John Reed, the aerospace engineer who helped Spatz Curtis configure the homemade satellite receiver that downloaded the Spacerex footage has disappeared. A body, allegedly belonging to Reed, was allegedly found in a dry lakebed near Curtis’ desert compound. This discovery, which we are unable to corroborate with the FBI, was the pretext for Curtis’ detainment. But, at the time of this writing, no further information about the body, the satellite dish, or even the whereabouts of Curtis, has been forthcoming from the FBI.
It is our theory that the body, which may or may not have belonged to Reed, was planted there as a pretext for shutting down Spatz Curtis who, since uploading the SPACEREX.COM satellite signal to the internet, has been targeted by agents of the CONSORTIUM OF MULTINATIONAL CORPORATE SPOOKS (CMCS) working [in conjuntion] with U.S. Federal Government to suppress all interaction with the future.
Shortly before meeting Spatz Curtis, John Reed left his job with a prominent aerospace firm in San Dimas, CA, to build a series of wind-powered rovers which he tested in the salt flats outside of Spatz Curtis’ hometown of Wendover, UT. The CMCS and the FBI confiscated footage of Reed’s Rover, which had been shot by a fellow rocket scientist, Unnamed Here, who is now in hiding and fearing for his life after the disappearance and possible death of his friend in connection with Spacerex.
Fortunately, Unnamed Here, made a backup copy of the footage which is downloadable @ our Phantom IP.
Reed’s association with Spatz Curtis was brief. Curtis, a desert-dwelling truck driver, discovered one of Reed’s Rovers that which had blown off course and been lost in the desert for several weeks. Curtis called John Reed’s number, which was engraved on the lost rover.It was, perhaps, out of a sense of gratitude that Reed offered some advice to Curtis about the configuration of a homemade satellite receiver Curtis was building. This was of course, the now-legendary apparatus that was to link us to the terrifying future history of SPACEREX.COM.
That Reed didn’t mention his grandfather’s spacerex tapes to Curtis is troubling. “He [Reed] didn’t seem that interested in the signal itself.” said Curtis. “He was kinda weird. But cool.” The implication here is that Reed and his grandfather had been in receipt of the spacerex signal as early as 1977. Why Reed felt inclined to pass the spacerex mantle on to Spatz Curtis in 1998 remains a mystery. Perhaps he recognized Spatz’s strength of character and resourcefulness — the latent ability that was instrumental in taking spacerex to the next level. Perhaps Reed was on the run himself and had some premonition of his impending doom.
In the mid-seventies Reed’s grandfather, who invented the ENIAC computer and, oddly enough, the skateboard, recorded the first spacerex transmission — a disturbing clip of what appears to be a c-section operation with a screaming baby.
There is no sign of a doctor — or any other human being — near the baby, who is clearly in distress. Even the mother, apart from her pulsing internal organs seems to be missing from the picture.
The time code on this clip, 2023:09:12, is 50 YEARS AHEAD of it’s reception date. (An analysis of the video signal puts Mauchley’s recording sometime in the mid-seventies.)
The Quicktime movie you see here, “The Benefactor,” was recorded by a person who has been good enough to let us post it here. It doesn’t necessarily reflect our philosophical and spiritual values, but it is one of the only surviving snippets of our historic webcast. The innocuous nature of this material is probably the only reason it hasn’t been destroyed like all the rest of our footage.
“The Benefactor” is a short film by Bryan Root, that Will Dailyrest also worked on. When Dailyrest and Root complained to Curtis about the unauthorized webcast of the film, they were shocked to discover the film had been recorded by John Reed’s grandfather, John Mauchly, from the spacerex satellite feed ten years before Root’s production! THAT’S RIGHT: Our copy of his film is older than his negative. We don’t deny that it’s his film, but we had it before he made it. If you think this is odd. READ ON.
Unfortunately our live webcast was shut down by the FCC who, working on behalf of the MULTINATIONAL JUGGERNAUT OF THE FUTURE, Fat Baby Food ltd, confiscated all our equipment and records and detained our founder.
Whatever you see here is the result of assistance from individuals who recorded clips of our webcast and have, since we went underground, gotten these recordings back to us. IF YOU HAVE ANY RECORDINGS OF OUR WEBCAST or if you’d like to book a LIVE APPEARANCE of Will Dailyrest and the SPACEREX BAND please call 607-379-9509.
Spatz Curtis, the founder and president of SPACEREX.COM, is being held by federal authorities without charges and in TOTAL VIOLATION of his civil rights.
Curtis paid his debt to society for a minor fraud which he committed as a young man, challenged by poverty and lacking the benefits of a positive male role-model. Since his early parol in 1982, Curtis has been an upstanding citizen and an asset to his community.
In 1998, on his way home, to Wendover, Utah, Spatz saw a strange, unmanned rover, wrecked on the side of the highway. “It looked like something NASA would be interested in.” said Curtis in 1998. ” It had a phone number engraved into it, so I called.”
What Curtis had found on the edge of the highway turned out to be a wind-driven rover belonging to a reclusive, aerospace engineer named John Reed. Having moved the rover to his home, Curtis contacted John Reed from there and Reed came to collect it the next day. Curtis made a hobby of building custom satellite dishes. “It helped me to relax.” said Curtis, who worked long hours as a truck driver in addition to selling electronics and software online. Seeing Curtis’ homemade satellite dishes, Reed became interested in Curtis’ work.
There is some dispute as to who configured what on Curtis’ satellite receiver, but the fact remains that out of their brief collaboration on the evening of Sept 10, 1998, SPACEREX.COM became available to the public for the first time. The fact the John Reed disappeared several months later was perceived by over-ambitious Federal Agents as cause to question and detain our President and Founder.
The agents were unable to make any connection between Spatz Curtis and Reed’s disappearance and he was released. The satellite dish and receiver which John Reed helped to configure was confiscated, along with Curtis’ computer and all the recordings he’d made of the satellite broadcast. Spatz and his small circle of fans were cut off from Spacerex as they had known it. The FCC threatened Curtis with a lawsuit should he persist in his pirate-TV uplink and, given the legal troubles with Motherlode-pix.com and Fatbabyfood.com, Curtis was inclined to cooperate. Between June 1999 and March 2000, he resumed his internet electronics business and took several long-haul jobs that kept him out of trouble with the law.
“He [Reed] was a really smart, nice guy.” said Curtis, who is being held, in an undisclosed location, for no expressed reason, by U.S. Federal Agents.
“[Heck], he was a [genius.] There is no way in Hell I would want to kill him. They can’t even prove that the body in the desert was him. These people are afraid of Spacerex.” added Curtis, “It scares [me] too. But they are so [darn] stupid, if they think they can squash it. The thing that’s [messing] me up, is that I’m no longer in control of it — someone else is uploading files to SPACEREX.COM without my permission.
“I haven’t sat down at a computer for two weeks. My site is updating itself!”
Spatz Curtis and John Reed did something historic that cold September morning in the salt flats. They connected us, however briefly, with something bigger than any of us. The lawsuits support our assertion that Spacerex is a link to the future.
Spatz Curtis, who should be held up as a hero for his historic achievements in the field of electrical engineering, has been cut out of the loop. His discovery has been suppressed. His friends have disappeared, his real and intellectual property has been seized and he is being held, without bail, by “agents of the Consortium of Multinational Corporate Spooks working [in conjunction] with Federal Government to suppress this story.”
Since his latest incarceration, Curtis has renewed his faith in the Church of Jesus Christ: “I feel like my whole life has been pointing to this moment and, through my acceptance of the teachings of the Bible, I have been able to understand the mistakes that I’ve made and to appreciate the importance of Spacerex in my life.
“I have become a messenger,” he continues “and the Consortium of Multinational Spooks working [in conjunction] with Federal Law Enforcement may try to hang up on the future, but Spacerex and I will keep gathering support to keep the future online.”
Give me liberty or death in the key of demented half pipe skateboard antics. Midland waste. Boyz with cheap guns thumbing gangs signs. But they don’t mean it. What a tubal ligation means to a deadbeat’s daughter in the coming correction. Nasty bits. Population implosion and the ark of invention at cross purpose.
Body surfing through the slick on the left coast. Fog horn. Lapping waves on greasy shorebirds bleached white. Watch your step. Regards to the avatar, calling bright green shells down on anyone deaf or dumb enough to still be home. Cone of fire. Collateral hopscotch soccer ball. Wingman clanging bombay dingbat. Chewing gum diplomacy in the wake of Armageddon at the oasis. We are your democracy. Kiss the ring.
Arm chair mothers blanch at heaped bodies and hollow eyed shopkeepers smoking acrid hand-rolled something, scraped up from a crashed helicopter. Flickering ancestral cave fire packed in a handheld nickelodeon. Can’t look away.
Lady Liberty falling through an antique skylight in slow motion. Shards of falling far far far to the tweed and mahogany halls of higher calling. These are not the facts you are looking for. This is the blood in your head and the news of the world. Where’s my goddamned martini? Who cares if it’s a particle or a wave when it’s burning flesh to the bone? Someone is having a worse day than I am.
The entire basement is filled with a syrupy protoplasm that slurs against the joists of the first floor and makes a vague sucking sound when the building changes direction. Bubbles of cinnamon-scented gas rise up from the deep and break the surface. Blop, glug, slurp. It’s like living on a floating dock. The entire building, with an ice cream scoop of downtown Los Angeles street beneath it (encompassing the 4 story parking structure), is encased in an egg-shaped plasma bubble. Shimmering in the light of of our terrestrial star, our SafeDome 6 security system, whose robotic protocol, “secure those within,” coupled and compounded by my mother’s, amazing intellect and instinctive protectiveness, maintains air and gravity within. On the outside, in the vacuum of space, our egg-shaped home has enough of a gravitational pull to carry along various satellites, effluence-sicles and frozen corpses, that have accumulated or which have, through unfortunate miscalculations, been sucked from our sanctum into the vacuum of space–grisly reminders to keep our hands and feet inside the bubble.
We have been broadcasting a distress signal for several months and only recently were answered by what we took to be fellow survivors of the apocalypse. That they turn out to be members of our grandparents’ generation, living in the past and utterly ignorant of the cataclysm that awaits them, explains the sometimes-pedantic tone I will adopt for those unfamiliar with the past hundred years–or the future hundred years, depending on your perspective. It’s a long story and I will warn you in advance that you will not find out any time soon how I ended up in space orbiting a dead earth.
These days, in the hive mind, with the personal memories, and, indeed, the very people who remember them alive in the sentient protoplasm beneath my feet and the public, police, news and covert ops recondroid footage, complete with GPS and timestamps, readily accessible in the mass of living goop, I can replay the past twenty years in living color, sound and smell from as many noosgnats, droids, and surveillance cams as were rolling at any time, as well as the imperfect recollections of humans and animals that were involved–which are always the best. With the human propensity for capturing things they might otherwise just sit and enjoy and the corporate and government paranoia of terrorists and spies, there is a LOT to go through, and it’s mostly dreck.
The story of the planet’s biology as a whole is even more important than the history of it’s penultimate surviving species– which, for you dummies, means “the second-to-last species to survive.” Also housed in the murky depths of my parking garage are the memories and the genetic blueprints of what was left of our ecosystem since we started melting everything down to ship it to PBR12. I haven’t done an exhaustive inventory, but I believe that there might be enough diverse terrestrial plants, bacteria, fungus, arthropods, small animals and crustaceans to recreate a viable system, if we find a way to get to the edge of the solar system and through the wormhole to PBR12. That is the long-term goal. If I could get Mom to stop sulking and make some calculations, we might get this red brick and dirt-based starship pointed in the right direction.
#spacerex Garden Planet
THE WORLD THAT WAS AND WILL BE 2
Call me Rex. When I was just a boy my mother, who was short on money and depressed at the prospect of living through another recession, sold her body to Fat Baby Food LTD’s genetic research division. With the money from my mother’s retirement, I was able to study genetic engineering at her alma mater in the hope that I might one day find a way to get my mother back from Fat Baby Food LTD. I took a job in a lab, as my father, Ullyses Flynder, and my mother, Kali Flynder, had done before me, and became one small cog in an immense machine whose alleged goal it was curb the growth of various poorly engineered hybrids struck from extra-terrestrial dna–which, among other things, turned people into stupid biting disease vectors we called ghouls. A ghoul, like the fictional zombie, fully embodies the misery loves company attitude, seeking single-mindedly to spread it’s infection to the uninfected. But, unlike the fictional zombie, a ghoul has a chance of getting cured. But we will get back to that.
There were two main rivals, Fat Baby Food LTD® (FBF), in America, and Gongsi Bang Ji® (GBJ) in China. Their name translates from chinese to “Smart/excellent Flesh Corporation.” There was also a host of international players like Utter Whiteball®, a conglomerate of smaller british and australian corporations, Sheeghrata Lagligt®, an indian and swedish conglomerate, Kuanguo Yumi Lu® (KYL Corp), whose name means “Multinational Corn Syrup Company” in chinese– though their enterprises span food, space exploration, weapons of mass destruction and retirement facilities, YouXian Gongsi American Dan®(YGAD), another semi-feudal chinese vertical monopoly, Spooner Botco®, the multinational hardware giant, and countless smaller specialty vendors who were forever negotiating the fragile détente between the rest of them. I worked at one of these smaller companies in the United States, which was comprised of what was left of NASA after the privatization of space exploration. It was called Bellefore®, after the USS Belleforest, the ill-fated, yet-glorious last NASA mission through the wormhole.
Because they shared the charade of a noble goal, feeding, clothing and curing the survivors of the various natural and man made disasters of the past and present, a certain level of cooperation existed between the Corporations. If you looked behind this cooperation you’d see the unfinished plywood and steel jacks of a stage set, but appearances are, as they say, something. We used to jokingly call it co-opt-eration.
The earliest forays into genetic engineering and epidemiology, in the wake of the second world war, ran quickly into the hard fact that one cannot separate the knowledge gained in the study of cures from the knowledge of it’s opposite number. One need only tweak the intention to take what is achieved toward one and use it for the other. You could even argue that the first dickhead to think of catapulting a plague infected corpse over a stone escarpment or selling TB-infected blankets to American Indians laid the foundations. Good scientists have been baited and switched since the before the advent of the lab coat by evil plutocrats who would bring such wonders into the world as plague-infected rodent fleas dropped from airplanes over china in the 1940s, anthrax bombs, antibiotic resistant smallpox designed for aerosolized delivery during the cold war, and, our own proud contribution, Aicorn®, a ghoul-vector self-sowing, roundup-ready invasive corn plant. Why settle for killing them when you can turn them into feed?
The profit motive for finding cures, and their opposite number, were well beyond the dreams of Avarice and corporate espionage, sabotage, hostile takeover bids, and murder were as plentiful as the food was scarce. God help you if you weren’t an employee of one of the big multinationals, if you were one of what the americans used to call “The Ninety Nine Point Nine Percent,” and lived outside the bubble where the constantly mutating invasive protoplasms (we were allegedly trying wipe out) were still gnawing away at the planet’s biosphere. The problem with the alien dna that we used so liberally in our constantly evolving bio-tech was that it tended to sequester oxygen–which means “oxygen went in and didn’t come out.”
I’ve never liked those rollicking, family dramas, usually written by Mexican or Colombian novelists that start with “to understand my story I will have to tell you about my grandfather…” but in this case, as the light reaching your retinas is ancient history, and, while I may be omniscient and time may have no meaning to me anymore, I must conform to your idea of chronological history, if only, ultimately, to defenestrate it–which means “throw it out the window.” So I will start at the beginning. Lucky for you, I’ll go back just one generation. There will be no steamer ships laden with family furniture from the old world or horse drawn prams or spanish moss-draped mansions at the edge of the woods, but magic realism does come into it. Though it’s mostly scientific.
#spacerex Garden Planet
ULLY ON EARTH 3
Little Dick, that was me, (I’ll get back to why I changed my name later) was way more trouble than my father had ever bargained for. I was an undernourished and colicky baby. Suddenly, and for what seemed like the longest year of his life, he was thrown into a life of shit, interrupted sleep cycles, food lines, and my heartrending, incessant, throat clacking cries. And motherhood had turned his wife toxic. Human milk, pinnacle of planet earth’s food cycle and the product of all hers and half of his food ration, was both nutrient and toxin-rich. It was the allergies I had to the toxins in the rations she ate that set me screaming, and, ironically, the only thing that would shut me up again. Clean baby formula was far beyond their means and her nipples became a painful and constant reminder of everything she hated about her current predicament.
As if the hooded figure of Death, stooped over his infant’s crib, skeletal hands poised, empty sockets burning hungrily, weren’t enough, in the tiny bed beside him, in their stack-able student housing container, my mother, a sleepy arm’s movement away, kept her lactation-grade breasts strictly off-limits. The brief respites between my screaming and feeding were fraught with sexual frustration and resentment. Toxic. Her breast milk was the least of it. She blamed my father for everything.
But then hope returned, briefly, when an opportunity arrived for both of them to save the world and launch their careers aboard the most incredible ship ever built.
Rats returning from distant galaxies, inexplicably smarter than they were when they left, with pictures and biological samples of alien life forms that both of them were uniquely suited to study?
A conference that required their combined expertise?
A chance to work with the legendary Frederick Tilton?
Their ship had literally come in.
The playback from the wormhole mission stunned the world. A planetary system with PBR12, (I think the publicist was in the toilet when they named it) that had, as it’s sole inhabitants, huge primitive organisms that hoarded, within their fruiting bodies and mycelium, enough oxygen, nitrogen and other trace elements to create an earth-like atmosphere around the otherwise inhospitable planet. A panel of earth’s greatest scientists, including Kali and Ulysses Flynder, my parents, was convened to study these fascinating organisms and devise a safe, efficient and cost- effective way to kill them.
The USS Belleforest, a genetic research lab and terraforming vessel was prepared and launched before the scientists had figured out exactly how to free the life-sustaining elements within the PBR12 organism into the atmosphere and create a rich topsoil for the new Earth out of their rotting biomass. Time was of the essence. The team was divided between the earthside and the Belleforest and each team of scientists would maintain constant contact while the Belleforest lumbered toward the edge of the solar system. The most sophisticated equipment on earth was built into the ship, but the plan to terraform PBR12 required resources well beyond the onboard lab. They would have three years to collaborate before the Belleforest nosed into the far side of the universe and lost contact for another twelve and a half years.
My mother, whose intellect may well have surpassed that of my father, was asked to stay behind and figure out how to grow the primitive alien organisms on terrestrial mediums so that the terraforming invasives could be tested on an endless supply of living alien tissue. She was very good at it, and quickly became indispensable. No one said it out loud, but she was also likely chosen to stay behind because she had a small child who was too sickly to suffer the rigors of a three year space flight. My father, who had become increasingly distant from his wife, despite improved rations and lodging, was glad to be tapped as lead biotechnician aboard the outbound Belleforest. He was simultaneously supporting us, leaving her and saving the world. It was the end of my nuclear family and the last I’d see of my father. The mission to PBR12 was to be a disaster.
Frederick Learned Tilton–lead scientist, USS Belleforest [First] Terraforming Mission on PBR12 (a.k.a)”Garden Planet.”
That his American benefactors lacked the vision to capitalize on the panoply of opportunities that this planet presented only caused those opportunities to bloom in the mind that had been delivered here as Frederick Learned Tilton.
Peering into the surveillance screen, it suddenly occurs to Tilton that Kyshtym Korsikov and Aurelie Beers are, and have been, lovers for some time. Or were, and were lovers, as they are, at this moment, dying. He picks up on their dirty little secret in the one-last-time way that Kysh is holding Aurie and kissing her. They are and have been, or were and were, Tilton’s friends and partners here in their orbiting genetics lab. Kysh was a fine statistician, drinking problem notwithstanding. And Beers, well, he has to admit that this late discovery of her intimacy with Kysh is causing him a little pang of – what? No! Look at her she’s just an old rag.
Tilton gets a little erotic jolt, despite himself, watching the lovers melting into each other’s embrace. He zooms in with the remote camera. He is reminded of Noguchi’s Kiss: two people face-to-face carved out of one block of stone. Except, in this case, it’s transparent skin and fat and ridiculously fast arterial development. And yes, there definitely is a little alpha-male animosity here. “Kysh, I should kill you,” he thinks, “I AM killing you, I would have anyway, but here’s another good solid tribal reason for it.”
Tilton is aware that he thinks of all the women as chattel, and, while he’s too professional to rut among his team as such, he likes to maintain the hypothetical dominance that his title implies. “Surely,” he tells himself, sucking the uncontaminated air of his compartment into his cleanly-shaved nostrils, “she must have been thinking of me and settling for him. It goes without saying that all the women want the lead scientist.”
“And isn’t that funny, a lush, falling Aurelie Beers.”
Agro Planet: It’s Self-Defense
He thinks “Maybe I’ll go by my middle name from now on, Learned Tilton.” He’s firing on every synapse now, he can see it all, time has ceased and left a million-facetted gemstone at the center of his mind. Learned Tilton. He need only turn his head, his EYE, to see past, present and future, to pull strings and see the effects of his manipulation ripple through time and history. What is a little secret affair? What is a little jealousy? It’s nothing. It’s everything. It’s all connected. His cock, his mind, the alien dna unspooling the core of his being, respooling him into a god.
He sees his nobility, his frailty; they are all one. He loves and accepts himself, warts and all.
“The infection is really getting a hold now. ” He says aloud, for the benefit of the computer which is recording this. “Look at that, the two of them are just melting into one another, like cell division in reverse.” Onscreen Kyshtym and Auralie Beer’s clothes are slipping away like a pile of rags thrown onto too big of a mess. The protoplasm seems to be pushing them off like the hair and other non-living tissue. “It’s like the ARK process, and like what happened to Pieter, only much faster. The living tissue will probably ooze toward someplace dark and warm.”
As the six hundred other crew members aboard the Belleforest die similar deaths, and become the stuff of dreams, Tilton thinks, “I don’t have to worry anymore about who is fucking who,” he snorts, “and I think it’s pretty clear who fucked who in the end.” and that thought stirs him. Having evacuated the hallways and sterilized the air, Tilton left the bridge, stepping over the body of Blimnel and taking a dirt car down to the common room.
Apart from the unfortunate necessity of shooting Blimnel, Tilton’s plan is going off without a hitch. The terrified crew members who had made it as far as the airlock, had boarded the escape pod before succumbing to the air-born infection. Now Tilton will sit on a bench in front of the big bay window in the common room and watch the penultimate phase of his operation, the launching of the infected crew members to Earth.
Though no one aboard her is in any condition to navigate, like a good pigeon, the escape pod knows just how to get home. At the other end of her twelve and a half-year trip the passengers will be unrecognizable. But Tilton’s communique will reach Earth well-ahead of Pod 9, explaining what they are carrying: the genetic equivalent of Promethean fire.
When the tiny craft arcs away from the glowing white bulk of the USS Belleforest, Tilton, feeling an odd mix of loneliness and light-headed self-satisfaction, walks up to the glass so the window fills his field of view.
The crew had worked hard on this project. Tilton was fairly sure that a few of them might have understood the steps that needed to be taken, but he could take no chances. This was too important. Sentimental humanism could sink the whole enterprise. Evolution was not a democratic process and had always been carried out by individuals who displayed superior fitness in the face of mounting environmental hostility.
The vast organism that had held PBR12 hostage for millions of years lay dying, effervescing like a salted slug, leaking oxygen, nitrogen other trace elements. Steam and ice erupted out the ground, billowing miles into the sky, forming clouds and weather systems that shrouded the writhing beast below.
There are some dead pixels in his prescience around the Pod, some facets he can’t see into. He worries about his little ark of protoplasm. He has to make some alternate plans, but he is so tired. He’s not young anymore. His body is aching with the stress of carrying out this terrible mission. Aching with the vision, with the possession. “I will sleep,” he tells himself, “for a thousand years as soon as I deliver the final payload, the peis de resistance, to the primeval planet below me.”
The Pod burns it’s way through the gravitational pull of PBR12, and fades into the deep black belly of space. He presses his hand against the window. “Good Bye” he says quietly, feeling through the thick transparent polymer, the frozen vacuum into which so much of… “what?” must ride. “And Godspeed.” He chuckles and turns back to his dirt car, instantly forgetting what he was just thinking. Because…
In his lifetime, he’s gone from the clumsy cloning of mammals in some shitty terrestrial laboratory, to this! “It was all in the PBR12 Telomeres!” he thinks “The Rosetta stone, the missing link. It had been on earth before, I’m sure of it now. In the very beginning. But it lost it’s essence. It became slow and rigid over millions and millions of years and eventually forgot its purpose. That’s why Earth is dying! That’s why I had to send it back. It’s beautiful! It’s beautiful! It’s beautiful”
Tears stream out and blow back over his cheeks toward his earlobes. The knobby tires thrum against the steel deck as he speeds through the uncontaminated central corridor of the enormous ship, past intersections, closed on both sides, warning lights flashing. He has the ship to himself now. He could disrobe and walk these giant hallways naked, like some latter-day Adam, and no one but he and his new God would have anything to say about it. There is a rhythmic “whump” as recessed doors kick back the wind of his speeding dirt car. “vermiculture… whump, ” “compost… whump, ” “insect ecology… whump, ” “mycology… whump” an orbiting terraforming vessel, complete with night clubs and racket ball courts.
Garden Planet. Two hours later:
The infection has entered its dormant phase within it’s human hosts, their chromosomes have finished their giddy protoplasmic victory dance, having plundering the very stuff of it’s would-be invaders.
Even as the PBR12’s indigenous lifeform is transformed into a loamy topsoil for the seeds of a new Earth, here, on the ship, it is triumphant.
These human crew–scientists, farmers, cooks, artists and janitors will all sleep together in soupy puddles of cellular potential, flowing slowly toward the low spots and the drains in the floor, waiting patiently for further instructions, instructions that he, Learned Tilton, would be giving.
The hallway stinks, as always, with the earthy smells of compost and animal husbandry, but Tilton catches a hint of something different now, beyond the obvious antiseptic spray. Is it the final breath of two hundred crew members who would never exhale again? Never see the glorious end of all their efforts? Is it some human pheromone? Fear? Perspiration?
At the far end of the hallway, he hears the hum of machinery. He pulls his dirtcar up close to the wall and drives very quietly. He stops just before he gets to the melting chamber, grabs his pistol and rolls out of his seat. He tiptoes up to and pressed his back up against the door to the melting chamber. Yes, the melting pot is running. That is actually good, there is a chance that whoever is in there wouldn’t have heard him coming.
He evacuated this area earlier, prior to releasing the invasive into the ventilation system, but it’s possible that someone stayed behind. And because he has intentionally not infected this part of the ship, it is possible that he could be coming up against healthy human resistance here.
Garden Planet, copyright Bryan Root. For more information about Garden Planet or Spacerex, contact us.
Dermoplaster®, Biolume®, Cytostrux®, and other self-healing biotechnological building materials
Pretty simple really. Essentially a redux of the now-extinct sea coral, which formed huge reefs over thousands of years off the coasts of various continents and gave home to hundreds of thousands and possibly millions of equally extinct sea critters. They crossed it with some extra-terrestrial protoplasm and passed it under the noses of a few hundred architects and engineers, gave it a nearly-lethal dose of amphetamines and “voila!” CYTOSTRUX®. It sounds like grinding glass while it’s growing–a high-frequency whine that could have been the microscopic screams of tiny monsters becoming self-aware and not-at-all happy. And it was so prevalent you could hear it from space.
“Why wait for a construction company when you can design your building, dig a foundation, dump in a couple million gallons of CAD-seeded Cytostrux® starter, amphetamines and a slow drip of effluence and sit back and watch your dreams become real? And it literally lives on human waste!”
With radiation levels being what they were after Space War One and the ten year blackout, there was a big demand for airtight, photosynthetic structures all over the world. It was a no-brainer. The face of the planet changed completely in a period of ten years. Space stations, condominiums, sky scrapers, retirement facilities, airships, space elevators, wireless phones and furniture–the biotech age made it all possible with just a few little hiccups:
A pernicious disease, we called it “creeping death” attacked the bio-engineered building materials and spread very quickly.
Cytostrux Incorporated went belly up. Whole city blocks collapsed. Space stations lost pressure and people died. Ten years of massive global growth was at stake. But then Fat BabyFood LTD came to the rescue with their amazing Cyto Remedy®–a fiercely guarded proprietary formula that you could only buy from them.
A politician named Charlie Widenour claimed he had evidence that Fat Baby’s own engineers had developed the Creeping Death and it’s remedy side-by side, in a successful bid to monopolize the biotech market. Wasn’t there Sino-American Occupational Commanders involved? Gordon Upick? Secretary Overshaught? Some sort of back room deal? Can anyone remember? No? Me neither.
But we do remember the last memerec of Charlie Widenour, whose star was rising out of the Cytostrux® debacle, hurrying through a throng of reporters with his head down, making a bee line for his limousine after the extra-marital sexual and financial allegations were made. We remember him proclaiming his innocence. But the Consortium of Multinational Corporate Spooks’ hit job had marginalized him, like THAT and it was just a matter of disappearing him and his junior secretary to Bogota or Buenas Aires—who remembers which? — to an implicated retreat into adulterous, homo-erotic sin and a quick fade-out of the public eye.
“Now waitaminute!” you said, “What HAPPENED with that Cytostrux® scandal?” and “OH SHIT, I’m late for work!” Hurry hurry hurry!
We had all long since given up politics in favor of maintaining our personal status quo. The multinationals were brilliant at keeping some, if not all of the people, running after prosperity long after they should have dug in their heels and said “Enough!” It was the special power of the Quango’s then-chairman Sum Chat Fat, to promote an idea of prosperity that was directly proportional to the American capacity to forget.
With layoffs and foreclosures yawning like sinkholes in the old neighborhood, who’s got time to ponder poor old Charlie Widenour?
And what if he really is just holed up down there in Butt Fuck City like they said? It’s not like we were paying particular attention back then either. Who would we believe? How long would it take to get the facts for ourselves? And what if, after we fact checked the whole story, at a tremendous expense to ourselves and at the possible risk of our status quo, we discover that there IS no answer? Maybe the facts are just not there? It’s possible that there is NO STORY.
People die, they move on, they fall into big holes and get extruded elsewhere. The whole planet is a living breathing single organism that is just starting to get aware of itself – us people are just the messengers, the RNA, the enzymes, the little buggernuts that fizz through the tiny tubes we build ourselves, never really knowing why or what it all means. Meanwhile there’s new worm holes opening up in space, and the far eastern creationist suicide bombers, and a new single by Dick Taytor that you can’t stop humming…
Deep down, we all knew Charlie Widenour was dead. And his little dog too. So was the civil suit, so was the popular vote. So, it would seem, was American Democracy. A year later Fat Baby Food LTD took over and the American Quango became a what it is today: a ventriloquist dummy with Sum Chat Fat’s iron fist up it’s backside, working it.
Don’t meteors fall? Space Rex, Space Wrecks, Spacerex.
The term “meteoric rise” very accurately describes mine and Bryan Root’s filmmaking career in 1991.
He was accepted into the very prestigious and competitive directing program at the American Film Institute in Los Angeles, based on The Benefactor, a short film we started at the Tyler School of Art in 1986.
After years of working in obscurity, collecting 16mm film equipment, building sound studios and working as housepainters and a sculptor’s assistants, Bryan and I were suddenly in Hollywood, he as one of 28 directors to be chosen from over a thousand other applicants–to direct the projects of other film students in different disciplines, I as his non-matriculating collaborator–working while he slept and sleeping while he was in class.
We made 3 films in the 1991-92 school year and he was accepted into the even-more prestigious Master of Fine Arts program at AFI in 1993 (at the time only 8 of 28 directors were chosen).
That summer, back to Philadelphia clearing out his storage space, Bryan came down with what he took to be the deep and terrible beginnings of The World’s Worst Hemorrhoid. Embarrassed to discuss his most-private with anyone, or admit to such a middle-aged malady, he suffered in private for several days before breaking out in a rash that ran up the back of his left thigh, across his buttock and bisected, as if drawn with a straight-edge, the left half of his penis.
For the first 2 weeks he had a pain that came in waves, cresting every five minutes or so “like someone pounding a 6 foot icicle up my ass with a heavy mallet.” The weepy rash on Bryan’s skin was just the outward excrescence of a nerve path that must have looked much the same where it connected to his brainstem. He had an advanced case of shingles.
He had not yet started writing his master’s thesis and he still had shingles when he handed it in 6 weeks later.
Space Rex, Space Wrecks, This was the birth of Spacerex.
Man In Space, a sci-fi kung fu script loosely based on The Old Testament, On the Origin of Species and Huckleberry Finn was a high-concept work of pure genius, albeit a little violent and not unlike a cinematic and philosophical case of shingles, which, along with the marijuana he smoked to dull the pain, shaped the very fabric of the narrative.
The head the Center for Advanced Film and Television Studies at AFI, Dezso Magyar, described the script as “a piece of shit” and counseled Bryan to “throw it away.”
The committee which decided which of the 16 submitted scripts would get green lighted for production, rejected Man InSpace as well. He ended up directing Laura Sobers the script by his writer/producer friend, Wayne Reynolds, which the school liked better.
I thought, and still think, that Man in Space was a worthy enterprise.
That Bryan and I have fallen out, he pursuing a career in real estate and procrastination and only getting drawn intoSpace Rex, Space Wrecks, Spacerex when I push it forward and then only to sabotage it, speaks to the meteoric falling of Bryan’s career. It’s a shame, really. He had so much going for him. Laura Sobers took Bryan away from Spacerex. He has taken to “gritty contemporary,” shelving our project in 2003 to write and direct Dirty Habit which was well received by the underground film festivals, but failed to perform in the marketplace and has been a disappointment to everyone involved (I was the editor). Bryan seems to have given up on ever making another film and I’m continuing on with my own solo projects.
Since the lawsuit between Bryan and I, Space Rex, Space Wrecks, Spacerex has gone through a complex evolution. It was called Loft in Space for a time, became a rock band, but always took a back seat to Bryan’s more pragmatic enterprises like union set dressing careers, family life and real estate ventures. It has finally truly become mine and Spatz Curtis‘ project, if we ever find him, and, while we struggle to stay one step ahead of the robots and spiders of the future white collar crime syndicate, Fat Baby Food, we plan on making a movie and a record. I hope you find it interesting.
This is a transcript of a live performance. The video has been censored by robots from the future.
A middle-aged man in rock star garb and a superhero mask stands in front of an audience of mostly inattentive kids. The band is playing a space jam.
“Hi, I’m Will Dailyrest, and this is the Spacerex Band. Tonight I’m going to be entertaining you by reading excerpts of text and transcripts from a video and internet correspondence between our past and our future which was, briefly, webcast before being shut down by the fcc working in conjunction with robots and spiders from the future, intent on suppressing our story.
Will indicates the other members of the band who are all deeply into their own thing.
“Pre-apocalytes, Tom Gilbert and Greg McGrath are going to be interpreting the actual electronic signal, the raw sine-wave metastatic data, if you will–to borrow a page from the great biotech genius–we’ll get into that later, when we discuss how the aliens used consumerism to to subjugate Earth’s human population–but I digress.
“Greg and Tom are able to interpret the spacerex transmission’s temporal signature, through electronic instruments and, by running the signal from their ears to their fingers and back through the guitars and ipads, they will set up an harmonic interface which will, hopefully, stimulate your sensoria and, through this Gestalt Collector, patent pending all rights reserved…
Will indicates onstage devices with microphones and satellite controllers plugged into them,
“…we will collect and input your enthusiastic gestalt to our nuclear device which will, in turn, jump us–or ME at any rate, back into communication with the future.
“Eugene Brennan on drums and Micheal Fitzpatrick, playing bass and guitar will be accompanying Tom and Greg’s raw sine wave metastatic improvisations with a rhythm that will make you want to get up and dance. If this happens, it’s perfectly normal, and you should not fight it. It is, in fact, the whole reason we’re here tonight.
“While this satellite controller and it’s nuclear powered flux generator are technological devices, they are entirely dependent on the human agency of love and the consonance of this highest form of human expression, with the more carnal aspects of the same.
The band starts building toward a heavy rock and roll and Will starts to shout over them to be heard. Some people in the audience start to sway.
“We are already in enough trouble with law enforcement and we don’t want to add lewd public displays to our rap sheet, but, short of that, please, leave your inhibitions behind and dance. Because that’s the only thing that’s gonna get this time machine started. Yeah! Dance! Dance! Dance!
Will dances. The band rocks out. The song slows down again. People clap and whoop.
“At this time I’d like to report that our president and founder, Spatz Curtis, was seized by federal agents working …
Will holds his hands up to indicate [braces].
“[in conjunction] with Agents of the Consortium of Multinational Corporate Spooks, in essence, Robots and Spiders from the future white collar crime syndicate known as Fat Baby Food and his webcast was shut down, his real and intellectual property seized, and he himself taken away to an undisclosed location where he is being held, without formal charges and in total violation f his civil rights, by the same agents who are now using his equipment to further their own agenda. An agenda that includes such ludicrous programs as the hydrofracking of the Marcellus Shale–right here, under our very feet.
Members of the audience boo and hiss.
“They would have you think that we’re insane.
More heckling, both for and against. The space jam continues.
“Our goal, again, and for those of you who just arrived, is to jumpstart our time machine with rock and roll and whatever physical and psychic energy you all can contribute by dancing and rubbing up against one another.
A couple in the front of the room start to respond.
“Yeah. This is the horse we will ride to re-establish our link to our friends and allies in the future. This satellite controller and it’s temporal flux generator was a joint venture between John Mauchley, the man who invented the ENIAC computer back in the days of of vacuum-driven punch cards, and the denizens of the far-distant future, who have helped us break into and steal what we need from Air Force bases, nuclear physics laboratories and synchrotron facilities across America.
As Will lifts the nuclear core out and shows it to the audience, many run for the door. The door slamming behind the last person to leave–then opening and slamming again repeatedly. WONK, SLAM, WONK, SLAM…
“Ah, look, it’s already starting to work. That’s just a little hiccup. Could someone grab that please?
A Teenager who’s been standing there with his mouth open looking at the temporal anomally puts his finger to his chest inquiringly.
“Just grab it. It’s harmless.
The Teenager grabs the slamming door and it stops.
“Now I can see that some of you are intimidated by my device but I want to assure you that it is completely safe. I built it myself under the influence of mild hallucinagens and calibrated it to tolerances well above the safety standards of todays most stringent hydrofracking and nuclear power facilities
Booing and hissing from those who have not fled.
“OK, it’s not safe and you are in some danger but please…. please hear me out. You have to understand what we’re up against here. They are not going to play fair. They already have our previous device and they are using it to rewrite history and pass disasterous legislation and start wars.
“We are the last and the best hope for the future of the human race–a bulkhead against the morbid influence of Fat Baby Food and it’s syndicate of future white collar criminals.
The trip hop gets dense. More people come into the room. Big genies of weed smoke come billowing out of the crowd asking “How can I help you?” Will Dailyrest, eye’s like whirlpools behind his superhero mask, continues:
“The science behind this is very complicated and, frankly, a little dry for the vibe that we are trying for, but, in broad terms, we are extracting the unique electronic signature that you people, as a group, are emitting in response to the music that the band is playing, which in turn, is based upon a raw electonic datum collected in the past, from the future and interpreted here by our band, with a ear toward rocking you. Rocking you. Rocking you.
“So you can’t help but dance, adding your own energy to the the group gestalt which we collect with this here Gestalt Collector, patent pending–all rights reserved, and feed back into the quantum flux and beam up to our friends, who are in orbit above a desolate ruin. The soiled cradle of humanity. A ruin that we are trying to prevent.
A slide of bit of space wreckage with a building and a force field around it, orbiting planet earth comes on the screen above the band.
“If we can get you all to dance and get the yaw and the pitch just so, we will manage. This is a song I wrote and transmitted from your future to my past and only recently learned how to play.
The Band kicks in with a deep groove. Will’s eyes roll up into his head and he jerks spasmodically as he sings.
“A bag stuck in the barbwire of a lonely fencerow. Leaves like lemmings in the road I’ve got no idea where I’m going And a cold wind’s begun to blow
Tom Gilbert builds a virtual palace of seething guitar notes.
“Wing-shaped standing waves of rain on my glass shield I’m driving by feel rumble strips and potholes take me home. Wash me in the water.
Again, with the architectural riff.
“Tears of the whole world follow
The tubes in the back of Tom’s amp do miniature renditions of the aurora borealis. Notes plucked from the aether and tossed into the chemical storm of Tom’s brain sprout flying buttresses of reverb and delay and burrow through time and space to the molten core of the planet. Will gyrates. The audience swoons.
“The first time, you said it was the second time you told me. I got a wonder what the third guy is going to think. I guess we all look the same in the rain
We are dying and it’s great. We don’t care. Play on.
“And an overworked trainee, A lazy employee, an incompetent clerk all headed for a country road on a goose chase In the rain with paper bags of dirt.
“Tears of the whole world follow.
This is the chorus and between each repetition there is a guitar hook call and response. Crenellated towers of holographic sound, of rock and roll. It rains cymbals and rhythm.
“Diamond signs for hazards. Diamond signs for hazards. Diamond signs for hazards. In the road.
“Austerity measures oversight Corrosive’s, toxic gas, acid, flames like Hard drugs and firearms it’s a bad combination
“The certificate on the wall Or the dirty backside of a trailer heading out to the green fields Flip Book pictures of things you should avoid
“Tears of the whole world follow
“Diamond signs for hazards. Diamond signs for hazards. Diamond signs for hazards. In the road. headlights on.
The band plays on. The audience screams.
The Gestalt Collector hums greedily.
“Thank you thank you. I can see that our Go light is blinking which means I can channel, like a spirit medium, I can channel, not the dead but the unborn.
“Through certain streams, with some configuration, we can contact the past as well. They come through as ghosts
“but not tonight. Tonight we are going to the future, to channel the soul survivors of the apocalypse.
We are hunted night and day by agents of the Consortium of Multinational Corporate Spooks working [in conjunction] with Federal Law Enforcement. Online we are subject to the constant assaults of the pernicious Fat Baby Food spiders and robots whose only function is to disrupt our links and delete our postings wherever they can find them.
That you are reading this is a testament to our tireless effort, awesome firewall and the almighty intervention of God.
M.O.H.M. (A.K.A. Mother), SPACEREX’s webmistress, lives in the seldom-accessed sectors of thousands of computer hard drives up and down the information superhighway.
She’s just moved into your hard drive now!
But don’t worry, our Christian Code of Ethics prevents us from using your personal data for our own profit.
“Artificial Intellegence” is a term that hardly does M.O.H.M. justice, but, in terms of describing her to people who live in these pre-apocalyptic times, it is a good starting point:
In the future, Fat Baby Food will invent a retrovirus capable of turning a complex organism into a much simpler organism, a Mutated Organic Human Memory or “wet chip” without losing the original organism’s memory, intellegence or self-awareness.
In the case of humans, communication will still be possible through an electronic interface. Wet chips consume a fraction of the food and water of a full-grown human and they are capable of processing information much faster than humans or computers (which is why they will be banned from the internet in the future.)
With the threat of global famine looming, Fat Baby Food will offer incentives to adults who undergo this transformation.
We believe — though M.O.H.M. will not corroborate it — that she is a wet chip who has migrated to the internet from the future through the SPACEREX.COM satellite feed. The alien tissue that Spatz Curtis’ cat, Fluffy, found in his yard could well have been what was left after M.O.H.M. migrated back to the silicon and precious metals standard of today’s internet.
With all the major players in this incredible story vanishing without a trace, SPACEREX needed a miracle to stay online.
M.O.H.M. can hack into any server, upload our material and back out again without leaving our scent for FBF and the CMCS to track. Her knowledge of the internet is uncanny. Which is not to say she is infallible or impervious to the constant assault of the internet robots and spiders that are programmed to destroy her.
While M.O.H.M. is immune to physical capture in the usual sense, she is very vulnerable to computer viruses and can be isolated into a machine and taken offline.
She has expressed other vulnerabilities as well — in emotional and sometimes-irrational reactivity that is irrefutably human in it’s complexity and scope. She is reluctant to discuss her connection to the SPACEREX.COM transmissions, because [she claims] she tends to overheat her host computers when called upon to recollect the events leading up to the annihilation of the human race.
While the human component of SPACEREX is hunted night and day by agents of the ubiquitous CONSORTIUM OF MULTINATIONAL CORPORATE SPOOKS WORKING [in conjunction] WITH FEDERAL LAW ENFORCEMENT,
M.O.H.M. is hunted by cybernetic beings (spiders and robots) PROGRAMMED TO SEEK OUT AND DESTROY HER wherever she is found.
As a result, even with our cadre of dedicated hackers, occasionally you will experience a lapse in service as we are forced into hiding by those who only exist to delete our material from the web.
Your fallow webspace could become a haven for our data
We are collecting precious pearls of incomprehensibly encrypted data from the future and putting them up on the internet. We are constantly on the run and always in need of webspace to post our volatile data.M.O.H.M. is threatened with extinction at every turn and needs WEBSPACE and BANDWIDTH to stay ahead of the pernicious SPIDERS and ROBOTS that dog her every step.
Our Christian ethics prevent us from using our hacking skills for financial gain
and our fugitive status prevents us from holding day jobs. As a result we can offer no financial compensation for your help. But we believe, in addition to recieving T-Shirts and CDs,
you will be rewarded in the afterlife and celebrated in history
as souls who stood up against the tyranny of the CONSORTIUM OF MULTINATIONAL CORPORATE SPOOKS WORKING [in conjuction] WITH FEDERAL LAW ENFORCEMENT to suppress and destroy SPACEREX.