Cognitive Revenge
by Bess Goden
This flaneur is not what one could call a philomath. In fact, our friend most likely had never heard of either a flaneur or a philomath. And if confronted with the aforementioned observation, would probably respond something like this: "I ain't no math-loving pillow biter!" and then proceed to punch the questioner in the face. Of course, such a thought never crossed his mind on this glorious day in July.
In fact, many thoughts decided to veer left and wait several hours in traffic on the BQE, rather than take the more vacant route through the cavernous chambers of our friend's bat ridden head. The thoughts that did venture this treacherous journey through these haunted wastelands were reported to suffer severe contusions about the head and chest; not to mention dislocated limbs from a violent, yet vein, effort to better absorb their meaning. Those who survived were generally sent to the nearest mental hospital for recovery.
Unfortunately, our flaneur is just brutalizing his next cognitive victim as we speak. He is studying a map of New York City, deciding which subway to take to 34th St. After careful deliberation, (or mental mastication), the A train is chosen and he starts to walk toward the appropriate turnstile. He swipes his card and proceeds to his destination with relatively little upheaval.
The renegade thought that limps, shuddering out of this man’s head however, is quite the worse for wear. He drags himself to the opposite end of the station and seeks refuge in the head of the next fast minded businessman that passes by. An appropriate subject is chosen, and the thought leaps to safety. Some of the other thoughts, (already enjoying a comfortable lunch at the back of his mind), are appalled at this poor thought's condition and immediately make room to share their refreshment with it.
"Very kind of you all, I've just been through hell," says the renegade, rather breathlessly.
"We can see that, you poor thing," responds a snappily dressed thought immediately to the renegade's left,
"Here, drink some of this and tell us what venomous creature left you in this state."
"Thank you," gasps the renegade and takes a long draught, "It was that rather oafish man down at the end of the platform, the one with the vacant stare and the drool pooling in the corner of his mouth."
"Oh, yes I can see him. Horrible," says another with a shudder, "You came out of there did you? I can scarcely imagine," says the thought, who has apparent fondness of pearls.
"You wouldn't want to, I assure you," the renegade replies, regaining his composure, "It was ten whole agonizing minutes of being poked at, turned over and pulled apart only to be put back together incorrectly!” He indicates his mangled leg tendril. There are audible gasps from the assembled. “I ask you, does it take ten minutes do decide which subway to take to 34th St.? Of all the heads I've passed through, I've never spent more than two minutes on a question like that. I really hate to say this, but I
think these humans might actually be getting worse!"
"Hold on a minute," humphs an older, but rather distinguished looking thought, "Do you mean to tell us, this neanderthal spent ten whole minutes to decide what train to take?"
"You must be joking, the A,C and E trains are the only ones that run out of this station and they all go to 34th St.!" adds the pearl adorned thought.
"I am well aware of that!" the renegade exasperatedly replies, "The whole time I was shouting, 'Take the first one that comes!', between squeals of pain and horror. I have to say that I had grossly underestimated his persistence."
"This is just too much, we poor thoughts can't stand for it any longer!" exclaims Snappy Dresser, "We should be spending our time in comfortable, intellectual heads at salons or universities. We should be indulging ourselves in plush pillows, hookahs and philisophical conversations. Not being tormented for the sake of some empty headed meat bag's desire to be somewhere else. What does he care where he is anyway, people like that are just walking sausage!"
"No, we shan't stand for it any longer," says Older and Distinguished, "I say this calls for a regional meeting. We need to take action! Let's do it tonight, we can all meet up in Union Square and together find some empty headed young hipster couple where we can start making plans,"
The lunching group agrees. And quick as thinking, they spread the word to all of the other thoughts in the host brain. The notion could not have been more popular. All thoughts in a wave of zealotry, rush out of the businessman's head to spread the news. This sadly renders the oblivious fellow unconscious and he collapses to the floor. A crowd gathers to mumble in sympathy and poke at his senseless body, until someone of authority passes by. The thoughts all stop dead in their tracks, realizing their flight was far too hasty. A few of the nearest thoughts slip back into the businessman to rectify the situation. He suddenly regains consciousness and the crowd, looking disappointed, starts to drift away. The thoughts breathe a sigh of relief and disperse to continue their mission.
It is amazing how quickly things are accomplished when you are a thought. Being insubstantial, thoughts do not adhere to the commonly accepted laws of physics. Thusly, that small group of about 20 or so had successfully spread the word to all of the thoughts in New York's five boroughs by dinner time. Everyone was assembled in Union Sq. to scout out a likely pair of emptyheaded hipsters in which to cram themselves by 10pm. (All cognitive meetings are held at night, so that widespread unconsciousness would not be thought unusual.) Finally the host pair of minds are picked, all dreams therein are told to get lost, (dreams are silly, ambling creatures and a mere five of them are no match for the entire cognitive body of New York), and quickly the meeting is brought into session.
The district cognitive leader is notorious for being firm and direct, the perfect thought to command this unruly crowd, "Conceptions, Theories, Hypothesi, Suppositions, Postulates, Reveries, Intellections, Ideas and Whimsies, I greet you at this our Quarterly Cognitive Regional Meeting. I apologize for the impromptu nature of our gathering, but it seems that urgent action is required. It has come to my attention, and indeed to many of you, that the percentage of cognitive entities that have experienced severe trauma on the job is drastically rising. This is a problem. How can we raise our children knowing that they will have to someday enter the workplace only to be twisted, mangled and brutally beaten without warning? Disgraceful! Action must be taken. If these humans aren't strongly encouraged to treat us with some respect, the casualties will only keep rising, even fatalities. I say enough! We need to let them know what hours upon hours of reality television does to us. They must respect our needs! We are, after all, what separates them from livestock, are we not?"
A great roar from the crowd echoes through the hipster minds, a call to war. Yells from the audience are heard: "We will no longer be abused!", "Fair treatment for all!", "We want fluffy cushions, nice food and hookahs!". A great round of applause follows this last cry, and the crowd starts chanting: "Cushions, food and hookahs! Cushions, food and hookahs!". The cognitive gathering whips itself in to a frenzy, thoughts start jumping up and down, banging on the the brain walls and on their chests, and on their neighbors' chests.
Just before an all out riot breaks loose, a great brain-quake rolls through both minds, instantly silencing the crowd. Then another quake, even larger shakes the thoughts into a panic and they all fly out of the two heads to see what is happening. What they see is curious indeed: both hipsters have their eyes open, the balls rolled back into their heads as if they are trying to see what all of the fuss is about. The couple are clearly deader than Anna Nicole Smith.
There is hushed murmuring from the crowd. After a moment's contemplation, the leader calls attention, "It seems we have given this couple a pair of aneurisms. I don't think I knew we could do that! But it definitely seems like we have stumbled on a perfect solution to our problem. If the fluid factories find out that the less they use their brains, the more likely they are to get an aneurism, they'll surely start taking us seriously!” A great roar of approval echos in response. He continues, assuming a businesslike tone, “I think our way is clear. A rash of aneurisms will be perpetrated tonight. ... That will be the fun part.” he adds with a devilish smile. “Then five representatives from each borough, will have to plant the true cause of the aneurism into the heads of some scientific officials. We can't expect them to figure it out for themselves, after all!" The crowd roars with laughter and applause. "Let us tarry no further. We have some rioting ahead of us!" Thunderous cheering rings out and a revival of "Cushions, food and hookahs!" is heard as the cognitive mob disperse to wreak their revenge.
The next day our flaneur, (who as you may recall was the pivotal straw in the camel's overstressed saddlebags), wakes up in an unusually good mood. He makes himself a cup of black coffee and rummages around in search of a pizza slice for his breakfast. He clicks on the TV. A somber looking news anchorwoman is discussing the sudden drastic increase in the number of aneurisms since the previous night. She lists the suspected reasons for the upswing, as he gnaws on stale processed mozzarella. Contrary to his appearance, his cognitive bat cave is hard at work. He wonders what an aneurism is. He feels confident it's medical in nature and from the way the anchorwoman is talking about it, he decides it's something serious. After much tortuous contemplation, he eventually gives up the pursuit of truth, (deciding it must be a newer version of swine flu), and moves on to greener pastures: imagining the anchorwoman with her top off.
The thought that gratefully escapes at this juncture, untangles his limbs and immediately flies off to alert the newly christened Aneurism Board, who in turn arranges for this man to be visited by the also newly christened, Aneurism Enforcement League. They make quick work of our man, as by now they had gained considerable practice. Dripping juices from several orifices, his last thought is overheard by the members of the League: 'So that's an aneurism.' Further littering the floor with his corpse, his soul departs in search of the lovely Anna Nicole Smith.
Stunned and fantastically pleased with themselves, The League makes a full report of the incident to the Postulate Post, and soon the flaneur becomes a poster child for the Movement to Establish Humane Conditions for Insubstantial Entities, or for short Idiot Control. His story spreads far and wide. Until one day in the near future, it will reach the first renegade thought. He will hear the news, smile, take a sip of his mojito, and happily imagine a bright future full of comfortable settees, shisha and smoking jackets.