from: Dildog 3/10/00-22:04:29
It is never night inside the PPX MACHINE. Even after the sun has set on the mesa, and all the men in white jumpsuits with the nets and straight-jackets have showered, packed up, and gone home; even as yawning, befuddled scientist super-models sit in the labs of Otto Industries, trapped by their own reflections in the blackened windows; and even as the esophageal dark falls over coyote and jackrabbit and moves everything in the Trailer Park toward the deepest center of the night, the MACHINE is awake.

Its thirty-six thousand tesla coil based html generators are set in a wide ring like a metallic Stonehenge. Its twenty-two Texolite disks that make up the negative suck so characteristic of the Fan Club look themselves like Michael Bolton's greasy forehead. In vast, concentric pools of concentrated Churchs Fried Chicken deep-fry oil which, except for the occasional floating wino stirring the surface, seem essentially bottomless. Real deep-fryer oil and real winos, in half-million-gallon tanks that sit one inside the other, like a wheel within a wheel. Even now there are depths in the MACHINE, invisible worlds revealing themselves, the secret body of the reanimated hate board floating up to the surface.

It begins with the simple flip of a cyber switch in the control room of the most important double-wide in the known universe. Before a bank of computer screens, the Doktor clicks a mouse, and then electricity, quietly sucked right off the municipal power grid in San Antonio, floods into the outer ring of Tesla Coils generating thousands of emails in the first split nanosecond. This is when the MACHINE takes control. A wave file sounds, monster doobage spontaneously combusts, and all entrances automatically lock.

Another switch is flipped, another mouse clicked. To the piercing sound of an alarm, a countdown in the html generators ensues, or rather a COUNT-UP, in kilovolts.. To the piercing sounds of original mp3s playing at max volume. It comes in a monotone, almost hollow voice beneath the raw edge of the mass emailing alarms. The Doktor himself is in the control room on a tinny loudspeaker, the MACHINE speaking through the human:

2 kV... 2,000 kV... 2,000,000 kV...."

At 2 billion kV, the floodgates open: a pulse of electricity surges out of the html generators toward an inside ring of select web-groupies, and then through a series of gas switches made from the intestines of mountains of passed-over web-groupies. The electricity pours past the good Doktor, and is redirected outward . The current is compressed by the MACHINE into a wild white-water of back and forth mailings, and charges toward the World Wide Web and its concentric vats of chicken fat, where floating wino corpses make a toroidal spamming search engine of major proportion. All to fetch Turkie and Tacki and return them in baited traps to the hate-zone, so Madame X, Popeye X, and all the little Xs can marvel at the pure power of intellectualism these two web-stalkers bring to the table. 

"The reality might be virtual,
but the truth is not."

Hope this clears it up for ya. . . .
Dildog (court roadie to Bald King Bolton)



21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 X 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1