>>7361554
Just post it Hat

edshr ottoa ah t fryy pthtts taan that mammaenl ilenkidada

Oh Christ no—Margot Weard, court stenographer for the Calgary Courts Centre, slapped the last key and realized that it didn't seem to mean anything at all. How could it? The way the words were, almost as if the springs were stuck for good. Immediately raising a hand, her middle finger projecting slightly forward because that was just how it went when she spread them, Margot interrupted the proceedings. Her bun was pulled back so tightly that it sagged, drooping like an old nose to the collar of her common, unfashionable pant suit. A paper bag crinkled in the gallery. There was something in the air. Maybe a breakfast sandwich. Or a hashbrown.
—Sorry, your Honour.
—Weard?
—Yes, there’s something wrong with the stenograph.
—Eh?
—I'm sorry, you're Honour. My stenograph. The buttons are sticking.
She pressed one and it stuck the way she said it would.
Hoarse Honourable Dan leaned forward and peered from under his bifocals and over the birch paneling of the court’s bench, his boozy, boiled nose slipping through the adjustable nose pads of his Browlines. Forgetting the recent installation of the first bulletproof bench in Canada, a practise adopted from American federal courtrooms, Dan bumped his head against the glass, disturbing dust and the pomp of his office.
Dan was an old egg with old, nearly failing organs and he was yoked to a middle aged and very difficult Taiwanese lady who gave excellent head but didn't cook very well. He’d found her online through some oriental dot com bubble site that had long since gone under after a well publicized venereal scandal. Dan’s wife was named Jasmine and he hadn't loved her since I don't know, maybe last Christmas but maybe longer, maybe never. It was just that she could be such a cow. Yesterday it was the program on the television. Too much white people stuff. HBO is so sad. I role the funny men. This morning it had been something about his very well maintained gutters or a possibly dying tree or a broken machine in the basement or the yard hat he didn't know how to fix or even what it did. “Jesus, go ahead, put on that ugry wig. Show it to someone that respects you. I wirr carr a man that knows how.” Dan had reached for her elbow. “No, fuck you, soft man,” returning to a product review on her iPad. She spent her days hiding from her white, elderly neighbours, making purchases and teasing delivery boys with her soft skin and acceptable English.

Dan glanced at Margots tight, motherly bosom and breathed heavily. It wasn't so much that he'd been bothered by the interruption. It was just that she was supposed to type. It was how she had put her hand up. She was the room, he thought. Rooms don't have hands. She was the room and she was made of birch and why couldn't she just go along with it and type.
His long lips opened.
—Margot, I’m sorry, but I don't know what a xenograph is. I'm a judge. You’ll have to ask someone else. He addressed the gallery. Does anyone here know how to fix a xenograph? No, I don't know what it is either. I'm sorry, Miss Weard. There's nobody available to fix your xenograph. Now if we could…
They closed again, curling tightly. He thought about his wife, his life.
An almost silent Asshole and whispered dicks dripped possibly unheard from a dry, anonymous mouth while several frowning brows turned outside towards the halatious sundog seen through the outer pane’s hoarfrost. They saw what looked like a boy falling from the sky but it was probably just a bird. A few dared to glance back at the judge through his bulletproof chamber and considered what it would be like to be as old as Dan. Is it difficult to wash wrinkles? What happens when you can’t get out of the bathtub? Is it just a matter of waiting for something that you won't remember? How much do you forget? Some folks were still looking outside, over the foothills and towards the crags of the Canadian Rockies. God damn I think that was a boy. They checked their phones and hoped everything was okay. Those sitting closest to the window ruminated over the dried flies and bumblebees that lined the frame of the woven wire screens. Had they always been there? Why do they dry out like that? Does the window cook them, maybe buzzing too close and too often to the magnified sun. At the other end of the room, the sister of the accused swiped to refresh. She was deaf and volunteered at the Good Listeners Society, a text-based suicide relief service for the phonetically challenged, stutterers, lispers, and the like. The smell of hashbrowns flared nostrils and the whiff of a common thought channelled through the famished and the fearing. Who could that be and What if they get caught and Didn’t they read the sign—No Food.

Mmmmm. Mmmmm. A small electric motor spun an off centred weight around itself, announcing a text message about a wife’s diseased iris, the prescribed medication, and directions to the drug store that might also sell the low fat popped not fried potato chips. Another buzzed and hummed weekend plans for a trip to the mountains for maybe just a day hike or something. That'd be fun. I love you. I love you too. And those hashbrowns again. The way you could smell how crispy they were. Mmmmmm. Mmmmmm. A notification reminding a terribly small man in a very nice suit to close his hidden tabs because God forbid anyone saw. And then another and then another and suddenly everyone was responding and tapping and attempting some impossible manner of discretion while closing a rogue browser window with kekold porn and everyone reaching into their pants and purses for just a sec with unsaid gestures of this is important I was waiting for this its my kid—don’t worry, it's good news. Silent swipes of cracked screens with news of bird flu and mercury poisoning and chicken fingers for dinner tonight or maybe just hummus and pita, actually no, I'll grab a bag of tater tots and we’ll make a big pan of them, and just these ruffled feathers everywhere twirling through the binary cloud, an earnest depository of so many things to say left unsaid yet transmitted, pulsing, vibrating, and then all of the words just starting to tear themselves out of their digital vestibule and there was nothing anybody could do but join in the waxing, babbling thunder.
—Your Honour, a xenograph is a transplantation of living cells, tissues, or organs from one species to another. You can’t fix one, sir. It's a surgical procedure.
—No, Your Honour. With an s.
—Sinograph? Is it Chinese?
—No, that’s crazy.
—Margot, when would you say you noticed that the keys were sticking?
—Where do you think we can get a new one? Storage? Administration? I'll call Beth.
—Do you know what time they stop serving breakfast?
—Could someone please check the YouTube.
Someone called Beth.
—Did you try blowing in it?
—Hi Beth. No, no, everything’s fine. Yes. Okay, sure. Hey, do you know where we can get a stenograph? No? Hm.
—Here let me try. I've got one of these at home.
—Jesus, I would just about kill for some potatoes right now.
—Did you see the pictures that pervert had on his phone?
—I hope it’s guilty.
—Do you see that lattice up there?
—Yeah?
As the proceeding of things tended towards subjects possibly more interesting than her sticky stenograph, Margot stood up for no actual reason whatsoever, anxious to announce things that everyone already knew. She smelled like Chrysanthemum tea.
—Your Honour! I'm not getting any of this. The keys are stuck. We have to stop. I need help. Call Beth. Make a scene. I'm so overwhelmed.

Nobody had listened to her because, well, why bother. At this point in her life she just wasn't a very interesting person and anything she said could be either inferred via some other means like body language, of which she had little, or by a brief analysis of what had been said previous, which wasn't a lot. Those close to people she was close with tended to relate her to that girl in elementary school with that very long and thickly braided ponytail who had an acute obsession with horses and who brought great shame onto whomever she had declared an attraction to. For Margot, the gradual, rattling acknowledgement of the world’s disinterest regarding everything about her, excluding, of course, her super tits, had begun to express itself physiologically with the development of early onset varicose veins and a generous smattering of cellulite. She'd meant to speak with her phlebotomist about that. Maybe he knew of some smoothing cream and maybe a valve ointment for the varixes. Something topical. Laser surgery sounded too expensive and just not for her. I mean, lasers. Just wow. No way, Jose.
—She's so boring. Get her out of here!
—Oh my God, Reynold. That sweater smells like a dirty roach.
—Excuse me? This is supposed to be about my stenograph.
—Your typewriter can suck it. Give us drama!
—I just saw a huge, veiny cock.
—Do you know why they call it cancer? Because a tumour makes veins look like a flower of sinewy crab legs.
—If I can't do my job, then nobody will know what happened.
—What?
—Order! Order in the court! ORDER
—What did you just say?
—I said I just saw a huge cock. It was on that guy’s phone over there.
—Not you, me. I said nobody will know what happened.

Somehow unable to catch a satisfying breath, Dan had been gasping for air throughout this entropic disregard for Albertan jurisprudence. A dreamy lightheadedness routed his most angular of thoughts as his experative rates doubled, almost tripled. Nobody in the courtroom had noticed Dan’s state of affairs as the glass of the bulletproof chamber had fogged to a neat opacity, obscuring its human contents to an unrefined glim. Dan, too, was now visually impaired, both by the hazzy brume of his respiratory system and the associated vertigo of his apparent but possibly psychological lack of oxygen, and was unable to witness the further disintegration of court procedure and the din hubbub of tangled, chaotic narrative that was unfolding in his gallery. Dan again attempted to regain a semblance of sincere, courtly attention, smacking and slamming his gavel against the sound block, but the fog was having this very bizarre noise insulating effect and, realizing the echo of his chamber, he began to hammer at the glass, the layered polycarbonate material protecting the rest of the courtroom from this excellent display of tantrumic exuberance and judicial excitement. He gave another shallow but valiant attempt for respiratory satisfaction. The ordeal had given him a profound geriatric erection but there was nothing he could do about it. If only he could show Jasmine.
Outside Honourable Dan’s muggy pen, al fresco tribunal, the matter of Margot’s inherent value as an interesting human being was up for discussion. She wielded a number of purported supporters, primarily the man with the dick on his phone that was into her paps, as well as a number of the elderly that had been more involved in the falling sky boy to have witnessed Margot at her most unrelieved. The primary prosecutor, however, the woman with the dank greasy butter face, had access to the more dramatic borewell of potential arguments and was way better organized, probably owing to her recently acquired ambien prescription and the concurrent improvement in her sleep production. She just felt so good right now. She was so happy with where she was in her life and felt empowered to do just about anything. She felt like one of those posters in elementary or middle schools or in institutional educational facilities for speech therapy or ADHD testing sites that featured really beautiful shots of dramatic ongoings like enormous waves crashing into a lighthouse or a few elephants in mourning or a semi close up of an eagle or a handsome but maybe melancholic or despondent looking teenager surrounded by something wild and natural and generally awesome like a cliff or a beach with white bold face lettering always announcing an abstract noun like Destiny or Achievement or Growth and then some subtext inspiring the said abstract noun. She was in heaven. It was just wow.

Largely abandoned by everyone except Margot herself, the defence's argument neared climax.
—Well, let me think. My name is Margot Weard but I guess you already knew that. But my middle name is Jessica. I don’t think you knew that yet. I was born in Saskatoon.
She raised a thin fist to her armpits.
—Go Riders, hah. Well. I have an autistic son. His name is Darren and he’s a sweet little man and still loves me very much, despite all these years. Or so he says. Hah. You know teenagers. Well, he’s nineteen. Is he still a teenager? I don’t know. He lives at home, with me, poor thing.
—That's a start, said someone.
The prosecutor perked up, unwilling to hide a sincere interest.
—Margot! That's so interesting. Wow. And may I ask how autistic is he? I have a full grown cousin who has Asberger's.
—Oh, he's very autistic. Most days he doesn't say a discernible word. He's just so excitable. His name's Darren. I said that. We have an appointment later this afternoon that he's quite nervous for.
—Margot, my dear, I believe we're getting somewhere! Keep going!
—Spill the beans!
—More beans!
—I’ve never stopped growing.
—What, like as a person? A knack for personal achievement and development?
—No, I mean anatomically. I have a disease. It’s very mild, extremely so, but I take medication for it. And transfusions. The doctor prescribe transfusions. I don’t know why. It’s called Wiedemann syndrome. It’s a rare congenital disorder that causes skin overgrowth and atypical bone development. It’s why I wear all these clothes. You think these are tits? She smiled. No, it’s just skin. But I push it up into this bra and it doesn’t look too bad when I wear sweaters.
—What else?
—Tell us something else, Margot!
—Show us your skin boobs!
—Dump em out!
And seemingly out of the blue, everything changed at once.

In the heat of this almost inspiring demonstration of self-governance, a Taiwanese man with nice shoes had nonchalanced himself to the Emergency Discomfort button and pressed it, feigning a who-me ignorance at what exactly he'd managed to do, alerting and gathering the court's too intense mounted security unit, tromping through the concrete tunnels from the underground paddock, on the other side of an automated warehouse door camouflaged as a ceiling to floor portrait of Her Regency, Queen Elizabeth II. Four well-trained horses neighed and readied their tazer beams, initiating their highly controversial nudifying x-wave optics and their cell phone service disruptors. Those inside the courtroom swiped furiously, looking for better service. Hidden behind a pinholed Canadian flag, a CCTV camera captured the pained dragging of a barely visible finger moving along the glass within the judge's chamber. Dan was spelling something, an action realized immediately by the camera's Alphabetic Recognition software.
Wait.
“Where did these horses come from? I don't understand. I get that Calgary is a horse town. Horse hooves, horsepower, and hoarse work horses. Yeehaw, yahoo, and the Greatest Outdoor Show On Earth. But from what hell were these horses summoned from and what do they beckon? What kind of story is this? I do not like it.”

Reader, if you'd give me a moment to explain you'd realize that the horses are meant to symbolize the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. That's why there are four of them. One of them is white, one is a pallid or ashen green (depending on your translation of the Greek), one is a fiery red, and one is black. I would have gotten to that if you would have let it just continue. But now here we are, talking through the holes of the text, ala Chrysostomos (that's a Joyce reference), and you, the reader, have circumvented the Earthly dimensions of the text, however they may be represented materially, whether book, or tablet, or computer screen. Congratulations. This is cause for celebration. Because maybe this is better. Maybe we don't have the time or sufficient education to understand one another because we've wasted it all on solving puzzles. So away with puzzles. Away with hidden meanings. Let me tell you what the story is about.
(I just looked over at my cat Peter moving along the counter top like fog (an Eliot reference) towards three bags of produce that I'm going to be cooking for dinner (one green onions, another broccoli crowns, and the third, broccoli rabe, or rapini, a leafy green that I've never cooked before). He keeps eating the bag and I can't help myself but think how stupid he is, a full grown thing chomping away at clear, lettered grocery bags. I keep getting up, shooing over and over again until he gets the message, clapping, clap clap clap. Get off the counter. Clap clap clap. Stop eating that bag. Peter can be a stupid cat but he can open all the doors and sometimes that makes us laugh, especially when we are peeing.)
Deconstruction has left us in shambles. The post modern human understands meaning only as it exists between words, or that the meaning of a word can only be understood by deferring elsewhere and differing to and from another word. A spoon is not a ladle, nor a spatula. And when do we stop saying yellow and start saying orange. When is a house a house, and not a mansion or a shed. In our language, regrettably, there is no sense in speaking about an inherent meaning. Value is derived elsewhere, looking in. This makes us a very easy people to colonize and command.
“How does a critical theory of language affect the going-ons of 7 billion people? I just go to work and love my family and watch YouTube videos every now and again.”

Well, what about commercially and personally. Advertisements target you as an unwhole being that must be filled with things in order to have value. You aren't beautiful but you will be with eye liner. You aren't intelligent but you will be with money. You aren't loving but you will be with this insurance policy. You aren't a good person, but you will be if you give us your money. And politically? The ideas that you have about the community that you're a part of are only deemed valuable as far as the majority agrees with you. Economically? The dollar in your pocket has no exchangeable value except for what that currency is exchangeable for in the value of another. We've been wholly deconstructed. We, as the subjects of a novel or a world, are imprisoned by a point of view. Because whatever you say, goes. The Subject is almighty, absolutely, but with seven billion subjects, who serves who?
On with the story. Chat later.
As mounted hooves hurried and hotly hammered the unpainted concrete floor on the secret side of the courtroom wall, things on the public side were really heating up.
—Margot, although I'd agree that your overall ability to demand attention is trending upwards, I think that it might just be a matter of too little, too late. Sure, your son is autistic and yes, we understand how complicated that can be for a mother whose husband does oil stuff. Is there anything else you can add? Besides the disease? Anything at all? How about some historical context?

—I'm Jehovah's Witness.
The heavens opened.
—Oh Christ Almighty.
—Get this nutjob out of here!
—Don't make eye contact!
—No! Wait! Just wait!
—Heathen! Believer!
—You don't understand! I was excommunicated!
At that moment, the Alphabetic Recognition software read Honourable Dan's final testimony just as he blacked out. It said ORDER in long greasy letters. Lights flashed, horns roared, and the intercom relayed a message of immediate exodus. THE COURT IS NOW IN RECESS. DO NOT REMAIN SEATED. PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAR TO THE DOOR LOCATED BENEATH THE EXIT SIGN. WE APPRECIATE YOUR FULL COOPERATION. The portrait of the queen rolled up, opening the hanger door and allowing for the entrance of the cavalry.
—Neigh!
—Neigh!

They trotted in, clopping, unable because of limited space to attain the momentum required to match the dusty, adrenal medula stimulating entrance achieved by the Canadian court security's American counterparts, the Black Beauties, an African American jockey club turned militant defenders of the process of law and, in the organization's charitable functions, protectors of the equal rights afforded to the Non Privileged jockeys that participate in the American Grand Prix. The full scale implementation of mounted officers of the court was resounding success for those who backed it. After an efficient bombardment of positivelmost silly sa attention and reasonable arguments by Postmedia and Quebecor who applauded the heritage factor and eluded to the sense of fewer stunts being pulled in the presence of armoured whinnies, the Canadian public took well to the new security measures, especially after three or four photographs of toddlers petting the horses' well manicured manes during a government funded media event at last year's Family Day celebrations. The blinder-mounted tasers and belly armour were, of course, cropped out of publication. Today was the first occasion that the cavalry had been used at the Calgary Court Centre for an incident that didn't involve Vietnamese or Somalian gangs. One too curious galleryman probed Google for a better explanation of where the horses came from as he shuffled with the procession towards the exit doors. This is what he read.
Few understand the exact nature of the events which lead to the Black Beauties' Canadian implementation and those who did had, under their names, numerous recorded visits to websites that supported a return to the Gold Standard or YouTube channels that questioned with due process the real happenings of well covered national

and international media events and so would therefore never successfully run for public office or organize anything of note.

That was where he quit reading. After all, it would be so much fun to be mayor. The phone made note of this. It could tell where his eyes had stopped. He felt the wet scabs of a horse's lips on the back of neck and waddled forward with the huddling masses, their hands in their pockets with their phones.
Did you know that “The Stenographer's Son” is a testament to my belief in God? That it's a recognition, or a confession? No, how could you. The story has suggested nothing of the sort, and yet here I am, telling you that that is so. I'm nearing a thematic statement. Get your pencils ready. Okay. Ready. God frees us from the tyranny of the Subject.
Margot, sharing the views of the reader, did not understand the gusto nor the necessity of the Canadian Mounted Judicial Unit, but her brain had been wired by a system of hugely successful educational and social infrastructure to obey and to not get frumped up with the ifs and whys of foresight, hindsight, and the moments when things were obviously just so twisted that they seemed to come out of nowhere, failling to register as disturbing examples of how the language of power can just kind of get carried away by the neighing of proper beasts and concrete forms and bulletproof panes. So she just walked along with it. In front of her, a sad, dejected, maybe innocent looking man was being rushed to somewhere, guarded by an impenetrable amount of flesh. On her way out, just before she exited the courtroom, she barely saw through the mirrors installed on the room's back walls that the entirety of the judge's bench had, via a system of hydraulic pumps and automated mechanical stuff, descended through the floor into some underground judge's recovery center that was no doubt near the stables.
Outside in the atrium, Margot was blinded by the nonchalance of the going-ons. It was as if nothing had happened. The double doors behind her slammed a slam too definite to be made of real wood. Her stomach rumbled and she walked to lunch.

Tada.

That's an early draft of I don't know, maybe a tenth of the total length. I think I'll keep going with it. I'm pretty certain I have everything planned out.

A final bump. Promise.

>>7361564
Wait, you are in calgary? I am in calgary too!

I need a friend

>>7361626
I'll read it family. I just want to know

>>7361626
Yes! I am in Calgary.

Did anybody read it?

>>7361719
Working on it between shitposts