The Algorithm of Chaos

Wake up! The 2-step-verification Age has arrived, my friend. No court would pick up a case where mere words are not backed up with acts backed up with well-documented thoughts I thought while doing it. No, sir, raw acts without 2-step-verification don't count any more. Were you caught blood-handed over a body stubbed into tatters or with your pants down before a bevy of kindergarten students. Doesn’t matter. You might have been manipulated and set up by means of retrospective causality. Yep. A dirty trick of your sister’s great-grand-kid. A revenge for not sharing a candy of which she, your sister, aged 3, complained in the video found by her posterity brat in their attic. Do you follow? Horse and carriage. Only a crime confirmed by 2-s-v is a crime.’

’So, if they break my email account, find some stuff send by you but they don’t have a recording of your thought, like, ‘Hey! I sure will send this to V!’, you are immune?

‘Exactly! Innocent like a newly born nepo baby! And let them eff themselves in your email box! Excuse my French.’

‘Then why haven’t you just sent me the file?’

’My message in your mailbox plus my recorded thought to do it make me liable. Can't you see?

‘Thought recording? What hooey are you pushing here?’

‘Man, that’s what I’m doing at my workplace… Ever happened to hear about “noosphere”?’

‘?’

‘Well, there’s not only atmo- and/or stratospheres now, they’ve dug up a noosphere too. It's where gets each thought of everybody capable of thinking. The most secret thought broadcast. The way radio transmitters do. The analogy ends where radio signals wear out and die away because your thoughts stay there, indestructible. True, the bleeding-edge technologies have not yet developed to the full potential, however, theoretically, you can reads Da Vinci’s thoughts at his painting Mona.’

‘How about your Dad’s thoughts at spilling you out from his loins within the slew of less shifty spermatozoa?’

‘It’s a harder nut to crack. The problem of extracting his thoughts from heaps of thoughts emitted by other men in the like process plus those of male big apes in zoos around the world. Everests of doubles.’

‘Now your prize story looks like a fairy tale, pal.’

‘I know, it’s hard to it in at once. The whole swarm of intangible thoughts corralled in the noosphere, wreathing, swiping thru each other, not even aware of how overcrowded the place is. And being doing it throughout the whole world history. Proliferating. Reckless bastards not giving a fuck about the Malthusian Theory. They add up, multiply, keep meandering into each other like radio waves or stray quanta and other stuff which no normal guy can cram into his gibbous nob, are you with me?’

‘Since they are so unobtrusive, I don’t mind their vortexes or swamps, or wherever are located their intangible warehouses of impalpable matryoshkas.’

‘Everywhere, buddy. In you, in me, in this here table. Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, thoughts…’

‘You’ve screwed the cite up. It runs like “words, words…” and so forth in the original.’

‘Words are not for keep. Too fragile, unstable, often broken, passing and then lost irretrievably. Thoughts are another kettle of fish. They are always there. Accruing part of the noosphere.’

‘Thanks for the entertaining tall story yet, as a regular hick, I can’t believe in anything I can’t grope.’

’Can you grab a radio wave?'

‘Nope. But I can click on the receiver self-made by my Dad back in the last millennium and listen to the weather report.’

‘Some guys earn their living by reading the thoughts from the noosphere.’

‘Come on! No medium managed to pass SPR or ASSAP checks.’

‘Who talks of mediums? I mean the co-employees at my workplace. The job is twirling knobs to fine tune to noosphere thoughts, that’s what I do.’

‘Receivers?’

‘Kind of.’

‘OK. Suppose, it’s not a sham trick invented by hostile aliens. Still, I can’t not even remotely imagine how…’

‘Ready to give up some 20 years of your eventful life to remotely imagine how? The learning curve is pretty steep though. Something based on the Algorithm of Chaos.’

* * *

3

Waitress Sally approached their table. So it stood in the badge on her magnificent breast, the left one. As always in his intercourse with female servants, V closely followed the subconscious communications in her body language. At times he gave it a shot at reckoning location of tattoos in privet nooks of her anatomy, for intimate exposure. If it was a millennial, the waitress. For ladies from the capital-lettered generations—fretted with wear and worries—there also was a soft spot in his heart, and even for baby boomers he might casually rewind 60 years back and empathize her scamper to the date in her sleek nylon stockings and silly brimless hat.

He always was a ladies man and a good-humored sociopath, V was. And for the rest of the more and more diversified spectrum of those in quest for preferences emancipation, found he a sympathetic shrug, yes, over dramatic they are yet tolerable crowd.

There are no tastes but from Nature and whatever is is right. Right? Still, you can’t but feel sorry for a guy in possession of a choice vintage car, neglected and locked up in the garage, because the fucking Nature makes them drive some shit of a vehicle.

Can you love artificial dildos better than a partner fitting readily, thanks to the blissful tweaks sweated over and out by Nature for eons?.

But now we have a thriving industry branch with production lines, retail chains, managerial pundits that diligently secure accruement and steady growth of numbers of targeted consumers, the working places and a not negligible share in GOP.

V was not sure about trade unions at the work shop level but you may bet your bottom dollar that the national economy will not let emancipation down. Too late. Neither would medical care spurn the gold-eggs-laying hen of transvestism. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the thing’s arrived for good to satisfy the needs of the gourmets turning their genitals inside out every other season. Come to feel the change! The process easier than switching from the Microsoft to Linux or vice versa.

‘How do you dig it, babe? When I was a male this particular position was my fave.’

As for 2ic, he presently was far away from any badges on any breasts were them even of a topless top model taking his order. Not now! Nah! On reaching that particular point in ante-dinner preliminaries, all the badges and stuff in the world would be able to evoke neither frivolous thoughts nor fleeting day dreams in him, not of the most momentarily duration. Nope. Because 2ic was a straight, devoted, and stalwart foodman which made him blind to most gorgeous mantraps and bulletproof exempt from any side trips and unconditionally reflective flirting when he anticipated a dinner pending shortly.

At this particular preliminary point 2ic turned a lightheaded misty-eyed blob of lust up to his ears in his mind-blowing foreplay. The nervously jerky tongue flicked out an back between his working lips. The eager fingers slightly tapped and tickled his mouth corners, full of heated restlessness, both fingers and corners. Then the pudenda of menu was grabbed and his kindled gaze plunged into, tenderly attentive, dipping in ever deeper, flipping the beans of lines in the list. Oh, joyous moment of bliss! Let him choose the most succulent and yummiest bite from this here treasure trove. A life-long honey-moon has a foodman…

Sally went off after the ordered meal. 2ic sat back relaxed yet retaining his happy alertness.

‘Watch me and learn,’ instructed he V, ‘In the moments before you consummate the very juice of pleasure it’s worth to bring up some dismal thought, you know. A kinda skeleton at those hedonistic orgies in Old time Rome. To sharpen the feel of gratification.’

‘My groom-gift at you wedding will be a Skeletal System Atlas. And thank you for sharing the trick.’

‘Any time. That’s what friends are for, V, to make you radiantly illuminated, buddy. For a starter, contemplate the Malthusian Catastrophe we’re heading to.’

‘The guy who predicted imminent food shortages because of the population growth? I don’t buy spooky prophecies. The history most optimistically proves that knife-edge balancing had become the mankind's specialty and from each and every next-day plague or plight we always safely leap into a deeper shit. So keep the boogeyman for your grand-kids as a night bed story and stuff.’

‘He proved it mathematically!’

‘At the turn of 20th century mathematicians proved that 50 years later life in all major cities of the world would come to a crunching halt because of no riddance to droppings of all the horse needed for intercity transportation. Smart eggheads! Your pessimistic Fellow of the Royal Society, from the world populated by less than 1 billion, omitted taking in consideration the human race inbred mechanisms of self-preservation like mass shootings at the kindergartens and campuses, ethnic cleansing, slaughterhouse world wars, extermination camps and other suicidal means to whet your appetite.’

‘It’s the art of spicing that makes a chef from a regular cowpoke cook. Don’t dump the whole sack into one meal.’

In a slow melancholic move reached 2ic for his jacket to angle a pinkish pack of chewing gum. He extracted one stick, unwrapped it and, ruminating musefully, dropped the pack into the breast pocket in his shirt. Then 2ic shed off his muse and meaningfully winked at V.

‘Oops! Excuse my manners! Here you are!’

He glibly took from the same pocket a separate stick of chewing gum and outstretched his arm with offering to V.

‘The story is…’