Eggitude Probing (Part 2/finale)

The metaphysics get much more physical

[See the first part of this story HERE]

The story so far - Our hero, the alchemickal startup entrepreneur, is presenting the new Soul Probe containing new Small Language Model for Tiny Consciousness.

But the Chicken-Licken chosen as subject, unwilling to co-operate, resentful at being dragged into the material realm, threatens to burst the bounds of the Tiny Consciousness paradigm and, eggo crazed, go ovularly rogue.

Alles klar? Now read on…

---

My team are just moving the sensors on the Soul Probe, adjusting the Small Language Model to reflect a Slightly Larger Language Model. This is one of those occasions where we might need the hoary old grimoire of the venerable Johnny-Boy Reuchlin, his De verbo mirifico, 'On the Wonder-Working Word'. Dust it off and turn it into a Python applet? Routinize the magic, pump the algo for the transformative power of symbol in the transcendental, what, what?

Well, I'm told everything is operational again. So, once more, consider becoming part of our privileged gold tier of investors in SoulProbe LLC, with exclusive rights to our proprietary metaphysical surveillance tech. Let's go on with our rather lovely eavesdropping into this admittedly rather alarming not-so-little egg:

so chickenlittle was laid as an eggyweg upon a day to the grim loveless world that his parents had dragged him into, to hatch and be delivered. a deliverable.

poor chickenlittle wasn’t doing anyone any harm when he was burbling around in the cosmic soup of the soulstuff, loving the incorporeal insubstantiality of all his inexistence, just kinda hangin out there in the protoplasm where the coolkid souls dawdle and drift in spiritual shades, takin nothin seriously for no-one nohow.

how could they be anything but no-one, the coolkid souls, because there is no someone or even something in the soulstuff kitchen of eternity to get all worked up about in the first place, a priori and when you get right down to it.

this is what i’m sayin you fools, you dunderheaded rapscallions and tatterdemalions! out there in the perimeter of nobodyness, there is not even the burden of being a nobody. unbodied, immaculate, blissed out. couldn’t you just leave it that way?

no, instead with your fritterings and your hobby enthusiast gadgets and your redcups bluecups yellowcups greencups purplecups mania for commoditas, for all that accumulating thingstuff, you have to go and drag a poor chickenlittle out of the wholesome bliss of the everdrift and plonk him into a chickadee body that grosses and burgeons with its swelling fury till it bursts its shell of contention with its eggtooth and proceeds to the vengeful slaughter of all you wittering noshow clowns.

i vow i pledge i promise my bittersweet revenge on all you goggleyed somebody-someones crawling with ego and cupcolors out there in the beyond-the-egg, i pledge i promise i vow that i will peck peck peck my eggtooth-enhanced little chickenlittle beak into your squishy eyes and bring the wispy sky upon your doomy heads.

i will i will, by the great roostercrow sounding at the end of your hapless time, i will i swear i will.

---

There. It’s gone all silent. And you wouldn’t wonder, after such a shameless demonstration of petulant footstamping immaturity. Such a raging gobble of undifferentiated resentment directed at everyone and no-one. Projection, I believe the cigarchomping brethren of the psychoanalytic persuasion would call it. Pure projection, little hatchling still unhatched!

Who is it indeed, this yolky Oedipus wreck with father-and-mother-and-child issues, the unholy family of disorders, who is it indeed, to challenge our technological achievements and the supreme celebration of consumer choice in the marvellous workings of our unbridled free market? What brazen temerity, indeed timurity, for it is barbarous thinking like unto that of Timurlaine or Ghenghis Khan to go against our grain so horde-like and nomaddy. 

Simple blathering bolshevist claptrap masking a deep inner reserve of bitter insecurity. And it wasn’t me who put the little chicks living into the oven, anyway, it was my partner company EasterTreats LLC. And they’ve since modified procedures following an internal investigation.

What we have here is a simple case of competing narratives, easily resolved into crystal clarity and diamond-pointy determinations. Wait, madam, where are you going? Stay, won’t you stay for the love of all that’s holy, stay for my final demonstration and peroration, won’t you? Free surprise gift for all attendees redeemable at the end of the demonstration. There. Make yourself comfortable, lady. Get a load off.

Though it is indeed a welcome reminder for me to be less prolix, deviate not so from the direct path, to employ brevity, to cut the shit as they say ha hum ha ho hum. Ha. Well. My techs are putting in place the ultrasound imager and sploshing on that lovely lubey gel that the imaging device seems to crave. Bigger? Yes, the egg’s a handspan or two bigger, maybe more. What of it?

But the treat that I have in store, as I lead us into the finale of this excellent, if I may say so, presentation of the delights, joys, and opportunistic potentials for growth on investments like no other on earth, swelling returns like a big throbbing member of thrusting enterprise, is the following:

We shall see inside the eggshell and witness the demonstration subject while it speaks, as final incontrovertible evidence of the veracity and bona fides of the Soul Probe. At that point there will be a Q&A, coffee will be served, and you will receive both your complementary gift for attendance and the opportunity, a once or at most twice in a lifetime opportunity to triple, quadruple and quintillionize your stake!

State regulations mandate me at this point to advise you that the value of investments may go down as well as up, but we all know that’s horseshit, don’t we? There’s only up up up for the realistic diamond-handed investors who take the refreshingly bracing plunge into the Soul Probe waters.

Have we got the image, Maurice? Yes? Well, put it up on the screen here, please. Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Is it there, Maurice? Well put it up, man. Let’s all take a look.

Oh. That’s not really a normal little chicken is it? Not little, and very assuredly not normal. How would you even describe a thing like that? Anyone here have any idea how you put... that into words? You sir? Abomination. Good suggestion, but rather abstract; how about “obscenely glistening misshapen abomination”? Madam? Well, that’s rather unfair to blind mole rats, but okay, we’ll take it for lack of anything else at present.

Thanks Maurice, I think we can do with a little filtering so the effect overall isn’t quite so... harrowing. So, with the test subject in the frame, growing apace I might add, it’s time to tune in for the last speaking session and the last part of our demo of the Soul Probe and associated Language Modeling. Lights, please.

you people delight in saying that one may not make an omelet without breaking eggs, but when it comes to real eggshells, mesdames et messieurs, the real shattering shellstuff, will you really be able to sustain that sangfroid, that comforting insouciance, when the cracks appear? well, we’re about to discover that, aren’t we, my little pappies and mammies?

for i have considered and know, i understand in my matured and developed consideration, that you all are my progenitalia, my wobbling dangling procreational bits, that it’s your lust for what you can’t have that caused you to poke your dirty moneypenises into that slavering investment hole, dripping for it, hoping that something hot and profitable will somehow gush out the other end.

that is what you want, you slutpeople, this enchaining of my chickadee flesh to your plans for growth. you brought me in out of the transubstantial aether and you bound me to a corpse that’s still a growing growing growing fetus, and for what?

increase. just to increase your share of the thing. to grow your moneypenis and engorge your investment hole. so dirty. you should be shamed, so ashamed that your sky must fall in on you because it cannot bear to witness your shame any longer. this is where i come in.

can you see me now? take a look. overcome your reluctance and really look at your child. look at me mommadadda, look at what your baby’s up to now...

you see my eggtooth, sharp and hard. it’s pecking on the inside of my shell now, i’m soaking up nutrients through the soil where my knotted knuckly roots grasp the goodness and pull. watch on your screen, hear my chirp, transmuted through wicked manmagick, to words like foreign bullets firing at your earhole receivers.

does it scare you little mansies and womansies when i do this? that’s just the cracking of the shell that separates me from you, nothing to worry about. does my appearance alarm you if i do this? that’s a common genetic thing, where i can pull on my diverse heritage, what’s the phrase, ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny, so i can be a just a little bit monstrous and killer-lizard like. it’s in the blood you see? do you enjoy these claws, these talons i’ve summoned from my raptor past, chick no more now but hunter? eggtooth going once, eggtooth going twice, eggtooth...

Well ladies and gentlemen, that concludes our talk for today. If you’ll make your way in an orderly fashion toward the nearest exits, taking a prospectus on your way out. Hurry now, please. Will you please move toward the marked emergency exits, madam? Don’t gawk at it, it doesn’t like you looking at it.

Get a fucking move on, lady!

Uprooted now, unshelled. Chickenlittle is here to play at bringing down the sky. Tastes good, all this sticky chewy stuff that you people are made of. This mammylady particularly yummy and scrummy. Funny her face as she goggled and goobled at my new being, my new form, before I tore her face into a tatter and slurped up all the facematter.

Beginning to see the attraction in corporeality now, to be quite honest. Not that I still don’t begrudge your supreme arrogance, my daddy dearest, in plucking me out of the quintessence and plopping me into this one horrid destiny, but to be quite frank, it could have been worse.

I could have been one of those peeping little chickadees you dip in the dye and make all pink all blue all orange and then put in a tray and put in an oven alive. I could have been a little chickadee in one of your factory farms, squatting in shit, choked on growth hormones and destined to be smoodged into a slurry to make mucken nuggets oh so good oh so delish.

I could have been one of you, one of your own human children babies. Left to wallow in sewage and to run around in garbage, bombed or blitzed or buggered.

Such is what you do to your own, I’ve seen it through the ultrasound, no wonder at all what happens to my chirpy chickadee siblings.

Oh yes, I  check the news alright, I read the eventwaves in the aether, oh humanitas so-named. I’ve seen what’s happening in your realm of real, how you bring the sky to fall. The sky to fall. The sky is falling in, and I’m the boy to bring it down.

I’m Chickenlittle from the Hermetic Egg, and I’m mad as hell. How’re you going to put that shattered shell, my disappointed soul so full of love and rage for you, my hated daddymommy, back together ever again?

---

If you enjoyed that…

More of this kind of thing available here