A Home-owners Guide to Pneumatic Tubes !or
Getting from Here to There in a Hurry
Stop You Stop , you reader : you are on the precipice ! of a hair raising spectacle ! of which you may or may not know the specifics ; if the latter , then abort the mission ...
go back and do not pass go , as confusion will likely overwhelm and fuse with your smiling dendrites : there is no cure for
Knotted Spectral Vertebrae , unless you have access to a vial of
ice-nine :
Some say the cure is worse than the disease .
In the Hobo-Clutches !
My anti-nausea-rotor must have been rusted solid ; oil seeped from my gyrating springs and spritzed the transparent walls of the capture tubes -- the seeking searching grabbing air-suckers that dangled from the bowels of a hovering ISCP . As i tumbled i could see the crumbling worm crawler lose bits of tread and gears to internal explosions. Was the damage from the outside battle or the work of a saboteur ?
I buoyed into the works just as a vertical engine popped from a hatch and scrutinized the mass of debris i was whirling amid . A second later the sky was gone replaced by the innards of the Pickler , the vented floor upon which i and the ruins were dumped .
My odor tube discerned a burrowing carapacic which i assimilated .
Sadly , i envied the broken clown face .
My revolving tracks broke a nail ; i wept .
Rage enveloped the canine exhaust plumes that lined my access abscess .
My prober ballooned and pulsed with anticipation !
Toes i never had ached with the lost joy of a life never fulfilled .
I yearned weirdly for prongs .
Hell Ships of Hobo and Riots in the Sky
I had roamed the curvature of the Hobo world picking through the dregs , sorting the detritus and garbage of the organics . My programming was complete so all i needed were my sensors and the
signal emitter tabs to plant over the piles i con-
structed . Happy in my mission and content to move forward to the end of my eons , now i was awash in confusion ... somehow the organic's paraphernalia from the tunnel had infused my wiring with the genetics of fear and love and pride and well-being ; the bits of string and insulation i had collected in my bins were treasures now , and a fierce sense of ownership overrode my Pavlovian responses .
Instead of tidying the mess and pushing it to respective sorting colanders , i rotated to the floor , disassembled my torso to rebuild it as a beveled glass shelf , with platinum pins and a mahogany finish . Then i selfishly picked out and stowed the shiniest trifles to later weave into a wire-wiggy and hang on a magnetic levitation hook , right next to my bookend busts of Newton and Dolly Parton . Newton was superfluous , as the bronzed Partons needn't any support .
Over-the-Shoulder Gravitons in the Realm of HOBO*
...where polystyrene beans clog the cold-air intakes , where bubble wrap is evening wear , where a picture frame and two additional friends double date and breakfast on graphite with a difluoroethane chaser .
Hoboriffic , but in a Good Way !
The Wall-unit , hermetically sealed to its controls , was ratcheting its segmented helmet-dome loose for use as projectiles in the quivering trebuchet , and i had barely finished my hoarding and poetic waxing when i sensed the incoming flambe ; too late i somersaulted with the blow and mingled with a pallet of feather pillows , sneezed because of some sort of sympathy for a chipped fender , then rolled off into a maze of rubber tires . The gears and pistons and pulleys and radio tubes and copper pipes and wire engines and petroleum jelly and raspberry jam and postal tape and bulbs and static electricity and dials and drips and interfaces and ventilation ducts and stuff vibrated and worked at the operation of the Pickler , sucking up earthly debris and frantically transforming it into the floating Hell-machines that hovered and trawled and blew chunks from every orifice into the reciprocating guts of its peers . My born again innards rebelled from the violence , from the waste , from the butterscotch icing that dripped into my second-cerebrum-widget , and i advanced upon the Wall-unit .
"Headless paste concoctor , chromeless bomb lobber , static stuck stick switching simulator, " i hurled ineptitudes at the unit and taunted it with a near empty tube of preserves .
In its headless state , the unit merely flipped switches and turned a handle that rotated the Pickler's duck flaps thus moving it through the air in a Westerly direction . On the ground a burrowing rock-grinder surfaced and volleyed its excavations into orbit .
I stuck an LP into the unit's lunch basket and it choked on twang then powered down .
And today , A Hobo is Recycled , give Thanks !
I uncoupled the Wall-unit and pocketed the brass wing nut then took up its post ; the view from its station was spectacular : atop the levers and gauges and buttons and diodes was a silicon charged magnetron screen , and a kilt-waggling Marduk swiveled on the dashboard . The ball-socket hand squeezed infinity-Spackle into a dispersing tank .
Unconsciously I had Stumbled into the Hobo Replicator !
Infinity-Spackle , goodness me ; it was the stuff that was everything and less or at most ! Nothing and everything was possible with the Spackle , and i had on my tin can , in a hidden compartment , the plans from the tunnel ... the plans from the tunnel ... the plans from the tunnel ...
*Holographic
Obediants are
Basically
Obsolete .
Here i am worried that after falling through a black hole i will be squarshed like a peeled grape sliding down the gullet of Cleopatra who is dreaming of ice cream because sitting in a boat on the Nile during the dry season is so damned uncomfortable , and the flies are thick as flies . Is there a better metaphor for the thickness of flies , i ask ? 
