BIT-STRING ENTRY #4
I have my rituals and you have yours. For me it’s sweep, mop, scrub, and dispose. However, the rituals that supersede a paycheck are to observe, select and orchestrate a human-to-human campaign to reveal The Program – to get you to peek behind the neurochemical veil and discover the genetically-embedded widgets that are fueling your enslavement rituals.
That’s the mission. The mandate from The Masters. The Unifiers.
My Masters came here before your written history and tried to enlighten Humanity. Unfortunately, another interplanetary species arrived first – an insatiable force of darkness – and that incited a battle for your mind and soul that you’ll never hear or read about in your World Religions class.
Anyway, that was many moons ago and now here I am, stationed (some would say stuck) along with 22 other Custodians – all of us trying to scrape the stink off this anomaly in the Unified Field we call Earth.
But I digress. Jeremiah has just stormed out of his Counseling appointment in a fragile state of mind. His parents have followed suit, threatening to sue the University if their son’s class schedule isn’t revamped to their satisfaction. And that has prompted MR. ELKINS, the Academic Counselor, to follow procedural dictum, which includes a frantic Email writing campaign to several Department Heads requesting changes to Jeremiah’s curriculum immediately, all in a desperate attempt to cover his ass.
And there you have it, Dear Human – fear, loathing and bureaucracy in action – all widgets of The Program.
My shift has ended, and my concerns remain with Jeremiah, my Chosen One. I follow him out of the Student Services Building. He’s on his cell phone, head down, hoody up, his quantum aura now a putrid brown. He approaches his Ford Ranger parked in Lot C. Little does he know that I recently changed the oil, fluids and filters, cleaned the brake pads and rotated the tires. I’ve witnessed his adrenaline-fueled driving habits over the past semester, so I figured the least I could do was make sure his wheels could handle the stress.
I spy some lame personification of MadHatter leaning over the truck’s tailgate, checking out my man’s Roberts “White Diamond” surfboard lying there in the flatbed. He’s got a bag of Zantacs, some E-tabs and a bottle of Bushmills. Jeremiah’s got the cash. The exchange takes less than fifteen seconds, plus another fifteen for my boy to pop the pills and wash them down. Then Jeremiah gets behind the wheel and tears out of the lot.
Jaysus, the things you humans do to yourselves to escape enslavement…
Nevermind. Time to find my own wheels.