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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue of cc&d (v222) (the July 2011 Issue, You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:						This is also in this 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback “Exploding on the Scene” Order this 6" x 9" ISBN# book:

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Stuffed in the Future

Wes Heine

    For all levels of class it is now the custom to have the remains of the dead stuffed and kept around the house to be honored. Some aging folks even opt to die early at local Assisted Suicide Clinics to look their best when propped up on the couch, in the corner, or packed into the closet with dozens of generations with honor.
    This tradition of taxidermy has become so universal that it is considered indecent to be put to rest in any other way. Whenever an old fashion funeral procession tries to enter a graveyard for burial, protesters picket with signs of corpses being consumed by earthworms or rabbits eating gravestone flowers, which have human faces.
    The state even sponsors free stuffing/embalming for those who die with no surviving relatives. Yet often these corpses often end up littering the streets as if a mannequin factory had exploded. The misfit cadavers lay in heaps with odd expressions on their faces and seem to stare back no matter where one stands.
    Some of the mummies aren’t misfits but are discarded by disgruntled relatives. “Uncle Clyde used to make me play sick games with him. As soon as mother bites the dust his body will be floating down the gutter!”
    Soon there’s an overcrowding problem concerning the dead citizens. The living residents shuffle down the street either respectfully tip-toeing through them or kicking them aside, dried out arms and legs flying in all directions... Erie expressions hang on the faces of the dead: half smiles, wide eyes, open mouths of unseen horror.
    When the economy takes a dive the government abandons free taxidermy for the dead, and leaves the practice to private businesses. Many less fortunate families can’t afford a topnotch taxidermist and consequently their deceased relatives begin to rot after a couple years. The ghetto streets are filled with decayed bodies left out reeking, slowly being worn down by parasites and the elements.
    The smell of death and disease is almost visible in poor neighborhoods. On hot days fumes hang in the air like a fog. Life-expectancy drops in these sectors, consequently bringing more bodies snowballing into the streets. Soon citizens are climbing over great mountains of dead flesh, wearing hanker-chiefs over their faces, and waving off flies as they go about their business.
    Finally the city has to enact an ordinance that prohibits the keeping of a loved one’s corpse for more than three years... Bulldozers are dispersed to peel up and roll out the great mountains of melted bodies in the street.
    Careful records are kept to make sure that no one exceeds the time limit of keeping a loved one’s corpse. Once the three years is up Agents are sent out for house calls to make sure the corpse in question is placed on the disposal conveyer belt. The Body Belt, as it is called, runs under the city along side plumbing lines, sewage pipes, electrical wires, drainage gutters, and all other utilities.
    Sometimes, emotionally attached relatives hide their loved one’s corpse in the basement or in air vents and tell the agents that they disposed of the corpse early. But the Agents know how many bodies have plopped into the great cremation furnace downtown. If the number doesn’t match the house-call census they rip the place apart looking for the body: An old Guatemalan woman is cornered against the fence of her backyard by her six children and three Agents... She cradles her dead husband in her arms crying, his skull is coming apart in chunks, and maggots are pouring out over her sleeve.
    “Come Momma! Daddy’s beginning to stink!” the oldest son pleads.
    “Beginning too?” scoffs an old-time Agent, “He’s damn near mush!”
    “It’s okay, Daddy’s gone Mamma,” reasons one of her daughters.
    “Noooooo! I can’t let him go!” her accent from the old country fully shows itself in her distress. She pulls him closer and one eye pops out dangling from a thread of muscle like an UN-sewn teddy bear.
    They keep trying to bargain with her. Finally the old-time Agent looks at his watch, sighs, and waves his goons in to forcibly UN-latch the body from her grip. The corpse is ripped apart in all directions.
    The Bubonic Plague makes another cameo in history. The Pope declares it a Catholic Holiday because so many are left with nothing but faith. The opiate of the masses is back in business, on the shelves, in the vein, in the brain...
    The industrial slums... A vast wasteland of the third world:
    Orange sky, black smoldering Earth. Smokestacks of purple tumor clouds hold up the atmosphere with columns of excrement.
    Below in jagged structures of transparent yellow rust crawl those who’ve never known or heard of any better time to be alive... Narrow crooked streets and heaps of carts and rags strewn over mutated humanoids desperately trying to sleep it all away, but their dreams are filled with the same kind of smoldering imagery. They have stained and crooked teeth, stubby fingers with little sliver fingernails like crescent-moons, and skin with tanned glossy wrinkles that crack like the film on top of soup that’s been left out in the air too long.
    Buildings loom in the sky like hundred-story gravestones full of ant tunnels for harvesting the future: the artificial eggs of the species. Language in many of these urban areas is reduced to tongue clicks, quick little hums where each note corresponds to a letter sound, especially “Ya” and “Na” for agreement and disagreement, thus reducing language to a kind of rapid binary code: The exact subject of these conversations is only understood by the pitch of the notes, and a strict concentration on the eyes of the speaker. When two beings bump into each other on a verbal level they exchange opinion indexes extremely rapidly, checking the ratio of agreement and disagreement to discern compatibility.
    Those that wish to preserve the old upper class way of life have isolated themselves in large pink domes that resemble glistening fish eggs. Under the domes are buildings made of complex alloys which glow translucently from what little sunlight they’ve absorbed from the dark imposing atmosphere. The entire domed city is decorated with jelly-lace and decadent undersea sparkles, which grossly over compensates for the unspeakably dark world outside.
    The upper class now has a limited population to profit from: each other... So marketing agencies are extra competitive. Advertisements pop out of first aide kits like spring-snakes on April Fools Day. Pre-recorded slogans are played over and over above sensitive sleepers in the air vents of condos. Tiny billboards bounce out of the bras of city sponsored hookers, the tiny signs dangle on the end of pierced nipples as clients stuff twenties up their cunts. Patients who have gone in for surgery UN-knowingly wake up with tag-lines tattooed on the back of their eyelids and jingle chips implanted in their heads. Companies paste their logos across street signs to get their names dropped during lawsuits concerning the car accidents.
    Here in the domes there is no such thing as bad publicity, here where they eat each other’s mental shit to survive. They’re all hooked up to the same root vine of blood-rust and red clay... Trunks to the fertile mainline... Center of the Earth lava orgy... The Body-Belt of Nature ejaculating out of seeds and volcanoes and swallowed back to the core layer by layer for the future.
    And the past:
    The first far-reaching mammal to have opposable thumbs used them to swing from tree to tree, but also used the finger’s new-found flexibility to masturbate.
    Masturbation is the cradle of this cruel civilization. Only after this did Prometheus steal fire from the stars, did tribes bully animals into domestication, begin artificially planting seeds, and begin writing to keep track of the harvest and trade.
    Civilization all stems from the simple impulse to take things into your own hands.
    Double dicked iguanas they imitate
    Double jointed jerk to artificially ejaculate
    Double persona inseminated in the imagination
    Opposing thumbs led to ideals of duality and balance
    Compartmentalization was adaptation to survive the domestication & Unite the ugly inner animal with the new evolution...
    Masturbation led to self-release, self-control, freedom from dependency on ones own species... index-finger independence. Opposable thumbs create duality, a friction to invert sexuality. The hand tricks the body into thinking that it is reproducing: Bone-spider deceiving the life force...
    Is this the first form of birth control, population control, self-control, control over pleasure... Over the fate of one’s own species, a discrimination over which way to evolve?
    Fantasies fan the brain, to copulate new dimensions, hallucinations that enter our plane, and become physically real... Manifest themselves between eyelid peels.
    Show a universal face
    Ejaculate into space
    Tripped the door dimension
    Tricked the center propulsion
    The laws of nature were abandoned, and the laws of civilization were concocted. Then great phallic monuments to our-selves were erected: Buildings, radio towers, mushroom clouds...
    Our fathers set the ball in motion. Segmented the land, circumcised man. Domesticated and fattened the cow, separated eternity from the now. The history of the world spilled out over his belly. Evolution altered forever. Time is what’s for diner.
    When we were born it was already the future.

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