So right after I open and close THE SIMULACRUM AFFAIR, a real nasty pain in
the ass from start to finish, and am filing reports in quadruplicate on what
the self-aggrandising shits who perpetrated it had the cosmic nerve to call
The Perfect Crime (TPC, aka TRH, The Reality Heist, the scam being to make
off with the n-dimensional holocrystalline fractal world-substrate and
replace it with a cheap retina-burning imitation made out of third-grade
voxel-dust glued together with COBOL), that's when it hits me, that I may
not have busted those sonsabitches after all and may in fact be unwittingly
living in the ugly aftermath of their heinous caper, a ghost of my good
authentic original self projected on to the cardboard cut-out backdrop of
their popular COPLAND porno-thriller. I check out this hypothesis: run a few
witty comebacks past some sharp customers in the detention block known for
their devastating put-downs of screws, plods and all others in positions of
assumed authority - well the dialogue comes out flat and sour as a hag's
tit, clearly the work of inferior hack writers -and already the bit rot is
starting to show in the men's lavatories, stay in there long enough and
you'll end up pissing pixels - so I go to the nearest payphone and dial
LOCALHOST:8080, call on Inspector JB of the Nova Police to intervene as I
realize I am already so far out of my depth as to risk complete
superficiality and subsequent mandatory appearance as the subject of a
hagiography by some dismal theory queen fresh from reading Fred West For
Beginners: Now That's What I Call Radical Transgressivity 23...
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