Artwork by Rita Kirkman.
lower the death curtain, catch ‘em all,
they swarm too fast, in an electric ball,
how to catch ‘em all?
shoot poison into the water,
watch as they swim to a pause, stunned,
cyanide finz unable to creak and move,
catch ‘em all!
want the flash and bang,
how about an underwater firework show,
a bomb for all fish,
scoop them up as they float to the surface,
cold and thick.
trawl it, nets reaching the horizon,
and uproot everything in the water,
coral homes, razed, rare beauties, wasted,
catch ‘em all!
My name is Limper, or at least, that’s what the rest of the transhumans call me. Maybe I should say that’s what the rest of my kind calls me.
I remember lying down, and feeling so goddamn peaceful about everything when the transhumans loomed over me. I remember finally anticipating what my newfound contentment would feel like.
At first, it was painful as hell. I felt poking frigid fingers everywhere. They drove wires and microscopic rods into my arms, through my fingernails, separating the nail from the bed with a sickening wet sound. One of them shoved a piece of rubber in my mouth to keep me from swallowing my own tongue. Jesus, I screamed like a banshee. I think I lost consciousness when they started to slit my legs open to clean away the rotting tissue and to force my bones straight. The stuck some electronic metal in there, too, I think. There was goopy, rank, and yellow-red pus splotching on the floor as they squished and squelched around in my body.
They cracked my sternum and wrenched my chest open. My eyes remained open and I just gazed up at the ceiling, eyes glossy. They replaced my heart with something mechanical and stored most of my organs in pans, ready for donation, most likely to some bastard eating too much butter. It was really quite poignant, if you thought about it. But not more poignant than I realized when I woke up in the cave.
I awoke to a familiar dark ambiance, and to familiar high, uneven, stalactites. My body had sunk into a very comfortable wool cover on the cot that I had once slept in. And around me, the transhumans. I squinted closer at each of their faces. These were all faces I knew, once.
My brother. My friends. My kids. My uncle. My aunt. My grandmother. One of my high school classmates. I knew these faces. The transhumans—they never wasted anything. They killed humans, and recycled them into something greater.
All my friends and I had joined something better than humanity. We joined the human extinction league.
take a picture of your food,
Instagram that shit,
whatever it is the kids do,
the next iPhone is coming out soon,
chuck the old one out the window,
palm trees, convertible,
blasé as the suicide nets lining Foxconn,
the slaving hands that assembled
your incessantly irritating machine,
throw it out onto the pile
of mercury magic, kids,
into the venom whirlpool,
where arsenic, lead, cadmium
paint the waters.
the kids need another goddamn phone,
don’t recycle your old one,
just toss it on the fatass 3.4 million ton mountain,
and drive through Beverly Hills.
Why did you come back to the hospital?
No answer. He lowers his head and doesn’t keep eye contact with us. He is not afraid; just anxious.
You ran from the hospital and now you’ve come back. Why?
“I don’t know,” says Limper. He stiffly moves his upper body, careful not to move his legs.
What happened to your legs? They’re rotting from the inside. You were nearly healed by the time you had run away.
Still no clear answers. One of us grabs ahold of his right kneecap and wrenches his leg out of his socket. Limper shrieks out like a dying pig. “Goddamn it!”
Why did you come back?
He blinks to squeeze out two tears and spit sprays from his tongue as he snarls at us. “Because I’m not a goddamn idiot. I know you were going to kill me. It was what you had planned the entire time.”
We glanced at one another and then back to him. He wasn’t wrong. Yes, we were going to kill you. Humans always talk. Humanity is not ready to fathom the existence of transhumans.
“I would’ve kept your secret. I could’ve lived the rest of my life in that cave,” says Limper, swiping his arm across his crumbed and stained beard.
We have to tighten every muscle in our bodies to stifle a chuckle. We’ve heard it all. Humans all think in some kind of collective mindset. They aren’t loyal or trustworthy to anyone. Or anything. Unless it reeks and it’s green, don’t you know?
Limper clenches his jaw and brushes a clump of hair from the back of his neck. “I came back because it was the only place I could go. The hospital is better than any place in this world.”
It was the best place you could go? The surgeons are murdering patients for their organs—this is the best place?
“It’s the best place, trust me.” He moves the sheets from beneath him and we wince at the overpowering smell of pus radiating from his legs. “The city isn’t safe. The air isn’t clean. People are hacked to pieces in alleyways for their money. The food is disgusting.”
The hospital isn’t going to be any better, either. You’re going to die here and go to waste.
“Oh, believe me, the hospital is as good as it gets. They got pills and shit. It’ll be less of a mess when I do myself in.”
What a waste. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to us, though. We know humans are incredibly wasteful.
He continues, “You see, I came back to tell someone about—the cave— but when the doctors called the psych ward I knew there was no point. The human era is over.”
Indeed it is. We can’t help but scrutinize his legs, wondering how to clean them up. He catches our line of sight, as if he suddenly realizes all the questions we are asking him.
“Yeah, I broke my legs so I could be admitted to the hospital for a longer time. I had friends who bit themselves, broke their ribs, swallowed bleach, burnt themselves, you know, the whole nine yards,” says Limper.
Well. You’re not walking out of here alive, you’re aware?
He sighs, lies down, and laces his knobby, hairy hands together. “I know.”
He would die, yes, as a human.
Limper is a smart little human monkey. But we know he’s no übermensch. He is not on our level, yet. Luckily, we have infiltrated the majority of his city and we have received messages that he has returned to the hospital for some reason. He has checked into the urgent care department.
We figure he somehow found a way to contact someone in the city to arrange a search-and-rescue and one of our own may have caught him in the act. So, like a savage, he must’ve used brute strength to tear the limbs off and to crush its chest. We would have to repair it later. For now, we hurdle towards the city, in a frenzy, hoping he hasn’t told anyone of our existence. He won’t get far, though.
City. Oil stains, darken the sidewalks. Cigarette butts pile up in corners. Stickers, papers, and whatnot plaster the ground. Thick, rank air. The smell of garbage permeates. At least there are more electric cars parked on each side of road this time around. Most of the city is homogenous: there are lights dotting each street, flickering sometimes, mindless nightlife. There are solar panels scattered on almost every roof. Cars zoom to and fro, with human passengers giggling and horse-playing in the backseat. The car seems to creak with every bump and crack in the road as its rotund passengers heave up and down. There’s hardly anyone walking around nowadays. We don’t pay too much attention to this.
We scurry our way through those city bridges, with the stink of the river oozing up. It’s utterly diluted with shit and oil and trash. We would take care of that, later. Fast food restaurants and dispensaries litter every street front and corner. Instant meals, everywhere. Candy bars boasting essential nutrients and calories for the day. Sodas and sugary juices. There’s also a water fountain, here and there, rusted and brown. There are TVs everywhere, providing a harsh luminescence to the streets. It’s all reality television and porn.
The hospital isn’t hard to locate. It is glossy, pristine, white, bright, and has a plastic sheen. The inside is marked with green tile, machines, IVs, touchscreen doctors, and whatnot. Worried relatives and friends rock back and forth in the lobby, next to the emergency room and urgent care areas. Nobody looks up as we slip past the reception desk without making eye contact to the computer, which is expecting us to sign in with a fingerprint. Slithering past the keycard security doors to the urgent care department is not difficult; the door simply cannot read what we are made of and clicks open. We change into the standard grey scrubs to embed ourselves in the background.
Limper was not lying. What we saw was a travesty to humankind; for any kind, really. Patients lie in hospital beds, swiping and tapping at tablet computers, and diagnosing themselves with inane questions: “How do you feel?”, “Which part of your body hurts? Circle.”, “Do you have a fever?”, “Are you suicidal? If so, please donate organs and limbs.”, “Are you bleeding? Attempt to pressure wounded area.”.
There are a few patients talking to human doctors. There is one signing papers for surgery and organ donations, knuckles white, as if there is some kind of silent blackmail agreement between her and the surgeon. The anesthesiologist keeps squeezing the gas mask, nails ticking densely. Sharp-sounding mutters perforate the air. A surgeon signs the patient’s form and hauls her away into the operating rooms. She howls like a banshee. We figure the surgeon must’ve forced her to agree to a standard viable organ and limb donation. It isn’t too surprising, with all the diabetes, heart disease, and obesity. It surely would control the population a little. Other patients look on, and pull their curtains shut. She would be an empty hull soon. A disembodied torso.
Just then, we hear the clatter of metal utensils and a man shouting and growling out obscenities back through the hallway to the operating rooms and prep rooms.
“Please, wait. Wait! Don’t put me under, yet. You have to listen to me, Doctor Hou.”
There he is, sitting up in a gurney in a prep room, in a hospital gown. His legs are contorted in grotesque directions. Limper latches his fingers into Dr. Hou’s arm, voice close to tears.
“Please, lie down and relax. We need to operate on your legs. They’ve developed gangrene tissue,” says Dr. Hou, unfazed and cold. He wraps his hand around Limper’s wrist and sets it down and motions for the anesthesiologist. He catches sight of us, standing in the corner of the preparation room. “About time you got here. Psych department is so damned slow, Christ.”
Limper hasn’t noticed us in the room until now. He recognizes us instantly and begins to weep quietly. He doesn’t bother shrieking. We cart him into another room, switch on the sickly light, and lock the door. He has much to explain.
there’s a 55-gallon steel drum out back,
not for music, no.
trap queen flips the fries, ice cold Cherry Cola,
haul off what builds up in the grease trap,
wave good-bye to mister manager.
in her travelling lab,
toss it with hydrochloric acid,
convert free fatty acids to esters.
sometimes she gets her hands on glycerin,
turn up the heat, 400 F,
walk away with biodiesel.
trap queen knows not waste.