause if you're alone, you dry up. Ideas, life, safety, and comfort come from staying in the droplet. In the stream. In the ocean. In the blood. Gotta stay in the group. And that's the problem. ♦ In the woods now, branches jolt through the visual field. Adrenaline shoots past me, jostling for position. An open pasture up ahead, past the row of bouncing bandanas. Pete glances behind him. No one there. Leave it to my host to bring up the rear. Pete fixates on the black leather belt of the guy in front of him. It has deep grooves worn into it. The pants are baggy and coloured black, green and tan. Camouflage. I almost didn't see the belt. Never takes his eyes off of that black strip—I can feel him clinging to it in his mind. That black strip will save him, he knows this. He just has to pay attention. The field is flat up ahead, no place to hide. Pete scans wildly, and I see hundreds of stars shining their cold heat down on the gang. Steam shivers up in front of him from his undoubtedly wide–open mouth. The blood–warmed moisture of his body fights against the frigid air and obscures his vision. Dark green blurs define the boundaries of his sight; the underbrush whipping back as each body runs the gauntlet. Nature's turnstiles. A thin wailing creeps up slowly from all around me. I'm not sure if Pete can even hear the noise he's making. Never takes his eyes of the thin black line that seems to be holding his sanity together. And everything goes black. I'm out of the eye socket. Gotta come around again. ♦ Once I found that way in, I became we pretty easily—splitting up a little to get into every child that was born. Mother to child, the birthright of mankind. Male bloodlines indeed. I dabble strictly in the liquid currency of the world now. Semen, secretions, tears, sweat, blood—this is what built the world and this is what the world runs on. Everyone spends their lives running to or running away from these things. Running to me or away from me. Mothers' condemn their children by passing on their infections, their immunities and part of me every time they give birth. Everything in a child's body comes from inside the mother. Every ounce of moisture. The perfect transfer system. I hear heavy breathing. ♦ And there's an open field. Pete scans wildly, and I’m getting dizzy just observing. I don't see anything. Just bandanas and scared piercing eyes. “Where they at?” “You said they'd be here!” “Fuck man!” Metal glints in the moonlight, guns get pointed at each other, and pulled away just as quickly. I try to see as much as I can. Scared looks fading into calm masks. Sweat droplets beading on stubbled lips. Tendons rippling under tank–tops. I feel Pete calming down. Damn. ♦ I guess if I had to pick the funny thing about all of this, it would be the order of events. It was a mistake in order more than anything else. I mean, that's the beauty of the whole arrangement. Let me recap for a second—this is my point. Water gets set up first, which makes sense. Basic rules of water: 1) Flows to the point of least resistance. Cool. 2) Osmotic potential. Cool. 3) Surface tension and cohesion. Cool. So basically, a substance that always finds the easiest path, absorbs anything that surrounds it in large enough quantities or exudes anything that it's full of, and will, above all else, stick together in a nice fat group no matter what happens. And then he goes and makes his best creation, his followers, his very reason for existing, out of this ridiculous material. Sigh...I wonder sometimes if this isn't all a practical joke. I mean seriously, where's the camera? When do people yell, “Surprise!?” I hear a gunshot. ♦ And I'm back in the ocular cavity. Pete's head is zeroed in on the direction of the shot, and I see that his line of sight is even with the dirt. On his belly. They all are. Pete scans wildly and I count. Five. Brian's not there. “Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit,” comes the canon from all around me. “Shut up! Fuckin shut up!” Knuckles clenched white. A hand comes in and slaps Pete. He just whimpers. ♦ Maybe I'm a perfectionist. Maybe I don't understand the process of creation. But it seems like you'd give a little forethought to potential repercussions. Everyone has enemies. Why give them a chance? The way I see it, if you leave the door hanging that wide open, it would be wrong of me not to come in your house. Am I missing something? Look what's happening around here. I can't be entirely to blame, can I? When the most tenuous, the most indecisive, most clingy substance ever created is the basis of life, what do you expect? But it's more than that. It's not even just the substance, it's the way things are connected. The construction's ridiculous. Whoa, here we go again. ♦ Tom growls from the middle of the group, but Pete doesn't shift his eyes. Tom's body has it together, but his voice doesn't. No one seems to notice. “They knew we were fuckin comin! God dammit. God dammit. Ok, ok, ok. We gotta get outta here. Ok. On three, we scatter.” He takes a deep breath and shoots wild glances all around him. “Ready?” I see mouths and hear voices. Pete scans them, and I know he sees the same thing I do. I don't hear anything from around me. I push a few more impulses. Tom's hand reaches past to pat or squeeze Pete's shoulder. I feel like he’s looking past Pete and right at me. “Come on man, stay with us. Grab your piece and kill you somethin.” That probably sounded reassuring to him, but I know it's gonna just scare Pete's sorry ass. Another gunshot. The surge of adrenaline pushes me out of sight. ♦ Think about it—just the connections for a second. Why would someone ever connect the most fragile parts of a creation to the most random parts? Emotions to blood? Personalities to the humours? Thoughts to chaos? Why not attach the fuse of your bomb to a big match and just ask everyone really nicely not to light it? Come on...hot–blooded...give me a break. Where do you think your anger comes from? Not you. Humans like to claim credit for everything around here. Cold–blooded people work as hot plates to get the tempers around them flaring—gives em something to bounce off of. Things boil if you get the molecules moving around fast enough, if you get enough of em to push each other in the right ways. He's movin now. These are some quick rotations. ♦ Jostling up and down, Pete looks down and I see the ground churning up under his blurred feet. He fixes on Brian’s immobile form as he runs by. The background moves in a hazy montage, but that confusingly dark visage stays right in focus. Maybe he had a mixed background. Multi–ethnic. I see parts of me on the ground. Parts of Brian trickling out of his neck. There are spots of my substance coming out periodically, but a whole lot more of him pulsing onto the grainy field. One more out the way. Higher concentrations in other people. Excellent. Pete's head turns back towards the forest, and the view gets blurry as the green wall looms quickly, quickly, quickly... Blackness. ♦ Just a matter of time, really. The fewer people, the more influence per body, the easier things get. Sort of a war of attrition, a seven billion card game of Battle. Sure you lose some, but you win a lot more. As long as you never lose your aces and jokers, you can always collect more face cards. The hardest ones are the freakin eight or nine kid families. Inheritance in those houses gets stretched so thin that I'm practically an electron in a haystack by the time the last toddler squirts out. I lose a lot of those fights—big families usually produce saints and other such aberrations. Doesn't mean I don’t try. But god bless birth control. Nice try Catholic Church, too bad no one listens, huh? It's stupid construction. Too few people, I getcha. Too many, the world takes you back down to a number we can handle. It's a system set up for entropy. It's going to chaos whether I help it along or not, so I figure I'm doing everybody a favor and not prolonging the inevitable. I hear sobbing coming from all around me. Here comes the eye again... ♦ Underbrush blocks most of the view. Halfway transparent ferns, casually nibbled by phasmids and hungry beetles. The details are blurry, distorted by water streaming down in sloppy puddles. I get jostled by the salt mixtures streaming around me towards the tear ducts. Pete shifts, and I see the clear sky through the tops of the gently waving trees. It's actually quite beautiful, I have to admit. The view decreases to a blurry slit, and as I float gently past, I see stars that were once only pinpricks of light fade to giant, fuzzy suns. Tears pop and the suns explode back to pinpricks. The waving of the trees briefly synchronises with the filling and bursting of Pete's saline depression, and from here it looks like the sharp tips of the evergreens pierce the spheres of light in a never ending cycle, deflating them every time they threaten to overtake the sky. His breathing slows, and I am back in the brain. ♦ Slowing down now, easy access and mobility seem to be over. I try to convince a few cells around me to head up to the retina again, or back near the hippocampus. I figure I could do some work, push some impulses—maybe even get Pete to get off his chickenshit ass and go back to the field. But no one wants to. Sucks. I'll tell ya, if there’s one thing he did do right in this whole fucked up idea, it's that right there. Made everybody in his own image—stupid and lazy. Man, if everything in this whole goddamn creation weren't so lazy, I would've been done a long time ago and been home for supper. Doesn't matter if you're mister freakin silver tongue, lazy people aren't goin anywhere. Usually I figure apathy helps things, but if you can't even get a critical mass to start movin their shit, then you're stuck in a crowd of flimsy morons. So I have to wait for them to get off my ass. The worst things in the world aren't caused by individuals. Trust me on that one. ♦ I float back up after a while for a check–up. Breathing is slowed. I don't hear anything else. Pete's walking home. I recognise the Wilson's house on the corner. Looks like a mausoleum. Either that or a gaudy wedding cake. His eyes glaze past it, looking back and forth. Automatic search. The pavement is full of holes, and every once in a while Pete has to look down to avoid them. The wind blows a plastic bag down the street. A car drives past, but Pete doesn't bother to track it. Silence broken only by occasional insect murmurings and the constant treading of Pete's heavy boots. Adrenaline trudges past me, back down to the caves to wait for another opportunity to charge to the rescue. His head is facing the house. I see the lights in his parent's bedroom are still on. The wooden swing on the porch rattles gently against its chains. I hear his dog barking. I'm not sure he sees or hears any of this. He walks right past the house and keeps going. The vision starts to become blurry again, and I am swept out of his eyesight. ♦ Haven't moved in a while. I hope tonight doesn't make him avoid these things in the future. That would be bad. I hope Brian's death doesn't make him start to pay attention. Attention kills the flow. That's the scary thing. Attention kills the flow. If people would ever pay attention to what's inside em, it'd be all over. The invention of prayer was supposed to make people pay attention, at least for five minutes a day. Some half–assed attempt at a counter attack. Too bad people are lazy. Nice try. But it could happen—people could start to look inside. Right now small amounts of me/us are enough, but if people really start to pay attention to the things they say—or more importantly, the things they think... I'm easy to get rid of. Most people don’t do it. Ahh...I'm not really worried about it. Pete's temporarily halting things, but I doubt he's really paying attention, probably just being lazy again. I'm not really worried about it. Pretty soon he'll have an impulse, I'll see it float by and I'll push it. Shit will come out of his mouth before he even knows what it means. And then I wait for another part of me in some other body to throw the shit right back. And so forth. And so on. Like playing freakin Pong by myself. Building it up to a boil. And no one sees it. Make it liquid, I said. Get rid of the solid dirt and earth idea, I said. Jeez. The greatest trick I ever pulled wasn't to convince people I don't exist; it was to convince people that they know themselves. Cause I'm part of em. Heh.