In Filamena‘s Maschine Zeit game, I’ve put together a completely manic and caustic combination of Hunter S. Thompson and Spider Jerusalem. One of the groups in the game, the Independent Media, operates under the collective moniker of “S.L. Clemins” as a measure of protection. This guy, though? Don’t go in for that.
(Warning: adult language incoming.)
You want to know about the stations? Let me tell you about the stations. They’re the gift that keeps on giving. Earth has an overpopulation problem? Build stations & fill them with warm human bodies. Gamma-ray burst blow across the planet without making anybody Hulk out? Say the stations protected people and thus justified the investment of money and blood required to put them up. Still having energy problems? Stations have magic metal that’ll fix it. Ghost hunters running out of prisons and castles? Hey, the stations have ghosts too!
As far as I’m concerned, the stations are, have been and always will be so many tons of next-generation bullshit at the end of really, really long tethers. It’s the only reason they haven’t stinking up the planet.
I mean, yeah, we had to get some people off of the surface. We had way too many people and way too little usable space & consumable resources. Of course none of the old methods would go over that well with most governments. You ever try pitching the idea of putting a bunch of people from a given nationality or ethnicity into a little room and filling it with gas, for example? They’d tell you to go fuck yourself, and rightly so. For one thing, gunning people down’s a lot more fun.
What it boils down to is that everything about the stations is a lie. “This will solve the overpopulation problem.” They didn’t. “They’re completely safe.” Well, obviously they fucking aren’t. And now we’re to believe there’s magic metal up there and that it’s protected by ghosts? I’m as inclined to believe that as I am that the reason the stations came to be in the first place was a natural occurrence.
Basic premise of the world, folks: Everybody’s full of shit. I’m full of shit, you’re full of shit, and the corporate goons who sent all those good people to die up there are definitely full of shit. Maybe there really are ghosts on the stations. Maybe it’s one hell of a mass hallucination. Either way, it’s something I won’t buy stock in unless I get to see it myself. Not that I’ve got any chance of that. My last four steady jobs all ended because people who once considered themselves sponsors of mine, if not employers, did something embarrassing, tried to cover it up and got fucked over a cactus because they insisted on hiding it from one of the most annoying and thorough investigative journalists who ever stuck a cigarette in his shit-spewer and asked the hard fucking questions: Me.
I’m willing to entertain any theory about what’s happening up there, how things got up there and what the future holds. Just don’t throw a fucking hissy fit when I point out how illogical, unsubstantiated or thoroughly retarded your theory might be. Throw ’em at me, Internet, and I’ll knock ’em out of the park and when they break your mom’s window I’ll do more than go in there after it. If you get my meaning. And I’m sure you do.
By the way, guys, it’s “Clemens.” Samuel Langhorne fucking Clemens. Sure, all of you can be friends with this ‘Clemins’ guy, but me? I’m Samuel Langhorne fucking Clemens’ secret gay lover. And he really hates people misspelling his name. I really respect the work he’s done. The work you all have been doing? Eh, it’s hit or miss.
You’ll be hearing more from me, especially if you folks have the balls to throw ideas my way. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of, unless you’re afraid of me fucking you in the ass. I mean, if you’re all S.L. Clemins, you’re close enough for my tastes, and let me assure you, I’m very, very gay for Twain.