This is a continuation of A Tale Told in the Perplexiconistory Act 1- Introductions
The definitions for the words of the Perplexicon Addictionary can be found here. The first Act an be found at the link above. Footnoted words are words and phrases that I use regularly, which are not part of the Perplexicon.
It may help to watch this quick 2 minute video before attempting to read this story- The Perplexiconistory PreReader Guide.
I was livid, nearly to the point of leaky-face. Fuming, I grabbed my shoes. I threw both of them and my jacket on, violently. With a final push I pro wrestled my sunglasses out of my bag, donned them dramatically, shouldered my roscoe-ridden1 purse, and hit the door. I hit it again. After a few more failed attempts, I turned the handle and opened it.
I stormed out of the apartment and into the hallway like a fully activated bitchilante on a mission of destructitorious proportions. The grimscape corridor greeted me with flickering fluorescent lights and the faint smell of trespoop from someone’s poorly trained emotional-support squarrel.
“Great,” I muttered. “Just another pSyoptopia Smonday at the end of the empire.”
My brain was already going full metasarchotic, replaying the kitchen debate in vhs visual warping fast forward and reverse, while my inner monologue ran a constant sarchotic commentary, sans a laugh track.
How had breakfast pyramisu turned into a full blown bollotics symposium featuring a plan-truster, a puppeparty enthusiast, and the bad brofessor of brewery backed brovado?
It was a shitty shit situashit squared. I needed unfucked air. Preferably the kind not currently flowing in and out of the mouth-holes of three pignorant nerdsplaining shidiots.
I began to coddiwomple down the street, grimming through the city like a grimthusiastic pilgrim on the road to existential cogdeg clarity. This is how I found myself outside the corner dive bar known affectionately by locals as ”Trip P”, which was short for “Paddle Party Place,” which still wasn’t the place’s official name. That title was “The Oroboring Oargasm Annex.” Silly name for a silly place, but fuck it, this was my smultronstalle (Only missing the umlauts because I never learned the Viking keyboard warrior hotkeys) safe space.
Inside sat the usual suspects- a pair of ultracrepidarian quackademics arguing over their mani-published multifacetious meta-geopolitical magazine mentions, a rainbow of logged in and live twitch-twittering2 flaggot virtue-jerkers simping their way through the 11 stages of gaslightenment, and one deeply suspicious man in the corner who absolutely had to be a Schrodinger’s douchebag in an entangled superstate with the only bartender working this shift.
I easily broke his weak force connection with the bartender (I mean, it’s only beta decay, after all) and ordered my usual drink, a Trailer Trash. It’s a glass of Kentucky straight whiskey with a finger of diet mountain dew over ice. Smondays you can detect the faint aroma of weathered aluminum skirting floating up out the rocks glass’s despairing depths and hey, at Trip P they serve it strong enough to induce tapioafication of the brain in anyone unlucky enough to not already be tapioca’d on the inside.
Unfortunately, the table behind and below me, in more ways than one, was overfilled with a group of cringestack commenters who’d recently had the brilliant idea to “…get together on the weekends, somewhere in the IRL server3…” to engage in what can only be described as a lunatic edgefest.
“Clearly,” one of them said while pushing his glasses up his nose with the cuntidence of a naturalized egotard, “the omni-industrial complex is simply a benevolent open market mechanism of progress.”
Another nodded sagely. “Simpatico. Anyone who questions it is a conspiracy theorist suffering from antonontological syndrome.”
I stared at my drink as it slowly ate away the ice cubes.
I stared at the wall as it slowly ate away its own paint.
I stared into that middle distance where my tardlerance once lived.
Then I heard a voice beside me.
“Rough day?”
I turned. A woman sat there with the gruntlewhelmed expression of someone who had achieved koselig in a universe determined to remain deeply un-koselig.
“You could say that,” I replied.
“I did.” She reminded me.
“Good point.” I acquiesced. “My morning started with twerkle-durkling, ran on 100 proof pyramisu, and ended with a tirashitzu level cluster argument about whether or not our glorious PDF4 puppepresident is controlled by PDF’n'5 philanthropaths.”
She nodded slowly. “Ah. You’ve encountered the Intellimafia’s discoursive loop6.”
“You know about that?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Classic termware deployment followed by synchronized narrative reinforcement with a far too rhizomatic spread pattern to be organic.”
I blinked. At long last, it seemed, I’d found the true unicorn, a hick polymath in the wild. I had to test my hypothesis. “You’re telling me this entire nullcraftian neuro-terminal conversation was engineered?”
“Engineered?” she said. “No.” She sipped her suspiciously pazzubooze colored drink. “Cultivated.”
I felt a strange sensation spreading through my chesticles. Something between acute pronoia and cautious meliorism.
“So what do we do about it?” I asked cautiously.
She smiled.
“Simple.” Her voice dropping conspiratorially. “We shenanigate… AF.”
At that moment the bar door burst open.
My roommate stumbled in with Chad and the brofessor in tow.
Apparently my war-like exit had triggered what could best be described as a full-scale brosearch-and-brocovery operation.
“Anndiii!” she yelled in a shocked, yet inebriated, surprise party ruining voice. “You can’t just storm off like that!”
“Obviously I can. I did.” I retorted.
Chad added his nickel short two cents, “Bro, we were worried!”
Even the emotionally distant brofessor engaged in overly engaged solemn nodding as he broclaimed, “Yes bro. Your emotional broburst suggested that you’re suffering from severe ceuronognitive issues.”
I stared at them.
Then at the calm stranger beside me.
Then back at them.
Then once again into the middle distance where my tardlerance was attempting an ill advised resurrection.
A slow grin spread across my face. The kind of grin that precedes extremely questionable decisions. “Well,” I said, standing up. “If you three are here, we might as well turn this into a proper shenaniganery summit.”
The woman beside me raised her drink in salute, “Excellent idea.”
The cringestack commenters looked up nervously. The ultracrepidarian quackademics paused their argument. Even the Schrodinger’s Douchebag leaned forward attentively.
The stage was set and somewhere deep in the fabric of the universe the gods themselves seemed to whimper, “Let the shenanigating begin.”
Continued in Act 3
Roscoe-ridden- Containing a projectile based weapon of some sort. Including, but not limited to- firearms, co2 air guns, PCP air guns, squirt guns, and nerf blasters.
Live twitch-twittering- An adderall overdosed need to post every action and event of every day to the 2 or 3 people who might be unlucky enough to stumble across one such afflicted’s social media feed.
IRL Server- Base reality of this simulation, ironically named “In Real Life.”
PDF- kid fucker or fuckers.
PDF’n- in the act of kid fucking.
Discoursive Loop- a portmanteau of discourse and recursive loop. When the public conversation feeds on its own amplified self to the point of rendering all public square speech into an indecipherable and insufferable high pitched squeal.