CHAPTER FOUR

Away from the hectic chaos and total surveillance schemes of any city, out in the “wilds” as the countryside is now called, early morning, as it always has, seeps into being with soft cool breezes and fresh scents of pine, cedar and other aromatic firs. Birds sing as they greet the day. Nocturnal animals scurry in a hurry to their burrows. And, with the sunrise, makes one glad to be alive. Unfortunately for most humans on the planet, having shifted their living patterns back into urban conglomerates, rarely do they see the sun, the stars or breathe fresh air.

But, out here in these Wilds, there is an abundance of natural goodness. Blaydee, as usual is the first one up. He and his blanket-wrapped turquoise-haired unicle (his zip company last night having made it out to Wild Country to engage in Blaydee’s sexual fantasies; unicle being the Boys’ term for a unit barnacle, a zip attaching herself to the band) are gently rocking in his antique real wood rocker, out on the side porch, the unicle in his lap taking in the morning and copious inhalations off his wong, a water-cooled woo smoker. He pops the flow hole and the dense smoke slips inside him. He holds the sacrament until release can no longer be put off then wooshes an outward-bound cloud of herbal essence once filtered of psychic effect into the waiting mouth of his lovely. He takes a tug of his daily dosage of caffeine. He idly primps his multi-hued stunner-do so that his hair stays out of his mouth and deep tongue-kisses his guest who is quite a bit better looking than most of Blaydee’s take-home yammerstains. You see, Blaydee isn’t one for waiting until a beautiful zip comes along. Big and round, tall and skinny, little people short, and even some real messes, has never mattered. As long as the zip is a zip and willing, Blaydee is game.

Wokky slips through the screen door, lets out a long “WooooooHooooooHooooo.” Startled birds in a sheet of wing-feathers lift from their perches. Blaydee shakes his head at the disturbance.

Wokky lets out another long “WooooooHooooooHoooooo” that echoes off into the woods.

This one gets to Blaydee and he falls sway to an uproarious fit of his own woooooohooooohoooooing. The stocky Wokky has not had a very sound repose and so is in an on-edge mood. His bushel of hair seemingly with a mind of its own.

He shouts out to no one “Boosh you, you geetchin’ bastoids!”

To which Blaydee responds, “Yeah, you skeevy gish! Wha’?” Now wondering who or what he and Wokky are yelling at.

They look at each other for a moment then both fall into laughter; Wokky gesturing for a hit off the wong.

Siggy saunters out to the porch with his tankard of caffeine, gulps half before asking, “What the geetch was that all about?”

Wokky takes in a huge column of smoke from the wong, holds the smoke in his lungs while replying, “(swhip) Siggy…Really…(swhip) It’s those geetchin’ chirpers, sync. I mean, (swhip) every geetchin’ morning…” He exhales it all. “(SWHOOOoooooo) I need my geetchin’ rest or else I become/…”

Blaydee cuts in with his own interpretation, “Shorted out again Wok-kyyyyyy….”

“Hey, boosh for brains, I do not have to listen to some warped geetchin’ dildonic/…”

And there Siggy leaves it, taking a hit off the wong before nodding hello to Blaydee’s guest and returning to inside figuring he’ll see what Twan’s up to. He cuts through the kitchen and hangs a left, sprints two steps at a time up the three-flight staircase, careful not to spill a drop. At the second-floor landing, however he eases to a halt. Not so much to catch his breath, but because he can never resist beauty’s beckoning. A framed vision of life. In the distance, hulking deep blue-purple peaks pierce soft, billowy puffs of white. As far as one can scan, there are trees. Real honest-to-goodness trees of all shapes, sizes and species. Small young saplings seeking only to survive. Huge, gnarled boles majestic in their own domain. From somewhere high in the mountains, a mid-morning sun slash reflecting off water winds down through the trees, losing itself from sight then reappearing as an energetic stream passing behind this very house in gurgling impatience. Wild Country is one of the last vestiges of nature left untouched on Earth as so much has been debauched, abused, killed in the name of progress. Here, nature is still worshipped as in the ancient days only via ownership rather than mere stewardship. In fact, ever since moving in, the Boys have made daily excursions into Wild Country to commune with their neighbors. The Boys have developed a very special rapport with the denizens of Wild Country. Over the years, the flora and fauna have become their best friends.

So long ago this very window view had made up Siggy’s mind to buy the ancient house. No one wanted to live out here anymore. Out where the sounds of life were heard. This was one of the very last houses in the Eastern Sector. It wouldn’t be standing now save for the Boys. They used all their skills gained through the countless hours of drudgery work they had had to perform to earn a living before becoming Celestial Palace. They fixed it up from top to bottom, from replacing the roof to finishing the basement and refurbishing every room in between. It’s their home and they dearly love it.

Siggy wills himself to back away from the window view and walk up the remaining flight of stairs. He ambles down the hallway toward Twan’s room, wondering how can all those stunners live in superhighs? How can they all dress alike? Think alike? Sure, they’re rewarded for their conformity as the Hi-Officiate feels any price for placidity is well worth it. Freedom and liberty never come cheap.

Twan has just finished dressing and is ready for his dosage of caffeine when he hears the doorknob turn.

Siggy, still preoccupied with his thoughts, knocks and enters in one fluid motion loudly expressing his opinion on the matter he’s been thinking about. “BOOSH!”

“Uh-oh, Siggy’s got the gloomies, huh? Stopped at that window again, didja?”

“Yeah. You been up long?”

“For a while. Guess we need to find ourselves a spot.”

“I think we should try the Out of Phase. Hear they’re looking for another unit.”

“What happened to the booshy band they had. What was their name?”

Siggy suppresses a giggle. “Your Pleasure.”

“Not MY geetchin’ pleasure. A bunch o’ incompetent sacksuckers. Milk ‘n’ cookies unit.”

“Yeah, well, anyways…It’s all over the feeds. They’re getting more redits from guess who?”

Twan turns ashen. “NO! Tell me it ain’t so! Geetchin’ Boe Boe?!”

“The one an’ only planetoid. Gave them twice what we got.”

“To start?! That momzageetchin’ bastoid! Those geetchers aren’t worth a boosh.”

“Like me ol’ pappy used to say, ‘Siggy, if you want to play music for a living, I wish you all the luck in the world, ‘cause you’re gonna need it. Whatever you do, do NOT try to sell quality. Just give ‘em what they want or you’re gonna suffer’.”

“Truer words, sync…Truer words. Would’ve liked to have met him. Sounds like a smoothly seamed geetcher.”

“That he was, Twan…That he was.”

Both young men briefly wonder about the absolute impossibility of what Celestial Palace was trying to do. Four concerned humans against a world of billions of mindless drones. The Boys had no friends. Girlfriends were many but short-lived arrangements as serious relationships have not been able to withstand the Boys’ dedication to their music; almost as if every girl feels subordinate to the dream and, so, cannot stand being number two. Besides, only a select few zips ever wanted to make a trek out into Wild Country. While the band had its fans, the Boys were not well liked and were often accused of being pretentious, snobbish. Of course, that’s by people that don’t get that the essence of pretentiousness is exhibited by their very favorite bands; those bands that don’t practice their craft, can’t sing, can’t play, lyrically mimic the mundane and display atrocious attitude yet get gloriously rewarded for four-four time body blather. Now, that’s pretentiousness. But, again, these were the opinions of stunners; those unaware of vibrations; those that don’t understand the difference between deep listening music and dance trance boosh. Unfortunately, this is the same bunch that would rather choose speculation based on dogmatic rhetoric of billionaire political saviors, or the Word of God(s), handed down cycle after cycle until— and as it has happened —countless, questionless repeaters unconscientiously condone terracide, genocide and most other sides of life on behalf of those very saviors or God(s) that grow obese on apathy.

Celestial Palace hopes to change their world. Surprised? You no doubt wonder, what are the chances of changing a world. You have been told over and over it cannot be done. By everyone. So, why try, right? Siggy, Wokky, Blaydee and Twan, fortunately for all of us, do not think like that. They have a very logical theory. If, as is general knowledge, every society has had some form of music, religion and language, then that in itself illustrates common linkage. Therefore, through music, with its lyrics and religious overtones, it is possible to conceive a Common Message, issuing a warning to all world inhabitants that will transgress the Hi-Officiate’s mind stifling censorship and feel-good propaganda. That’s the theory anyway.

However, don’t ever accuse Celestial Palace of trying to change the world. Unless, of...