Dr. Zanzibar's Emergenze

Quietly he wickedly awaited, cruel in his intensely intricate intentions upon which he most certainly and without one slim salamander of a doubt would act upon. Given the correct circumstances, that was.

As (Head)master of his Domain, he was more a commander of the cowering souls rather an administrator of the highest realms of knowledge. A distinguished professor in his own right, as opposed to his left, the good Doctor of Phallusophy did nigh but to provoke his class full of pandering, pretentious, pinheaded, phlegm-inducing, pilfering, pillaged, putrid… students… and their wrath he quickly earn’t. Pure evil through and through, even through well down to the edges of the big and small toes which accumulate strange marks from God knows What… this much contained enough animosity and Eevuhl to crush all that is civilized claptrap.

Zanzibar was not a tall man, but he held a lumberjack’s presence – mostly due to his spectacular odor glands, which he prided himself on. His lumpy gait, slowly smearing the grime across the less-than-sterile linoleum flooring,  made his worn lab rubbers squawk like rodents being forced down the in-sink-erator. Relatedly, the sound was due to the audio chip he had installed in the faded black shoes, which replayed that very scenario – grinding bones, torn fur and skin, an evil cackle, and Fox News’ War on Terror coverage faintly in the background.

Dr. Zanzibar taught phallusophy at the university level, but college studentz were unpalatable to th1s man. His pupilz were of the more radikal type, but they were intelligent nonetheless, despite their fanciful intricaciez. You see, they were writerz of the highest order – creative sons-of-bitchez, cutting and harpooning the tapestry of literature past with their scalpel of new-age linguistikz and tonguez of beyond. These budding authorz insisted on using their own language to express their thoughtz, and it simply drove Zanzibar mad, mad beyond all comprehension or reason. So mad, in fact, that he had threatened to fail all of the students – but what would that do, anyhow? They held the upper hand, so to sp3ak. They had control of the collective opinion, which is supposed to count for something, but perhaps there are those who are out there to alter the power dynamic such that language is no longer an anodyne for those needing outlet or a place to place their past present and future polemikz. You see what I’m saying?

Dr. Z was a crook. A rotten thief because he intended to strip his studentz of the salaciousness of their sacred sputterancez. They grouped together to reZist the onslaught of Zanzibar’s oppressive lightsaber pen of death. They would make a stand for the l33tz.

Rant

I'm tired right now, very tired. Even worse I'm bored. My brain is clouded with the sound of a man's voice a thousand miles away but it rings with unambiguous clarity.

NICE.

He needs to shut the hell up. Stop polluting my airspace. Take your odious crap elsewhere. Everywhere I am surrounded with cutting words and scathing indictments. Philosophical charity is one and a half fathoms deep. Redeeming social value of speech is amputated, replaced with parody, satire and most prolifically Ad Hominem prosthetics. Television is rife with example. Even academia is riddled with the slugs of ideological warfare. Competition is innately human, Hobbes agreed, but ours is enduring and fruitless. These confrontations serve no purpose, have no tangible end and agitate the masses. Debate is inexorably fallacious, look at Hilldawg and BO. The people could use some substance.

Rather than focus on merit, pundits only look to discredit their adversaries. Warrant is hardly a requirement if opportunity for asserting character superiority over another exists. The information age has birthed a society engrossed in cheap tricks and instantaneous thrills. The thrill is gone-from articulate critical thinking, if there ever was such a thing. Society is now blessed with fanatical coverage of political soap opera, with all factions claiming deceit. Claims founded only in ego and socio-centric primacy; to disparage and castigate is apparently the ultimate buzz. Slander, evidently, is intoxicating and poignantly popular. Gossip. Arena patronage ensures abrasive conflict only.

Instead of building for a common good, we are busy dynamiting the base. This speaks to the inefficacy of philosophy in practice and the staunch primeval instinct of humanity. We will never, "all get along," ambition renders amicability unrealistic. Without the ability to alter this manifestation, the disillusioned can only beg refuge from the oppressive onslaught of opinion from the commentators of all niches. Keep it to yourself, let us think.

Chapter 3 - Death of a Salesman

CHAPTER 3

To this day the sight of a freshly polished tile floor leaves an abominable lump in my throat. At this point in the recurrent reverie, like in the original, it becomes irrevocably twisted in the moments to come, traversing the chasm separating irrational delectability to sober nightmare.

The intensity of the light we were experiencing suffered a great reduction, eventually giving way to fluorescent streaks on the floor before me. The light within us however failed to ebb. We were cast as apparitions among the surrounding artifice.

Gentle jazz music wafted from a grand piano, manipulated by an elegant formally attired man. The notes gently lapped our ears and immersed us in surreality. Zucchini was still there. Still radiantly gorgeous in her phantom form.

The jazz snobbery became more definite and all around it large bins of super-market goods appeared concentrically around the musical epicenter. Imagine the opposite of spontaneous combustion, instead of bursting into marvelous flaming spheres and falling into conical piles of dust, the objects were spontaneously manifesting into solid matter of the bin genus.

She tugged and I followed. We floated in and among the people until we were within paces of the circle’s musical origin orifice. In front of me was a great holster of agriculture, a container cordoning an assortment of multi-colored produce. The bin was ornately simple, paradoxical in essence. It was an indoor upper-caste monument to lower-caste open-air markets.
“Ha! Ten dollars a pound for fucking zucchini? What comedian is responsible for this slur?”
A tall dark-skinned man was fondling the vegetable in disbelief, while an American flag pin reflected the fluorescence proudly from his lapel.

An entrepreneurial, emasculating woman with a curious figure hidden beneath her power-suit and apron diced him maliciously with wild eyes. She was the vendor and was not about to be insulted over her organically labeled goods.
“Is there a problem sir?

“These vegetables must be tagged incorrectly, where else in the world do people pay degenerate prices such as these?”

His remark was earnest, quizzical and direct, not malicious but candid. I shiver now thinking about it. I could see her eyes marked with rage and primal glow burning with ferocity of California wildfire.
“Arrogance!”
She drew a pistol from her apron pocket and unleashed, a hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorn, barrage of lead into his chest. He crumbled like a sack of potatoes, disjointed and grotesque.

“They’re trying to kill me!” Screamed another man with hilarious passion.

Later his face became clear to me, it was Yossarian. It’s worth noting that he vacated the premises immediately, likely to a safe house… A hospital perhaps.

The woman chuckled good-naturedly and snatched the floundering, stagflated zucchini from the air, breathed upon it and replaced it among corresponding greens. A prisoner of war began clapping, reveling in the imbecility of it all. It was moronic and sadistic like water-board torture.

The dark skinned scholarly man lay inconsequentially in his pool of wisdom. It’s almost too brutal to recall. I turned horrified to my hostess, and she pulled me into her bosom. Us being ghosts, the embrace was airy but I managed to displace myself in to the entirety of her greenness. Noting in my sorrowed and confused sight but glorious green. Without interrupting the tenderness, my vegetable guide alluded:
“Her facebook said she was ambitious.”

It was a rare scene in that segment, a wholly terrible observation. An exhibition and affirmation of esoteric screwyness and conditioned madness. A death of a salesman of sorts.

I have no idea

I'm really stretching on this thing I think, any input would be appreciated.

2 Cont'd

The siren Zucchini was genuine to the point of being bawdy. The words she spoke were earnestly philanthropic in intent and consequently made those common knowledge quotations all the more spectacularly prurient.
Now remember people, that this was a dream. She really was a darling of a vegetable and in the context of the lucid reverie the scenario was not the least bit odd or peculiar. Those of you familiar with these sorts of commandeering hallucinations understand that my-fantastical-self was prisoner of biochemistry. Any attempts to control or pilot the imagination would’ve precariously compromised the pleasantries I was vividly enjoying; experience told me so. The flickering of my erudite consciousness waned smartly, acquiesced, and enabled me to become captivated in my sub-conscious confines. In this manner I became a willing inmate to my dominatrix zucchini siren.
Anyway, sorry for the tangential detour. Back to the story. Ahem. Dream. She wheeled around regally to face me, her imaginary invisible robes and pneumatics breezed my face. Again, immediately, I became intoxicated with her flavor. She gazed at me with benevolent smiling eyes, extended her fertile hand and dotingly said:
“Come!”
Leaning forward I began to rise, my shirtless perspiring back slowly liberating itself from the pleather La-Z-Boy trap. THHHHHHHHHHIP. I touched the vegetable goddess’ tender fresh palm smirkingly,
“Gladly.”
Ecstasy collided with revulsion, a techni-color embrace of night and day in the afternoon twilight. I was blissfully being stretched in all directions simultaneously enamored and disgusted with pleasure and pain. I could see nothing and feel everything. Her gentled hand still held mine in meaningful assurance.
At first the noise was faint, but gradually it climbed the rungs of the decibel ladder eventually attaining zenith. It was a symbiotic chorus of chloroplastic voices, an abhorrently heinous orchestral multitude vehemently chanting their quasi-song in Shakespearian meter:

"It is all said and done,
Loyal phalanges uncomfortably numb.
Grateful farewell cellular collective,
Rendered coursing iron ineffective.

Dull eyes for this journey,
Throw me on the cold steel gurney."

…Sketch…

"Loving scalpels and sterile pliers,
Unleash the hounds upon that liar.
Find in me that fateful slug,
In that wound attempt a plug.

Promiscuous pundit hampering my head,
These moments are inexplicably dead."

…Base odious bilge…

"From this blow I’m still reeling,
Doctors and Nurses further the healing.
They say back to the beginning time to restart,
Approach bountiful sea with guarded heart."

I convulsed in manic horror spasms, the rubbish plant orchestra continued the defecating sonic insolence. Obscenity cascaded voluminously from my lips like Niagara but left no mark. Darkness followed, the hand remained. The darkness was pervasive but I drew perseverance from her steadfast presence amidst the sonic bedlam. The words were ugly, course as sea salt. The choir became lethargic, the active contribution to the atrocity halted, reverberations from the shadow beyond me were all that remained.

The death of the iniquitous chant coincided proportionally with the growing luminosity of the area. By the time the last sound waves broke upon the grains of time, the whole space was ablaze in dairy white light that reflected exponentially off of the polished tile floor.

Chapter 2?

CHAPTER 2

Now as I said before my conscious couldn’t bear the quasi-psuedo-epiphany. It was a contemptible balance of immense gravity and penetrating hilarity, which lead to my collapse and rebirth. I remember waking from my from my coma covered in Orange rinds with the dog drooling on my lap, apparently unsatisfied with citrus peel mastication. My eyes were dilating wildly, engaging in tug-of-war with the spectrum of visible light. My roommates were in a substance induced incapacitation, the remnants from the festive hours oddly strewn about. The squalor was deplorable. I remember running my hands through my unkempt hair, it had a honey wheat beer residue and pleasant odor. Chiseling the crust from my eyes, I began to recount the fugitive hours of my consciousness.

I had been having a lucid dream of sorts. The reverie had been odd and lengthy, a journey reminiscent of Mr. Dickens’ Scrooge. I saw familiar places and faces, contorted into countenances unbeknownst to me. It was poignant and irrational, fantastically applicable. Segments of the dream recur often, altered with current sub-conscious happenings, but largely intact enough to recount.

It began where my previous consciousness had lapsed, on the long green couch facing the picture window that looked out upon the various colored automobiles on the empty street. KNOCK. The door echoed with a classical beat. I stood up slowly, stretched and loped towards the door that stood adjacent to the picture window. I reached for the worn bronze knob and twisted. The door slid open towards me ominously. Outside light poured in, my eyes struggled to acclimate, an indistinct shadowy form stood before me. A sirens voice massaged my eardrums from the murk.
“I can show you the world.”
“Excuse me?” I croaked, puzzled.

My eyes began their instinctual adjustments; the voice’s indefinite form slowly and steadily became svelte and impeccably feminine.
“I can show you the world.”
The delicate voice tantalized my nape and encumbered my thinking.
“Uh..Please come in?” Stutter.

Taking a few steps back, I felt my way into the large black La-Z-Boy recliner that stood proximately to the window, and parked. Enveloped in plush pleather, I watched as the exceedingly feminine guest elegantly slid across the threshold. The figure turned and addressed me, and I began blinking in earnest awe at the manifestation before me.

She was the most astonishingly radiant Zucchini I’d ever laid eyes upon, a stunning luscious vegetable ripe with svelte delicate curves. The siren noticed my eyes teeming with longing; they roved her glorious green lined being. She turned away from my from my gaze hoping the spell would wane. I marveled at her nutritious buttocks and found the small of her back tattooed with a calligraphic barcode that read, 10.99 per pound. Her voice was markedly magnanimous, innocent and magnificent.
“Come with me if you want to live.”