The King of Pop
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The King of Pop
by Hobb Tue 30 Jun 2015 - 0:02
Another one from the vaults.
Did you ever want more of those crazy child-clones that attacked our heroes in 'Welcome to Sudbury'? How about a bizarre cyberpunk tribute/parody of Micheal Jackson? Well today is your lucky day, you sicko! I wrote this back in 2001 on August 25, two days before MJ's birthday. I was strongly into my anti-corporate, anti-pop, ad-busters phase and it shows. When I re-read this before posting I was a little worried that it would be too crude or mean, but I was pleasantly surprised, I never bore Jackson any malice, and was saddened by his sordid finale in real-life. So sit back and stare in disbelief at a different finale for the -
Michael Jackson stroked the deteriorating paneling on his crude fusion nuke. The King of Pop was in the sub-basement of Pop-Land, his fortress-city a mile below sea level. Tinny music could be heard piped-in above the nuke's cooling system, the music crackled in the ionizing radiation. Michael's head bobbed creakily along to the music; today was his hundredth birthday. Nano-surveillance equipment had long since infiltrated Pop-Land, so Michael’s every action was being broadcast worldwide. Not that the world was watching anymore - only one site broadcast a live 24-hour feed from Pop-Land. The site had bought the rights for the nano-tech footage rights from Mossad who had infiltrated the fort when rumors of Jackson's nuclear capability first emerged. Pop-Land's proximity to other, newer and richer, fortress-cities in Greater Arabia meant that a detonation in Pop-Land could have significant effects. When it was discovered that the fusion nuke had under a kiloton of power the panic subsided and the rights sold cheaply.
Three tan decaying children stood patiently beside Jackson, he had collected about fifty child-clones over the last decade despite the sale ban. Most had since died or become atavistic, living in cannibalistic tribes on the outskirts of Pop-Land. The three who stood beside him now were ravaged by radiation leakage - as was Jackson himself - but brain-mods kept them obedient. His last purchase of clones took place six years ago when an American KC-dealer dropped in looking to move some bargain models. After the transaction the dealer, unaware of Jackson's past, said 'You sure like your kids, huh? Jackson flew into an ineffectual rage and repeatedly swung his tail at the dealer. The dealer stopped him with a flick of his EM-gun and then lopped off his tail.
That was the last time the Pop-Land live-feed site had made the headlines, until today his 100th birthday. Almost every psy-profile and death-pool agreed that if the nuke was going off, it would be today. There were only four current psy-profile on Jackson: two by Pscientologists (one orthodox sect, one by a heretical), one by Mossad and one by Celebrity Death Countdown but they all agreed if the King was going in a blaze of primitive nuclear fire today would be it.
The sight of Jackson's bone-white, radiation pockmarked face prompted some groups to take pity upon Jackson. As an early proponent of surgical and genetic modification, Jackson resembled an aborted angel with translucent white skin that revealed every scar, implant, and radiation sore. Pity forced some countries to call for humanitarian political intervention, but Pop-Land was an independent country outside all other jurisdictions (as were all the fortress-cities of Greater Arabia). There is footage of Jackson being visited by a member of the 'Wheels of Time' NGO, staffed by CEOs from the late 1970s whose successful longevity treatments had led to enlightenment. The monk, formerly of Exxon, was attacked by several kiddie-clones on Jackson’s' orders and driven off. He parted with the words, "Fellow human, even the King of Pop is transitory, illusionary, we are past the days when every evil was justified to support our ego-constructs. We will wait for you with infinite love". Jackson spent the next week mutilating himself and slowly torturing two beloved clones to death.
Now Jackson's pupil-less eyes wept a yellow fluid as the crackling music built to a crescendo. He has spent the last six years endlessly looping, filtering, and distorting every song he ever sang into a giant 27-hour mega-mix. The song put the worst excesses of early 80’s industrial music or 20th century deconstructionist symphonies to shame. Occasionally a clip of Jackson's falsetto voice could be made out, only to twist into an inhuman computerized howl and then be swamped by reverb. As the song crashed wave upon wave into itself, Jackson propped himself up against the huge nuclear device and sang. The cramped room, a tangle of cooling pipes and loose wires, offered little in the wave of acoustics, but since Jackson had long since replaced his voice box with a vox-mod simulator of audio insanity.
His howl was raw and electronically edged; the desperate howl of a leper messiah raging against reality; the brutal cacophony of an ego roaring against its own oblivion. One of the clones beside him, a naked with dirty-blonde hair, covered in her own filth, began screaming. Clawing at her scalp she joined in with Michael's mechanical soul baring. Soon the two other clones, identical brown-skinned boys, joined in. None of the clones had ever learned to speak. All four voices joined in savage crescendo. Jackson's pus-cracked face turned toward the clones and the slightest trace of a smile seemed to grace his flayed lip.
The King of Pop grabbed his crotch.
And the necropolis that was Pop-Land turned into a radioactive cloud. And so, on August 29th 2058, the twentieth century finally died.
Did you ever want more of those crazy child-clones that attacked our heroes in 'Welcome to Sudbury'? How about a bizarre cyberpunk tribute/parody of Micheal Jackson? Well today is your lucky day, you sicko! I wrote this back in 2001 on August 25, two days before MJ's birthday. I was strongly into my anti-corporate, anti-pop, ad-busters phase and it shows. When I re-read this before posting I was a little worried that it would be too crude or mean, but I was pleasantly surprised, I never bore Jackson any malice, and was saddened by his sordid finale in real-life. So sit back and stare in disbelief at a different finale for the -
THE KING OF POP
Michael Jackson stroked the deteriorating paneling on his crude fusion nuke. The King of Pop was in the sub-basement of Pop-Land, his fortress-city a mile below sea level. Tinny music could be heard piped-in above the nuke's cooling system, the music crackled in the ionizing radiation. Michael's head bobbed creakily along to the music; today was his hundredth birthday. Nano-surveillance equipment had long since infiltrated Pop-Land, so Michael’s every action was being broadcast worldwide. Not that the world was watching anymore - only one site broadcast a live 24-hour feed from Pop-Land. The site had bought the rights for the nano-tech footage rights from Mossad who had infiltrated the fort when rumors of Jackson's nuclear capability first emerged. Pop-Land's proximity to other, newer and richer, fortress-cities in Greater Arabia meant that a detonation in Pop-Land could have significant effects. When it was discovered that the fusion nuke had under a kiloton of power the panic subsided and the rights sold cheaply.
Three tan decaying children stood patiently beside Jackson, he had collected about fifty child-clones over the last decade despite the sale ban. Most had since died or become atavistic, living in cannibalistic tribes on the outskirts of Pop-Land. The three who stood beside him now were ravaged by radiation leakage - as was Jackson himself - but brain-mods kept them obedient. His last purchase of clones took place six years ago when an American KC-dealer dropped in looking to move some bargain models. After the transaction the dealer, unaware of Jackson's past, said 'You sure like your kids, huh? Jackson flew into an ineffectual rage and repeatedly swung his tail at the dealer. The dealer stopped him with a flick of his EM-gun and then lopped off his tail.
That was the last time the Pop-Land live-feed site had made the headlines, until today his 100th birthday. Almost every psy-profile and death-pool agreed that if the nuke was going off, it would be today. There were only four current psy-profile on Jackson: two by Pscientologists (one orthodox sect, one by a heretical), one by Mossad and one by Celebrity Death Countdown but they all agreed if the King was going in a blaze of primitive nuclear fire today would be it.
The sight of Jackson's bone-white, radiation pockmarked face prompted some groups to take pity upon Jackson. As an early proponent of surgical and genetic modification, Jackson resembled an aborted angel with translucent white skin that revealed every scar, implant, and radiation sore. Pity forced some countries to call for humanitarian political intervention, but Pop-Land was an independent country outside all other jurisdictions (as were all the fortress-cities of Greater Arabia). There is footage of Jackson being visited by a member of the 'Wheels of Time' NGO, staffed by CEOs from the late 1970s whose successful longevity treatments had led to enlightenment. The monk, formerly of Exxon, was attacked by several kiddie-clones on Jackson’s' orders and driven off. He parted with the words, "Fellow human, even the King of Pop is transitory, illusionary, we are past the days when every evil was justified to support our ego-constructs. We will wait for you with infinite love". Jackson spent the next week mutilating himself and slowly torturing two beloved clones to death.
Now Jackson's pupil-less eyes wept a yellow fluid as the crackling music built to a crescendo. He has spent the last six years endlessly looping, filtering, and distorting every song he ever sang into a giant 27-hour mega-mix. The song put the worst excesses of early 80’s industrial music or 20th century deconstructionist symphonies to shame. Occasionally a clip of Jackson's falsetto voice could be made out, only to twist into an inhuman computerized howl and then be swamped by reverb. As the song crashed wave upon wave into itself, Jackson propped himself up against the huge nuclear device and sang. The cramped room, a tangle of cooling pipes and loose wires, offered little in the wave of acoustics, but since Jackson had long since replaced his voice box with a vox-mod simulator of audio insanity.
His howl was raw and electronically edged; the desperate howl of a leper messiah raging against reality; the brutal cacophony of an ego roaring against its own oblivion. One of the clones beside him, a naked with dirty-blonde hair, covered in her own filth, began screaming. Clawing at her scalp she joined in with Michael's mechanical soul baring. Soon the two other clones, identical brown-skinned boys, joined in. None of the clones had ever learned to speak. All four voices joined in savage crescendo. Jackson's pus-cracked face turned toward the clones and the slightest trace of a smile seemed to grace his flayed lip.
The King of Pop grabbed his crotch.
And the necropolis that was Pop-Land turned into a radioactive cloud. And so, on August 29th 2058, the twentieth century finally died.
Hobb- Admin
- Posts : 1671
Join date : 2015-03-31
Age : 49
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