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A week later I found myself staring at one of the many entrances to the King of Prussia mall from inside a gas mask. For those that haven’t had the pleasure, let me just say KOP is like the Platonic ideal of “mall,” which is to say that it is placid Hell on Earth, with elevator music. The 7th circle, fake marble, and all the people are display mannequins come to life.
It was a warm day in early fall, and I was a great deal more warm because the hazmat suit was less than breezy. I looked down at myself and shook my head. Was the giant bumble-bee screen print going too far?
It was a warm day in early fall, and I was a great deal more warm because the hazmat suit was less than breezy. I looked down at myself and shook my head. Was the giant bumble-bee screen print going too far?
Beside me stood Agent777, Agent117, Agent113. Agent156 had called out at the last minute because he said he had to babysit his friend’s pet spider monkey. I had met some of them before, but knew none of them particularly well. All of us were wearing these obnoxious suits, and holding devices that Agent036 had designed in a garage choked with second-hand electronics and pot smoke. He’d scored the suits too, or so I was told. Suburban patrons whipped past, coming and going like ants, casting hasty and uncomfortable glances in our direction.
The devices were covered with flashing lights, dials, and weird analog visual displays. They looked a lot like something from Ghostbusters. Very scary to the proles, but absolutely useless.
As I looked us all up and down, it dawned on me that with the gas masks and suits on, we could have been anyone. I mean, I’d communicated with many of them online before. I had met someone going by Agent777 at a cafe a few months ago. But anyone could go by “Agent777.” This was the veil of anonymity that we all hid behind, like our suits.
Mm, strike that from this brain-wave transcribed record. It sounded better in my head. Or I guess this is my head. At any rate, our mission was simple: go into the mall, walk up to patrons, and run these devices up and down their bodies. Meanwhile, one of the other Agents checks down meaningless notes on a clipboard, and another repeats the mantra again and again:
“Nothing to worry about, ma’am (or sir),”
“Nothing to see here, carry on.”
“This is just a routine inspection.”
“Enjoy your shopping, sir.”
The devices were covered with flashing lights, dials, and weird analog visual displays. They looked a lot like something from Ghostbusters. Very scary to the proles, but absolutely useless.
As I looked us all up and down, it dawned on me that with the gas masks and suits on, we could have been anyone. I mean, I’d communicated with many of them online before. I had met someone going by Agent777 at a cafe a few months ago. But anyone could go by “Agent777.” This was the veil of anonymity that we all hid behind, like our suits.
Mm, strike that from this brain-wave transcribed record. It sounded better in my head. Or I guess this is my head. At any rate, our mission was simple: go into the mall, walk up to patrons, and run these devices up and down their bodies. Meanwhile, one of the other Agents checks down meaningless notes on a clipboard, and another repeats the mantra again and again:
“Nothing to worry about, ma’am (or sir),”
“Nothing to see here, carry on.”
“This is just a routine inspection.”
“Enjoy your shopping, sir.”
And so on. Of course, in this day of disinformation, when people hear “nothing to worry about,” they worry a lot. When they hear, “nothing to see here,” they look around them with new eyes.
I imagined that was the purpose of this piece of reality pranking: just to snap people out of their daily habits, to look around with new eyes. In the past, that had always been the M.O., when you got down to it. Even after my conversation with the Buyer, I had no way to know that he had actually, finally, completely gone over the edge. And he’d dragged us all with him.
Inside the mall, I glanced over my shoulder to see 777 bantering with a bleached blonde with pigtails and a tramp stamp at the food court. Curiously, the stereotypical and vacuous “tribal” designs so popular among kids with too much money to spend was conspicuously absent in her body art. I instantly recognized what had caught his attention. The arch in her lower back, near the curve of her nearly-perfect-10 ass, made immediately visible by her belly shirt.
He spoke: “I see you are a student of medicine or the hermetic arts... Agent 777, pleased to Meat you.” He emphasized the word with a sort of a relish that made his lecherous double entendre explicitly audible. He reached out for her right hand and lifted it up to the mask of his hazmat suit, feigning at kissing it through the helmet. “Au Chante, Mademoiselle.”
She stared back blankly, with a glazed-over expression. I couldn’t tell if this was because she had no idea what he was getting at or if she was simply, like any other normal human being would be, exceedingly shocked at the sight of a man in a hazmat suit with a device looking like the PKE meter from Ghostbusters casually hitting on her in the middle of the food court as she ate her mu gu gai pan. “Excuse me?”
I imagined that was the purpose of this piece of reality pranking: just to snap people out of their daily habits, to look around with new eyes. In the past, that had always been the M.O., when you got down to it. Even after my conversation with the Buyer, I had no way to know that he had actually, finally, completely gone over the edge. And he’d dragged us all with him.
Inside the mall, I glanced over my shoulder to see 777 bantering with a bleached blonde with pigtails and a tramp stamp at the food court. Curiously, the stereotypical and vacuous “tribal” designs so popular among kids with too much money to spend was conspicuously absent in her body art. I instantly recognized what had caught his attention. The arch in her lower back, near the curve of her nearly-perfect-10 ass, made immediately visible by her belly shirt.
He spoke: “I see you are a student of medicine or the hermetic arts... Agent 777, pleased to Meat you.” He emphasized the word with a sort of a relish that made his lecherous double entendre explicitly audible. He reached out for her right hand and lifted it up to the mask of his hazmat suit, feigning at kissing it through the helmet. “Au Chante, Mademoiselle.”
She stared back blankly, with a glazed-over expression. I couldn’t tell if this was because she had no idea what he was getting at or if she was simply, like any other normal human being would be, exceedingly shocked at the sight of a man in a hazmat suit with a device looking like the PKE meter from Ghostbusters casually hitting on her in the middle of the food court as she ate her mu gu gai pan. “Excuse me?”
“What, did I sneeze?”
“No... I mean, I don’t think so. I don’t think I’ve ever had a man in a full bomb squad suit... or whatever that is, flirt with me before. I’m not really sure how to react. I’m not a nurse... and I don’t know anything about your hermit studies.”
“Hermetic,” he corrected gently with a chuckle. “Your tattoo... those are the twin serpents of Hermes, entwined around the staff of caduceus. The serpents represent alternately the double-helix coil of human DNA, the male and female principles of energy which are polarities that constantly seek reconciliation through union...” He licked his lips.
To the detached observer - and I’d say I qualified as both - this conversation could have been happening anywhere, between any two people. Maybe Agent 777 - or whoever was claiming to be 777 under that suit - was a Zen monk, or maybe he was a deluded teenager. But what I took away from this was that the mammalian mating script is the same, and it might not even matter if the people involved understand what the other is saying. Like watching a sex ed script with a head full of blotter acid.
And holy fucking christ, he was still going at it-
“... and the polarities and ‘check and balance’ male/female qualities inherent in the sephira on the tree of life. The duality of these principles are only apparent below the abyss, however... Above the abyss, the two become one. Could be inaccurate to say they ‘become’ one, as they always were... Three in One, if you will. And the one is none, or Nun, a fish, which is to say Death, according to traditional correspondences... As it was written by the Ancients, ‘By My Smell Shall Ye Know Me, And By My Smell I Shall Be Known. As Above, So Below, Sim Salabim bim ba Saladoo Saladin.’ Anyway, this is all exceedingly technical and scientific, mind you. I am a scientist. I work for the government...”
She stared back at him, mouth agape, her mind sufficiently blown.
“I’m not sure I understand. The tattoo... I saw it at the display counter of Sacred Art Designs. That place is great, they do very cool spiritual designs, you know? I’m very spiritual... I’m into Wicca. I got the tattoo because it reminded me of a scene in Natural Born Killers...”
Jackpot, I could plainly read from his expression.
“Ah yes,” he replied, continuing his absent minded professor routine- a bit too well. “Samael and Lilith, the twins... Mirror images of each other and forever in love. I am not very ‘spiritual’, myself. I am, as you can probably tell, strictly a scientific and skeptical type, but I do enjoy comparative mythology. That bares no relation to my doings here, though. Really, I shouldn’t be talking to you right now... My boss would have my ass if he knew but... With the job for the Agency keeping me so busy these days, I have to meet people somehow, you know?”
“What exactly are you doing? Am I in danger? This doesn’t have anything to do with any... terrorism or anything, does it?” The word was whispered in a hush hush tone, barely audible.
“All I can say is we are investigating a claim of some sort, which I can neither confirm nor deny at this point.
“...Just what Agency are you working for, anyway?” she asked.
He ignored her question. “We suspect this is just a routine sort of prank. You know how those damned kids are... They get bored and want some laughs so they like to stir up rumors. But our Agency would be negligent if we didn’t take the time to investigate. So far, we’ve found nothing and I suspect that will be that.
“This is all unofficial, and off the record, of course... And please, don’t go causing alarm to other customers. It would be best to just let them go about their routine shopping and keep this to yourself. Wouldn’t want to prevent them from enjoying their afternoon at the mall, would we?”
Meanwhile, Agent117 was giving a woman wearing a fanny pack of human lard and a American flag, Bald Eagle T-shirt a hard time. She flapped her piglet arms up and down in a comical expression of frustration, stomping her foot as she screamed “I KNOW MY RIGHTS, YOU GODDAMNED SONUVABITCH. DO I LOOK LIKE A GODDAMNED SANDNIGGER TO YOU? I AIN’T NO GODDAMNED TERRORIST!”
“Ma’am,” he began. “I’m afraid our meters are reading some sort of paleoanametamystikal interference coming from your shopping bags or purse. Now, if you would just cooperate with my questioning I will be happy to let you go on shopping but if you give me trouble I’m going to have to bring you in for a full body cavity search.”
117 smiled. “Ma’am, you want to get unruly with me? You can have it your way, but you ain’t gonna like it and I won’t stop diggin’ in your rectum with my gloves here until I hit the back of your teeth and I’ll see to it that you’re shittin’ blood by the time I’m finished having my way with you. Now, the Agency I represent here is sanctioned by the U.S. Patriot Act, and by this act I am entitled to detain you, indefinitely and without trial, if you continue to obstruct justice and interfere with my investigations here. You don’t like it? Take it up with your government.”
He smiled, and paused to crack his knuckles for dramatic effect. Mouthbreathers, he thought to himself silently.
“Now, you’re gonna back down ma’am, and lower your voice and allow me to search your items there or I’m gonna call a few more of my friends over here and we’re gonna have a bit of fun with you in the Lacy’s fitting room.”
She lowered her voice and sheepishly bowed her head. She dropped her bags. 117 ransacked several of them, pulling out a very large and conspicuous fleshy vibrator complete with pushball controls and ran his meter over it in plain sight. He ripped it from its plastic packaging and swung it wildly around through the air. He hit a button on the Ghostbusters meter and it came to life, whirring and bleeping loudly and attracting the attention of passer-bys.
“Ma’am... MA’AM! What is this?”
The pig woman turned beet red.
Fucking mouthbreathers, Agent 117 thought to himself once more, smiling. Too easy.
Agent 113 strolled leisurely through the entrance to Feverish Trend. He moseyed up behind a young teenage boy shopping for Rage Against the Machine t-shirts and tapped him nonchalantly on the back. The young boy whirled around. His expression changed quickly from surprise to a look of sheer terror.
“Son, do you realize you are supporting dissident materials, and as such, you are encouraging domestic terrorism and unlawful enemy combatants? I hope you realize this is grounds for a search. Show me your ID. Now.”
The kid looked ready to piss himself, and for a moment Agent 113 felt a slight pang of sympathy. He remembered being that kid when he was younger. Before he fell headfirst into the rabbit hole and was forced to conquer or crack. Since then, he had clawed his way out on his own and had it set in his mind that awakening the younger marginals was never easy. The ends justified the means. Or he was just a sadist. “Son... We can do this two ways. The easy way, or my way. Now, your ID, if you please.”
The boy remembered his role as the rebel without a cause and began to puff up his chest, pretending to be in control of the situation. “Hey man, I know my rights. You can’t just search me for no reason. You pull that shit on me and I’ll sue your ass and whatever NWO fascists you are working for.”
“I’m asking you very nicely before this gets ugly. Need I remind you what happened at Kent State? We have the guns. You have a punkass mentality and a chip on your shoulder, and when a man in a hazmat suit asks you very politely to show your ID to him you’d best comply before you get your skull cracked open. Now please, your ID, and you can be on your way back to your parents listening to Avril Lavigne in no time...”
Suddenly, as if by some unseen magic, the boy understood that buying a t-shirt to support a band is not the same as being a revolutionary. His eyes watered slightly, and again 113 felt the slight pang of sympathy. The kid pulled a leather wallet on the end of a chain from his baggy plaid shorts and handed over his ID. Agent 113 produced a notepad and a pen from somewhere within the suit and took down the boy’s details.
“Thank you for your compliance. When we round your family up for the FEMA camps, we will keep in mind your voluntary submission to our procedures today. LET THAT BE A LESSON TO ALL OF YOU, KIDS. MIND YOUR MANNERS, KEEP YOUR NOSE CLEAN AND STAY OFF THE DRUGS. An orderly nation is a productive nation. You have been served. Ewige Blumenkraft!”
113 strolled through the exit of Feverish Trend as leisurely as he came in, daydreaming of the blunt of snowflake diesel awaiting him and cheerily whistling a tune by the Buyer. That guy was a psychotic, to be sure, but something about his music was downright infective.
“Hermetic,” he corrected gently with a chuckle. “Your tattoo... those are the twin serpents of Hermes, entwined around the staff of caduceus. The serpents represent alternately the double-helix coil of human DNA, the male and female principles of energy which are polarities that constantly seek reconciliation through union...” He licked his lips.
To the detached observer - and I’d say I qualified as both - this conversation could have been happening anywhere, between any two people. Maybe Agent 777 - or whoever was claiming to be 777 under that suit - was a Zen monk, or maybe he was a deluded teenager. But what I took away from this was that the mammalian mating script is the same, and it might not even matter if the people involved understand what the other is saying. Like watching a sex ed script with a head full of blotter acid.
And holy fucking christ, he was still going at it-
“... and the polarities and ‘check and balance’ male/female qualities inherent in the sephira on the tree of life. The duality of these principles are only apparent below the abyss, however... Above the abyss, the two become one. Could be inaccurate to say they ‘become’ one, as they always were... Three in One, if you will. And the one is none, or Nun, a fish, which is to say Death, according to traditional correspondences... As it was written by the Ancients, ‘By My Smell Shall Ye Know Me, And By My Smell I Shall Be Known. As Above, So Below, Sim Salabim bim ba Saladoo Saladin.’ Anyway, this is all exceedingly technical and scientific, mind you. I am a scientist. I work for the government...”
She stared back at him, mouth agape, her mind sufficiently blown.
“I’m not sure I understand. The tattoo... I saw it at the display counter of Sacred Art Designs. That place is great, they do very cool spiritual designs, you know? I’m very spiritual... I’m into Wicca. I got the tattoo because it reminded me of a scene in Natural Born Killers...”
Jackpot, I could plainly read from his expression.
“Ah yes,” he replied, continuing his absent minded professor routine- a bit too well. “Samael and Lilith, the twins... Mirror images of each other and forever in love. I am not very ‘spiritual’, myself. I am, as you can probably tell, strictly a scientific and skeptical type, but I do enjoy comparative mythology. That bares no relation to my doings here, though. Really, I shouldn’t be talking to you right now... My boss would have my ass if he knew but... With the job for the Agency keeping me so busy these days, I have to meet people somehow, you know?”
“What exactly are you doing? Am I in danger? This doesn’t have anything to do with any... terrorism or anything, does it?” The word was whispered in a hush hush tone, barely audible.
“All I can say is we are investigating a claim of some sort, which I can neither confirm nor deny at this point.
“...Just what Agency are you working for, anyway?” she asked.
He ignored her question. “We suspect this is just a routine sort of prank. You know how those damned kids are... They get bored and want some laughs so they like to stir up rumors. But our Agency would be negligent if we didn’t take the time to investigate. So far, we’ve found nothing and I suspect that will be that.
“This is all unofficial, and off the record, of course... And please, don’t go causing alarm to other customers. It would be best to just let them go about their routine shopping and keep this to yourself. Wouldn’t want to prevent them from enjoying their afternoon at the mall, would we?”
Meanwhile, Agent117 was giving a woman wearing a fanny pack of human lard and a American flag, Bald Eagle T-shirt a hard time. She flapped her piglet arms up and down in a comical expression of frustration, stomping her foot as she screamed “I KNOW MY RIGHTS, YOU GODDAMNED SONUVABITCH. DO I LOOK LIKE A GODDAMNED SANDNIGGER TO YOU? I AIN’T NO GODDAMNED TERRORIST!”
“Ma’am,” he began. “I’m afraid our meters are reading some sort of paleoanametamystikal interference coming from your shopping bags or purse. Now, if you would just cooperate with my questioning I will be happy to let you go on shopping but if you give me trouble I’m going to have to bring you in for a full body cavity search.”
“I TOLD YOUR ASS ALREADY! TAKE A LOOK AT ME, I AIN’T A TERRORIST! WHO’S YOUR GODDAMNED SUPERVISOR? I WANT YOUR BADGE NUMBER AND I WANNA SPEAK TO YOUR SUPERVISOR.”
117 smiled. “Ma’am, you want to get unruly with me? You can have it your way, but you ain’t gonna like it and I won’t stop diggin’ in your rectum with my gloves here until I hit the back of your teeth and I’ll see to it that you’re shittin’ blood by the time I’m finished having my way with you. Now, the Agency I represent here is sanctioned by the U.S. Patriot Act, and by this act I am entitled to detain you, indefinitely and without trial, if you continue to obstruct justice and interfere with my investigations here. You don’t like it? Take it up with your government.”
He smiled, and paused to crack his knuckles for dramatic effect. Mouthbreathers, he thought to himself silently.
“Now, you’re gonna back down ma’am, and lower your voice and allow me to search your items there or I’m gonna call a few more of my friends over here and we’re gonna have a bit of fun with you in the Lacy’s fitting room.”
She lowered her voice and sheepishly bowed her head. She dropped her bags. 117 ransacked several of them, pulling out a very large and conspicuous fleshy vibrator complete with pushball controls and ran his meter over it in plain sight. He ripped it from its plastic packaging and swung it wildly around through the air. He hit a button on the Ghostbusters meter and it came to life, whirring and bleeping loudly and attracting the attention of passer-bys.
“Ma’am... MA’AM! What is this?”
The pig woman turned beet red.
Fucking mouthbreathers, Agent 117 thought to himself once more, smiling. Too easy.
Agent 113 strolled leisurely through the entrance to Feverish Trend. He moseyed up behind a young teenage boy shopping for Rage Against the Machine t-shirts and tapped him nonchalantly on the back. The young boy whirled around. His expression changed quickly from surprise to a look of sheer terror.
“Son, do you realize you are supporting dissident materials, and as such, you are encouraging domestic terrorism and unlawful enemy combatants? I hope you realize this is grounds for a search. Show me your ID. Now.”
The kid looked ready to piss himself, and for a moment Agent 113 felt a slight pang of sympathy. He remembered being that kid when he was younger. Before he fell headfirst into the rabbit hole and was forced to conquer or crack. Since then, he had clawed his way out on his own and had it set in his mind that awakening the younger marginals was never easy. The ends justified the means. Or he was just a sadist. “Son... We can do this two ways. The easy way, or my way. Now, your ID, if you please.”
The boy remembered his role as the rebel without a cause and began to puff up his chest, pretending to be in control of the situation. “Hey man, I know my rights. You can’t just search me for no reason. You pull that shit on me and I’ll sue your ass and whatever NWO fascists you are working for.”
“I’m asking you very nicely before this gets ugly. Need I remind you what happened at Kent State? We have the guns. You have a punkass mentality and a chip on your shoulder, and when a man in a hazmat suit asks you very politely to show your ID to him you’d best comply before you get your skull cracked open. Now please, your ID, and you can be on your way back to your parents listening to Avril Lavigne in no time...”
Suddenly, as if by some unseen magic, the boy understood that buying a t-shirt to support a band is not the same as being a revolutionary. His eyes watered slightly, and again 113 felt the slight pang of sympathy. The kid pulled a leather wallet on the end of a chain from his baggy plaid shorts and handed over his ID. Agent 113 produced a notepad and a pen from somewhere within the suit and took down the boy’s details.
“Thank you for your compliance. When we round your family up for the FEMA camps, we will keep in mind your voluntary submission to our procedures today. LET THAT BE A LESSON TO ALL OF YOU, KIDS. MIND YOUR MANNERS, KEEP YOUR NOSE CLEAN AND STAY OFF THE DRUGS. An orderly nation is a productive nation. You have been served. Ewige Blumenkraft!”
113 strolled through the exit of Feverish Trend as leisurely as he came in, daydreaming of the blunt of snowflake diesel awaiting him and cheerily whistling a tune by the Buyer. That guy was a psychotic, to be sure, but something about his music was downright infective.
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