Chronicles of Infection [Escapades in Insectopia, part 6]

He falls silent wondering if he does have it: is it a human right to see one’s dead friend in his original place of death? Unlikely. But still, it seems right and that should be enough. Plus the whole thing needs to be thought out better. After all one is dealing with a death, the last and most significant fact of existing and now Igeshuke’s words are rushing back to him, the one’s about the importance of dignity. Dignity! Carla needs to be here, come here, no matter what funny business she is up to in New York City.

Yes, alright, certainly Mr. Fanon. We respect that but please do come here as soon as humanly possible.

Sure, I will be there.

Ughm, o.k., around what time do you think that will be?

Later today officer.

Alright then. Thanks in the name of the…



Beneath the rocks, in the cool shadows, is a teeming stream of insects, all scrabbling in the same direction: silverfish, assorted bristletails, carrion beetles of course, the ever lovely cockroaches, omnivorous earwigs, your regular ants, the slow moving millipedes and others more. It’s the insectoid morning commute and he falls in with it, terrified he will be eaten alive. Many of the insects slightly swerve off their course to inspect him with their antenna and either make fun or disapprove of his outwards appearance. Outnumbered by millions, The Infected One has no interest in starting an argument about the evolutionary advantages of bipedalism and instead trots along steadily through the dead organic matter and the cool moist air. Despite the lower temperatures the stench has gotten even worse, something like a meta-presence, a nail-studded whip constantly lashing at his innocent nose whenever he forgets to mouth breathe.

The Infected One accelerates in hopes of finding his roommate but has no luck. It is impossible to discern his body in the moving multitude of exoskeletons. Slowly but surely he grows tired: The Infected One is not such a great walker he cultivates more of a sedentary lifestyle. Becoming bug feed has never at all been the fate he envisioned [rather a lavish state funeral with a somber President, on TV, announcing a day of mourning] but the muscles’ burn is sucking at his willpower. At last however, the insect super highway tilts upwards and things become brighter. Rays of cadmium sunlight are shafting their way in and The Infected One lifts his hand to form a visor so he can see where he is going.

What he actually wants to do is to make a full stop because the olfactory situation, against all reason, is still deteriorating. Walking on he dry retches, catching him the sideway glances of his fellow commuters. In mid-stride he bends down to scrape out a hand full of earth, which he rubs under his nose, even plugging some of it into the nostrils. This affords a bit of relief.

They swarm out from under the stone alley and into a vast open plaza bristling with tens of thousands of insects, only few of them his size, most double or more. The skyline is a sloppy, asymmetrical version of a human metropolis’ sky-etched geometry. There are slanted and curving outlines, unaccountable outcrops and precariously leaning towers rising to meet the brownish dawn. The crazy materials at this distance make an amazingly slapdash impression and the buildings themselves appear to have all the structural integrity of a house of cards but even less aesthetic value. At the Eastern Corner of the open square, a high rising tower of toast bread looms over the insectoid fracas while on the opposite end of the plaza there is a massive, hump-backed cardboard structure that faintly resembled Sydney’s pregnant oyster.

However, on the fourth side, across from the one delimited by the massive, subterranean rock street something entirely different presents itself to The Infected One’s disbelieving eyes, taking up almost half of the view. Elevated to almost half the height of the surrounding houses is a patchwork structure of wide, white beams that end in protrusions and spherical projections like the principal bones of human extremities: femur, tibia, fibula, humerus, ulna, radius, all of these and more. Indeed, in certain places, deeper inside the parallellogrammed structure of bone girders, he believes to glimpse fractions of colossal crania. The Infected One inhales sharply. For a second he intends to squash the insect rabble with his bear hands until he again becomes aware of his relative size and instead just sighs in impotent revulsion. How many millions of these fuckers are out there? In the end they will win, no matter what, by the power of their numbers and their blind way of going about life. Perhaps what he wishes to interpret as anger is just something simple and base: envy.

–       Hey, larva-boy, get to work! No exceptions for early hatchers.

The carrion beetle who said this kicks him in his behind and onto his way with one of its thin but painfully hard legs. The Infected One reluctantly moves towards a major node in the throng, just beneath the bed of bones, allowing himself more time to take in the rest of the sight. Above the bleached structure of femurs & Co there is an incongruent mass of flesh, skin and hair, which must be the source of the putrid stink. The reasonable assumption is that this is the corpse of something gigantic. There are hundreds of little scurry paths along which insects are moving in and out of the dead body.


About tmabona

writer, reader [bolano, DW, bellow, deLillo], runner, badmintoneer
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4 Responses to Chronicles of Infection [Escapades in Insectopia, part 6]

  1. Wrasseler says:

    Dispatch to Themzinistan. Replication of ontological phylogeny has been attempted in some republics. Geneva Conventions prohibit live animals in centrifuges.

    This is not the first attempt to turn back Time. Fortunately Time does not turn on a dime or we would all be turned back.

    Everybody Else can turn back Time too. Why bother. Its a rerun. Here we are with a new decade. No previews. Not even at the highest levels of government. Just Time marching onto the dress of evolution. It happens.

    To avoid running afoul of international conventions we recommend abandoning sequences. Time and Space. Invest in Knowledge. Don’t worry about your shoes.

    Everybody Else says there are plenty shoes in the Promised Land. – From the Diplomatic Pouch (the only place that is not a place left to put any thing that is not a thing).

  2. tmabona says:

    General Executive Torturer of the Department of Creativity [of Themzinistan] reporting back from the lands of linearity. Situational analysis: sick, something approaching brainflu but less virulent. Can now empathize more thoroughly with the survival of damaged goods. My 2nd tire co-executive assistant remarked the strong magnetism of the voice of Absolute Twisted Zero but recommended to retain a safe linguistic distance from 100% emulation/assimilation. Also the Minister of Conscience and Good Faith notes a severe breech in the Morality Unit due to a paucity of comments on the site of prenominate A. T. Z. Course of action recommended: wait for full reconvalescence of cognitive capacities then just flipping do it!
    The Diplomatic Pouch sounds like a promising land but due to the Realpolitik of our Republic it is strictly contrainhbited to pursue creatively imperial project outside of our own sovereign cranium. Rest assured however, that these Diplomatic Ties are highly valued and will be maintained proceeding onto the new, friction-free carpet of evolution.

    Onto-imaginologically Yours & Everybody Else’s, G.E.Torturer D.C.T

    ~Literary re-Commendation SuperfluxCapsule [containing]: William Gibson’s Neuromancer; Consider Phlebas and the inestimable “Infinite Thought” [A. Badiou]

  3. tmabona says:


    One of our literascape copy-paste-destroy drones reports the recovery of a socio-historical envelope, engineered from choice discourses [postmodernism, high modernism, oral archaism, etc.]

    – Content: Language
    – Question: Is the envelope to be pushed?

  4. wrasseler says:

    Themzinistan Diplomatic Pouch
    Re: Pushing the Proverbial Membrane

    Dear Membrane Pusher: Membrane pushing is not allowed within 100m of the Consulate. Membranes may coexist. Pushing prohibit. Burst membranes are tough on infrastructure.

    Sure. Now you mention it. Criticism is tough too. Not all membranes arrive with handles. Best way to approach criticism. Like Everything Else. Handle it. Do not sign for anything else without Handles.

    Many cites offer paucity of ibids op cits footed comments. We got posts. Them gots comments. Life happens. – Ed. Board/Absolute Twisted Zero

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