Finally out of abracadabra, the cynical fool (later abbreviated as cf for in this era of quickies where you take it out, shove it in, puke inside and rush to the assembly line, time and space both are at a premium) wanted to be serious in life. And he stepped into something which was called as the ‘real world’ (which was also supposedly more serious than abracadabra) by certain very ‘smart people’. The cf wanted to call that world fantasmagoristan or at least the ‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’. I corrected or egged him to call it automatonistan. (Long ago, if his memory served right the cf had heard of a country called hindostan).
Now it was the first day of the cf at what very serious people call a job. Cf tried killing time by engaging in verbal intercourse with fellow automatons. Later the fellow automatons wanted to satisfy one of their animal instincts (eat). The big M was just down there. Not the big mama silly but the one responsible for pigging (euphemistically called fattening and mind you I do not mean any offence to people challenged by weighing scales) populations across planets. The big M had originated from the darling planet of serious people, a land beset by the heaviest. Euphemistically many called it as the Planet of States. Now leaving the verbiage aside, let us turn to the actual scene.
The big M was filled to the brim with automatons, automatons of all sexes (I hate bifurcating automatons just on the basis of what shows up inside their pants), automatons of many classes (strictly not all), automatons of all age groups (now do not ask me if I included infants). There were automatons who thought themselves to be sophisticated and as a proof strangled their necks with a piece of clothing resembling what many virile among the automatons refer to as the weapon, though a little longer (as if one was out fighting a war with their partner but oxymoronically called it making love). Among the sophisticated ones many were garbed in sweaty suits as well. And they thought themselves as super intelligent.
And then there were those referred to as the fairer sex who were trying to act dainty. (They were not even able to use their hands properly. It seemed they thought themselves to be sparrows and thus were pecking at their foods). And there were those whom summer had given the excuse to reveal more than they could hide. Cf did not want to give a damn even if they chose to forget covering what again some serious people referred to as assets. He particularly disliked the furniture at the big M and when they spread their bottoms on those chairs, the sight seemed ghastly to cf’s idea of aesthetics. Reams were consigned to print discussing the rear of somebody by the name of Pippa Middleton. Cf thought he would get to appreciate or write paeans on the rear view but it was an aesthetic disaster.
And there were overblown kid automatons as well. And these kinds were there with their guardian automatons. But I think my heart definitely sank when I saw two little kids being fed burgers for lunch by their seemingly nouve middle class parents. They did not seem to be rich, just what again the serious people call as the middle class. Cf thought (even he could think) how would their taste buds develop if they are being pigged on a diet served by the big M.
It seemed the big M was losing its plot in the country of its origin and wanted to explore new markets. (by the way markets was a much over-used term in abracadabra and stuff like market access were used profusely but rarely appreciated what it meant for the population in those areas). And automatonistan with its new found confidence of being a superpower (one of the greatest fibs doing the rounds in automatonistan and used in the many of analyses in abracadabras across the planet and jargonized as 'PEST') seemed a perfect place. These pumpkins had been ruled by the inhabitants of an island who would have drowned in the piss of those they oppressed.
Across the glass of the big M, lay a tree. A woman was sleeping. And her children seemed to looks for little crumbs from those stuffing themselves at big M. And Cf seemed dangerously close to practicing what somebody had called champagne socialism. So after spitting some verbiage, he just sat there observing rather nonchalantly. He considered himself fortunate to isolate his own self in the automaton crowd and not to be rubbed by notions of decency and airiness.
And thus the day ended after killing some more time. It was Don Rigoberto all in the head though the fantasies lacked his imaginative depth. Llossa must have laughed himself hoarse.
