Changing Course
Both in the Technocracy, in Soria, and in the Soviet Union, there were people who changed sides. Just as the semi-conservative Moyaresmio Soria became Moyaresmio Iseka by his own choice, there was no shortage of technocrats who became Soria's Fifth Columnists (or who went straight to live in another country or in Russia).
In a technocratic city in the province of Gogolia, a Western Technocracy—bordering the Caliphate of Cordoba to the south—there lived a certain Iseka 33, a theoretical physicist, mathematician, ontologist, and quite a bit of a plus-one. Hamas had married. He lived with his demented mother and his great-grandfather. The old woman only said two things: "Oooh, ma so much" and "Shovel, shovel, shovel." Then he would repeat: "Oooh, how much?" Great-grandfather, for his part, only uttered onomatopoeic sounds, such as "Eee ...ees." Since technocratic doctrines were of little use to him, he decided to study Soria's powerful postmodernism (the Sorias were the first to create postmodernism; in that sense, they were ahead of their time) and environmentalism. And he became an environmentalist, that's all. Of course, first he tested the environment. At first, he only criticized. Then his criticisms faded. Finally, he said: "There's something good there." When he saw that nothing was happening and the others continued to stare at him with their mouths open, unaware of anything, just as they always had, he moved on to the Master Plan of declaring himself a Soriacist.
He was very fond of yogurt. But don't think he ate it every morning when he got up, like Juan Carlos. Not at all. He took it from the moment he got up, like Juan Carlos. Not at all. He took it from the moment he got up, of course, but not just like that, but mixed with nectar of stench. This nectar was an alcoholic mixture of heroin, cocaine, and morphine. Such my potency. As he became euphoric, he pulled two ropes: one tied around his mother's neck, who was saying "Oooh, ma so much," and another tied to the wheelchair where his great-grandfather was resting, who was affirming "Iilh . . . iiih . . . " After the two unfortunates were at his side, he told them about his latest discoveries in that inexhaustible Aberfoyle that is Soriacism, environmentalism, or any other of those ontological baptismal chrisms that, like the aforementioned coal mine, precisely at the moment when they are considered exhausted, some new vein always appears. The Soria Soriator, happy. The plus of the mediocre, the scholarship of the useless, the resurrection of the incapable, the soul of the Sorias, the enduring stupidity. The trade unionist, happy. The communion of mental dwarfs, the triumphant and rampant Anti-being, the irreligiosity of flat theologians, the arrogant flatness of the inferior, the poisonous herb in the pipe, preventive castration for prudence, betrayal elevated to the rank of desirable good and pure actor. Stalin, happy. Gloria to the son of the worker Maratov, happy. "You're probably wondering who this beautiful child is. It's Gloria, the son of the worker Muratov." The doctrine of omnipotence; the Underman of anti-Nietzsche: "Soria is only a bridge between man and the Underhuman." Lambertucci, happy. The Nibelungs, happy. "Here is the philosopher's stone to transform gold . . . into lead." The electric dream of philosophy, didactic insulin, electroshock poetry, the definitive defeat of man, anti-life: The anti-Mozart, clad in slippers (all of him), happy.
So, while Doctor of Pestilence Iseka 33 ate his alcoholic yogurts (with various theological additions), he read the following, as an example, to his ancestors, mother and great-grandfather:
----Look how brilliant what I found in this book published in Soria. It's useless: only the Sorias know how to make psoriasis—and, as he said it, he raised the little finger of his right hand—---. Listen:
Birds.
One of the most interesting animals obtained through mutation in Soria aviaries is the Dracula religiosa. For some strange, undetermined reason, it grows fat and happy in the company of other birds, but these become less attractive and eventually die if they live with it in the same cage. Despite being a very sociable creature that doesn't bite small birds, it is a very sociable creature. The apparent solution would be to have it live in the company of its own species, or paired up. But unfortunately, the aforementioned bird—with its colorful and opulent plumage—does not last even a week if it is removed from homes by placing birds of other breeds in its cages, these birds intended exclusively for that purpose. Thus, these service species are sold very cheaply in the Soria market, as they can live less than a couple of weeks alongside the religious Dracula. Popular superstition says that the aforementioned animal brings great luck to the homes and owners of Soria.
The enlightened theologian and environmentalist stopped reading and turned to his predecessors.
---What do you think? Huh? Huh? Isn't it mara, mara, marvelous? Yes, it is marvelous. ----- Didactic: From that supremely soria bird, from that excellent bird, the following lesson can be drawn: the birds that surround the religious Dracula die as a symbol. In this same way, modern man, sick, plagued by ideological superstructures, fearful—he took a good swig of alcoholic yogurt enriched with leprosy, essence, and pestilence—contradictory, removed from ecological nature and reason, perishes to give way to the Soriacist Man. It's clear. Absolutely clear.
The great-grandfather said:
----Iiih. . . iiih. . . iiih! . . .
The mother declared:
----Oooh, ma so much. Oooh, ma so much. Shovel, shovel, shovel.
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