Transmission Disconnect

The fear for humanity is not a television built without an off button but a society without a need for one. Welcome to that future, a collection of humans who live like individualized ants. Insects who never leave their domicile and depend upon delivery service like a junky craves his dealer.

My name is Madison Shankmen and I have been picked to transcribe their drug. To watch endless hours of their New Age Nanny and regurgitate the empty result. There is no art here, only a endless steam of marketing sewage and brand consciousness.

In the post apocalyptic city on the cliffs of Armageddon, freedom of choice devoid of option is a slave’s freewill. A future with 20 different kinds of hamburgers where each one is made with the same soy mixed cow meat. Apartment buildings where each level has 4 doors that open to the same cookie cutter layout. Corporate offices that have a sea of cubicles and no inner walls.

Evolution halted in the Father’s shadow, who’s disembodied head is plastered over every bit of space not covered by advertisements. We live under his corporate umbrella and suffer from his protection. Figurehead is another word for fascism and the population has never bothered to look at a dictionary.

Generation begat generation, bred into this madness. A global Coalmine game played out with a population of Rubes. The sucker punch agenda leads to 30 year old virgins trapped in prisons of toys. Ignorance is bliss and everything is fictional.  Even my registered name is fictional to match their reality.

Madison Shankmen, my real name, is born a mile below the Earth’s crust, where life make sense. It’s the name I shall return to when the rebellion is over and the Father falls to his nonexistent knees.

There are many levels of war on the streets. My brothers in the rebellion fight with every last breath but we all must follow orders. They are the drop squad and I am the infiltrator, here to dive into the culture and look for the Achilies’ heel.

My young able body could be put to good use on the front line but we all have to follow someones’ orders. So here I sit. My fingers at the keys, my eyes on the television. I can feel the subliminal message seep into my cortex. Will the television rays eventuality effect my brain?

My contact in the underground joked that the last guy stationed at this post went insane. He took a swan dive from 94 stories up. After endless hours spent in the New Age Nanny’s glow, I don’t blame him.

Yet the mission objection is simple. Transcribe their shows into fictional stories. Load them into a hacked version of WordPress and click the post button. Where my words go and the reasons behind my transcription remain a mystery.