|You know that guy's paranoid dontcha.|
Ignore the secret messages on the radio.
Any self-respecting paranoid person knows that.
That’s how they try and get at you.
They try to get hold of you. That’s what Cezanne figured.
They’re just trying to get ahold of you. Yet we can’t help but listen to the frickin’ radio. It’s kind of flattering in some ways, and of course we want to know what the bastards are up to.
Sounds like some imminent changes in the works. That’s my reading between the lines.
I’ll be honest.
I watch my mirrors. When someone follows me for too long I take a quick four left or right turns and then follow them for a while. I have one eye in the back of my head. I want to see where they’re going.
I search the faces in the crowd, looking for one wrong nuance. A blink, a twitch, a subtle shift in pheromone levels.
When I see a trap, I spring it. I want to see what happens. Who comes running.
I am perfectly attuned to my environment. I blend in by sticking out head and shoulders above the crowd.
That guy is just a little too obvious. And quiet.
A little too quiet.
No one ever suspects.
I walk inside of their skins, and so they can never find me.
I am aware of my surroundings. I can feel their eyes on the back of my neck, which is not all that interesting when you think about it.
But I know that they are out there.
You, are out there.
And I live with it.
Yeah, I know the oppo could be onto me at any time, especially as the Fem-Bot revolution takes hold on the pages of Cosmo—they’re all replicants in there, don’t you know, that’s different from air-brushing for the uninitiated. They’re hoping I’ll lead them to the next link in the chain, and sooner or later I will, if only by coincidence in a chain of causality with odds so close to zero as makes not much difference.
Didn’t you know that? Never really thought of it, huh?
That’s okay, it’s just that I feed off human company of the virtual kind.
Obama don’t want you to know.
You got to get a grip on reality.
Whatcha been smokin’?
Well that explains a lot.
So anyway, these two chicks move in across the hall. I know they’re SMERPK but that’s okay.
Bit of a cease-fire going on right now. Negotiations are underway. It’s all very intuitive. For all I know, they’re out of ammo.
Well, it’s not like I speak the lingo or anything. They are that young.
Doctor Blowfish, how’s it going? It’s okay, man. Really. Everyone is welcome to read my blog.
Yes, even you.
I make no distinctions. You’ve just strayed from the path.
You’ll figure it out, man. Deep down inside, you’re a pretty nice guy, or half-guy. I see the good in everyone, and you can too. If only you would but try. You’re all bound up in seeing the tiny bit of evil in everyone.
That’s your real problem.
You know what I’m talkin’ about.
I hate to throw a big screw into what is after all a pretty well-oiled operation, but some of your minions have been reading me for years.
It’s why they keep fucking up all the time.
I saw your tutorials on Youtube and now I’m gonna getcha if it’s the last thing I do before I retire. With a full pension including health and dental—one thing the real crims never think of.
You only wish, sonny boy. And you too girlies!
If you ever want to see your goat again, put ten dollars into a fine vellum envelope, preferably unicorn-skin, and stick it into the hole in the big old oak tree out behind the Paranoid Club.
And don’t watch or nothing for me, because the odds are I’ll trip over you while you’re sleeping and neither one of us really wants that, right?
You’ll sleep better in your own bed.
END OF PSIONIC TRANSMISSION