Psychic Cannibalism

(Many thanks to Fay, for letting me use tidbits of an instant
messenger conversation, in this piece of fictional writing. And also to
Karl, for coming up with such a bizarre creative writing
exercise.)

***

Never give out your password or credit card number in an instant
message conversation:

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Caned &; Able says:

The creative writing exercise is interesting today.

Misty says:

What is it?

Caned &; Able says:

Psychic cannibalism

Misty says:

gosh, that is interesting. What do you think it means#?

Caned &; Able says:

dunno

Misty says:

eating thoughts ; brainwashing?

Caned &; Able says:

could be

Misty says:

feeding on other peoples thoughts

Caned &; Able says:

mmm

Caned &; Able says:

eating your own thoughts... perhaps.

Misty says:

ah

Misty says:

eating your own thoughts to live, now that's wierd.

Caned &; Able says:

That must be why I keep forgetting everything. I'am a psychic cannibal
man. I keep eating all my memories.

Misty says:

Maybe it means thinking the same thoughts over and over?

Caned &; Able says:

That's why I keep forgetting everything. I'am a psychic cannibal man. I
keep eating all my memories.

Misty says:

Lost in a circle of thinking.

Caned &; Able says:

That's why I keep forgetting everything. I'am a psychic cannibal man. I
keep eating all my memories.

Misty says:

Silly :0)

Misty says:

I think is eating other peoples thoughts.

Caned &; Able says:

Yeah man, it's got to be something spooky like that.

Misty says:

It could be someone sat in a room waiting for an interview, sucking out
everyone's thoughts; so that they have them all to impress the
interviewer, leaving everyone else in the room like zombies.

Caned &; Able says:

Argg.. I felt a goosepimple then.. that's why I never get a job.

Misty says:

They could be walking amongst us, on the buses and the trains. Stealing
thoughts from our heads. Leaving everyone feeling apathetic.

Caned &; Able says:

Now that is sinister.

Misty says:

Ah, but the title definately has such sinister connotations.

Misty says:

death

Misty says:

stealing and killing

Misty says:

without the other being aware.

Misty says:

Maybe that's why everyone in society is so apathetic.

Misty says:

Cos all the conscience thoughts have been eaten

Misty says:

Maybe Rupert Murdoch has conscience on toast for breakfast :0)

Caned &; Able says:

Yeah man, I'am sure he does. This world is being run by psychic
cannibals I'am sure of it!

I'am going to start a movement, write a book exposing them. The people
need to know. The truth needs to be shouted from the rooftops.

Our brains are being eaten by the corporates!!!

Misty says:

Yes but be careful, the secret intelligence service might be monitoring
this conversation. You'll have to try to keep your book secret. Or
they'll come and drain you of your memories, leaving you wandering
around wearing Nike trainers and reading the Daily Mail. You won't care
about the world anymore. You will become an apathetic zombie. Walking
along the conveyer belt of mass consumerism.

Caned &; Able says:

Now that's a scary thought. Ok we better keep this between me and you
then, Misty.

Misty says:

Ok :0)

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Caned &; Able tries to sign back into his messenger, but can't. He's
been disconnected from the internet. He tries to log back on, but the
modem screeches a big "NO" at him.

It doesn't matter how many times he tries to get back online to
continue the conversation, it just won't let him. It's late at night,
so he shrugs his shoulders, and decides he might as well go to
bed.

Still chuckling to himself about the bizarre conversation to do with
psychic cannibals. He shuts down his computer and gets himself a glass
of water.

The phone begins to ring suddenly. He looks at it puzzled - it's 04.00
a.m. Who on earth could be calling him at this ungodly hour? He wonders
if he should answer it. He decides not to bother, and just ignores
it.

He gets on with brushing his teeth, and getting ready for bed. The
phone stops ringing to his relief and there is silence. The only thing
is, now he can hear the sound of the birds singing outside, which he
hates, cause it reminds him of how late he's stayed up; and he worries
about it, because he's getting used it.

He sets his mobile phone alarm and places it on the bedside table. Then
feeling really tired, he stretches, yawns, and gets into bed. Switching
off the bedside light, and closing his eyes, he snuggles up into the
douvet, letting his head sink into the soft welcoming pillow.

It is at this point his mobile phone begins to ring.

He sighs and realises it must be something important. Someone must be
desperate to get hold of him; to call him on his mobile at this ungodly
hour. He switches on his bedside light, and looks to see who it is on
the caller display. It's his mate Joe.

He answers the phone:

"Alright Joe, what's up man?"

"You're what's up." Joe says in a sinister voice, that doesn't sound
like Joe at all.

"Hey you're not Joe.."

too late..

Caned &; Able feels some strange energy coming from the earpiece of
the phone. It enters through his ear and begins probing his mind. He
tries to let go of the phone but can't move or do anything. He is
paralysed by this mysterious unseen psychic force.

"... ahhh what you doing to me... stop.. you can't do this... you
can't... stop... pllleeeaasee stop.."

The cold invisible fingers flick through his mind mercilessly, like
files on a hard disc drive, deleting some, changing others. Stealing
his memories, his dreams and his thoughts. Replacing them with more
apathetic ones.

The phone cuts out finally and Caned &; Able stares blankly into
space. He presses the 'OFF' button on the phone, and resets the alarm
for 07.30 a.m. Then placing it back on the bedside table. He slowly,
silently gets back into bed, and goes to sleep.

***

The next morning when Caned &; Able wakes up. He has no recollection
of the night before. All he knows is, he works at Mcdonalds and has to
get there for 09.00 a.m.

There is a nicely pressed, brown Macdonalds uniform; hanging from a
coat hanger in his wardrobe. A big "M' is pasted where the left cheek
of your buttock would be. He gets up uses the bathroom, then puts the
uniform on.

He then picks up a pair of brand new Nike trainers, that have been
conveniently placed by his bedside, and laces them onto his feet.

He strolls into his living room, and gets his Daily Mail from the
letterbox. Then sitting down for breakfast, reads it, whilst sipping
his steaming hot mug of Nescafe, and eating a bowl of Nestle
cereal.

When breakfast is finished, he makes his way to the drive, and gets
into his *new* Ford Mondeo. Then tunes into his favourite radio
station, so he can listen to the latest in manufactured pop music;
tapping the steering wheel of his car, as he drives to work.

He dreams of oneday owning a new three piece suite from DFS, and
getting some double glazing.

He dreams of a two week holiday in Spain, the one he saw in a Thomas
Cook brochure. Pictures himself sat by a swimming pool, with lots of
other tourists, sunning, and reading his Daily mail.

These are his ambitions now.

He drives passed some woods, and feels content to see that the
roadworkers have begun chopping them down. This is so they can build a
new motorway junction. He frowns at the protesters who are being
rounded up, arrested, and shovelled into the backs of police riot vans.
He believes there can never be enough roads. It is good and convenient
for the British motorist. Don't these protesters understand this?

He smiles when he remembers he has an appointment with someone later
on, to get Sky digital fitted into his home. And feels glad that he's
switched his electricity supply over to British Gas now.

He stops by the petrol station to fill his car with BP fuel and buy
himself a kitkat. He's looking forward to the day ahead. A day where he
will be serving the customers at Macdonalds. Smiling as he pours them
their milkshakes, made from emulsified pigs fat.

Which reminds him, he must collect all the empty polystyrene coffee
cups today. This will ensure that the homeless people stop queing up
for their free refills. The management don't like this, even though
it's company policy. Also he must remember to block off the toilets,
with mop buckets and cleaning signs. This is to stop people who aren't
eating at macdonalds from using them like a public toilet.

He loves his dull job. Always smiles with pride, when he remembers that
Macdonalds don't cut the beaks off their chickens anymore. Unlike their
snidy competition: BurgerKing, who still do this.

Macdonalds do still chop down rainforests though, but this is only so
they can graze their herds of poorly treated cattle; which will then be
taken to third world slaughter houses - to become tommorrows BigMacs.
But sacrifices have to be made in the name of profit. What's a few
rainforests, and a bit of third world exploitation - compared to a Big
Mac, or a happy meal? The people want their fastfood!

If he keeps up this good work, punctuality and right attitude, he
might oneday get promoted. Becoming a manager of his very own
Macdonalds restaurant. Then he'll be able to afford a BMW, and a fancy
mobile phone. Maybe get married and have 2.4 children. Training them up
to replace him; so they can become the next generation of mass
consumerists.

He dreams of buying them the latest Nike tracksuits, and sitting down
to watch the latest Hollywood movies on his Sky digital Television set.
He pictures them all sitting down together as a family at Christmas
time. Tucking into their unnaturally fattened turkey dinner. Chucking
pieces of it from the table to feed their overweight pet dog: Fido. Who
lives in a kennel in the garden. A dog who dreams of running free, but
doesn't get walked much, cause nobodies got time. When he does get
walked, he is kept on a tight leash; and doesn't really have much fun.
This is because the family worry about the busy roads.