The Slime Mob
BREAKING NEWS: I’m Richard Dick, here to talk about The Slime Mob. Which started as an eco-conscious trash initiative, and it has just swallowed the city of Scottsdale, Arizona. While it may seem like good riddance, this Slimy Blob Snake is taking its venom and sliding it across the states and is headed to the east. If you are EAST of Scottsdale, all the way to the coast. Your city may be in grave danger!
“It’s wild,” started deni3l,
“Yeah, it’s wild like some shit off Animal Planet!” Coco interjected.
“No.” deni3l cut in curtly “It’s wild, that something that started with the intention of solving our trash island and mass waste crisis, would be what begins to dismantle metropolitans themselves. Think deeper Coco, don’t just react.” As he said this anxiety thrust itself upon him. It spilled out of his mind like thorny wisps, pricking him with existential, ultimate, imperial, imminent, cacophony. His heart lurched, his stomach flipped, and his hands gripped like the universe was a bullet train. There was no way that he would be able to find a way to stop such a grave threat to people. It can’t die from bombs, starvation, exhaustion, or two rednecks chasing it with guns, it was invulnerable to it all. Truly an impenetrable menace, dooming humanity to a sludgy, suffocating, albeit sexy, end. He quietly wondered if it would be able to cross the oceans should it gain enough mass. He took a deep, mindful breath, came back to the moment, and then heard faintly, the single note that maintained his sanity. It sounded like a wren breathing into the frost-bitten morning air. It soothed him just long enough to snap back into the slime broadcast.
“Channel 7 Fox news, in collaboration with the United States Government will be holding a fundraiser to help the president fight The Slime Mob. Here’s Mr. President now with his detailed plan for quelling this ichory menace. “Mhmm mhmm,” Mr. President cleared his throat. He was a pale and pasty man, the epitome of post-colonialism, with an under-bit jaw, a dazzling unconscious twinkle in his eye, and a smile that said “Hey world, I’m incompetent and I don’t care!” Mr. President exhaled deeply while he looked down and fumbled at his paperwork. As he inhaled lifted his iron-plastic chin, smiled, and spoke. “My fellow sentient, stupid, sexy Americans. Now, I know we have a military defense budget the size of every third-world country we fight communism in. But this menace, this, this, this, Slime Mob is the most dangerous threat we have ever seen on home soil in this country. It makes the confederacy look like a shithole country, and that’s hard to do. Am I right Tennessee??” He winked at the camera. “It has the destructive force of those, uhm, uhh, bombs that we dropped on Japan, combined with the flying powers of Al-Qaed–” the crowd shrieked in panic.
“Now, now. Do not fear. We are a strong people, a proud people, and with your help, we can beat back this menace to our society. We need each American to look deep into their wallets so that we can engineer a defense system excellent enough to repel this blob. What is our idea you ask?” He paused smugly. “A MEGA wall!!!!! And not like the last guys’ wall. I am talking 300 ft high and 1,000 miles long. This wall would go QUICKLY right up from North Dakota, all the way down to Texas. It would protect the eastern seaboard from this menace. “But Mr. President,” a reporter called out. “What about the countries to the west, still under threat to The Slime Mob?” His face was solemn, there was silicone pain on his countenance. “It is a grim situation, good sir. Unfortunately, there will be casualties even with a cutting-edge idea like this one. The best we can do is work to evacuate the entire west and redistribute them among what’s left of our noble and pristine country. It is with a heavy heart I must report this, but we must be strong and maintain our valiance. Our nation has seen us through crisis after crisis. And with my leadership and our MEGA wall, I believe our people will persevere again. So please, donate today. Save. U.S. All.” And with that, the presidential music began to play and Mr. President exited the podium.
“Well that was bullshit,” deni3l said.
“Yeah,” Coco said. “It’s like a matador shoved his knife-sword up a bull’s vagina, said fuck it, and got the shit out of its ass. Ate it, threw it up, and made that speech.” deni3l paused, had no reason to scold her lack of critical thought, she was simply right. Brilliant and poignant.
“All right, Coco.” deni3l started, “I am headed out. I want to walk out some of this anxiety before I sit down at the studio today. My creativity is shit.” as he finished Coco giggled, “You always say it’s shit. Whether you walk or not.”
“Yeah,” deni3l said, smiling a bit “I do, don’t I? But.” They said in unison “I do it regardless!” deni3l walked out of the Calamity Cafe in a long trench coat. New York was a frigid place. The concrete looked as cold as nordic sheets of ice, he walked down them wondering if he could slide across like he was figure skating. He looked around searching for love or purpose inside the faces of passersby. Nothing. She’s Numb. She looks like a Bitch. She’s hot, Ugh. She probably thinks I’m nasty for thinking it. I am nasty though. Well, you’re hot yourself too. You just stay in your head all day, too shame-filled to accomplish any flirting anyway. His negative chatter knew what scabs to pick and it did any moment his guard was down. Some days he could curve the static, other days it was mild needles against his skin, and on the grim days, it felt enough to throw him from the top of the upper west side. He passed by a pizza window and picked up a slice. The ultimate comfort food, I don’t care how bad this could be for me. I eat plenty of veggies to balance it all out anyway. He stopped to eat his pizza outside of a skate park.
The skate park was concrete, but a different kind than the tundra around him. This cement was burning, alive with the energy that only skate rats provide. Rebellion. Vitriol in a person... Utter angst that only drug addictions, mommy/daddy issues, and a mental illness could provide. It was a great comfort to him to watch a skater pop over a box, hit the grind rail with a 50-50, and kickflip out of it. He never could do that shit. He was too much of a pussy to even get down a two-stair. “My skill set is different,” he told himself. He told himself a lot of things to help him feel better but it often didn’t help at the moment. It wouldn’t help until he slept on it, understood that his skill set was different and he had his areas of expertise. “You’re a phenomenal engineer, producer, and artist deni3l. I feel it each day at least grazing the greatness I know is within you. I don’t think we’ve ever figured out how to tap into it purely. Our life was damaged, broken, and stained before we got a chance to remember what it’s like to feel that pure connection.”
After watching the skaters for another fifteen minutes or so, he quit when he saw one of them bust their head wide open on the living concrete. It looked like hellfire. As the crimson started to run he heard one of their friends calling 911. He breathed a sigh of relief, “good friends,” he thought.
Each piece of the city had its own distinct noise. Cars with liberal bumper stickers, their drivers, blasting their horns down the street desperately trying to get somewhere while going nowhere. Bluetooth speakers ringing out music in a treble-heavy tone. Homeless citizens quietly mumbled for change or looked into deni3l’s eyes in hopes he would reciprocate their attention. He couldn’t afford much, let alone to give to them. He used to a lot, but then he realized he couldn’t walk home without giving away $20. He expected it was a reason he couldn’t save well, which was perhaps half true. He was always willing to lend an ear and chat with them about their hardship, although they seemed irritated when at the end of their spiel he couldn’t give them anything.
He reached his apartment steps, it was an old craggly building. It looked like Grimmauld Place, when he opened the door to his apartment, it smelled like it too. Too bad there was no house elf to keep the place clean. “That’s some slavery shit man, cut it out,” he thought. The place was clean enough, with a layer of dust on his shelves, and light grime on his bathroom. He didn’t stay here very much, just to sleep or have breakfast. He preferred to hang around the studio he worked at or the Calamity Cafe where he’d have coffee and tea with Coco. Coco was born of the universe to alleviate his serious disposition. She was careless, not carefree. Careless, she had no concern for what can happen, what will happen, or what has happened. It was cathartic to hear her opinion on things because it was blatant. There wasn’t much bias in her words. Just scrutiny. Scrutiny for the world, men, women, bugs, and politicians especially.
He sat on his sofa, a shabby-looking thing. Brown tweed with a wooden frame around the base. He opened his laptop and threw his headphones on. He splashed on a Gorillaz album, one of the older ones, from better days. The Intro hit and he thought about the bass clarinet in the intro every time. One of the first instruments he ever played. The rasp called hauntingly to him. It sounded wounded, empowered by exhaustion. It’s how he felt at the time. He still felt that way but there was no bass clarinet supporting those feelings anymore. Now, only a cold hard laptop named TITAN kept him company. Most people joked it was a porn addiction. But it was a deeper addiction than that, a spiritual calling to work on music as many waking hours as he could muster.
He grabbed his A24 rolling tray, an unbleached joint wrap, and his fresh weed. It was just legalized here and he’d be taking full advantage of getting real sativas. Indica was a haymaker to his depression that he couldn’t recuperate from. He rolled a clumsy joint. Focus wasn’t his forte, nor did he concern himself much with the details. He excelled at broad strokes, big ideas, and the big picture, abstract and skewed.
He smoked and listened to Kids With Guns, thinking about how a song twenty years old would warn us of a time when kids did have guns and they were using them. And How adults were turning on these children with guns as well. It wasn’t colleges like in the 90s and 00s either. It was elementary schools, where the kids had no form of defense. Only destroyed dreams dashed against the wall with sanguine trauma. “How fucked it all is,” deni3l thought. He opened up his laptop and did the only thing he knew he could do about it, work. Strive to express himself. He used to think he’d help save the world, but now he only focused on saving himself and the small group of loved ones around him. If he could make a difference with them then he’d made a positive impact on this world. He limited his distractions by turning his phone to silent. He flipped on the television set and flicked the remote until he could find the right cartoon to play in silence while he worked. The animated nature of cartoons was playful and could even make dreadful topics release from his soul with ease. He found a lot of comfort in them and wouldn’t ever take it for granted, he settled on King of The Hill.
The music he worked on danced around him, he was stoned as shit. His lust eons away like a plague of memories passed. No consideration of physical forms in his mind. The bass hit, more distortion, the guitar whirred in the mix, more distortion, his whole life, that’s right. More distortion. Noise killed melody like the static of this world speared his heart. Black, gray, cracking noise went through his headphones. Even on low volume, he could feel his ear canals recede further back in hopes to distance themselves from the clamor of trap drums. If he wasn’t ever going to be heard it did not matter the noise he made, so he made exactly what he fucking wanted to. The heartbreak of life. The loud desperation of hope was angered by years of sustained trauma. The stereo oasis he drowned himself in was his therapy outside of therapy. It was what made sense. He cut out the low end on a guitar to leave an ugly airy middle sound when his phone buzzed. “Fuck,” he thought. “I should’ve thrown that clear across the room. I don’t know how push notifications get through even when my phone’s silent.” He fished into his black denim and opened it up. The notification was from Spitter. The most chaotic media platform for instantaneous news, world revolutions, dead bodies, comedy, and pornography. All side by side in a 16 x 9 frame.
The trending topic was “Mr. President Triumphantly Raises Money for his MEGA Wall. A Josh Groban Concert Will be Held in Celebration of the success.” Attached was a clip, “Spare me,” he thought. But he’d click it anyway, he knew that he would. So after the click, there he was again, Mr. President, in his blue suit, with an old ass man underbite that said I'm 30 years into cognitive decline. “My …. My Fellow Americans! We have raised the money for the MEGA Wall!!! We are throwing a concert right at the border where the wall will be built. Construction will begin immediately and while it is being constructed, our friends over at Thicket Master will be setting up for the Josh Groban concert. He’s a fine young man, if I were about 30 years younger, I think… I think that the price of milk is just fine Tito, get back under the table. I, where?... Anyways, You did it. You raised the money and we didn’t have to spend a single penny of your hard-earned tax dollars. Those are safe and secure, financing foreign wars, and helping our politicians fuck foreign whores.”
This man can say anything and people won’t bat an eye. We are all so fucking desensitized. We don’t even need to be conspiracy theorists to see the corruption. The idiocracy is right in front of our faces. Maybe it took poise and intelligence when they were initially plotting this global technocracy but it needed no subtlety now. The old have the power, they can wave it in our faces and we cannot do anything save vote and protest. And even at a protest there are AR-15s or tear gas or harsh jail sentences waiting for the unruly. It’s not like the 1800s when we can just overwhelm our government with bodies. The police now are militaristic, and the guns are now submachine. The danger, the threat level. There can be no MLK, JFK, or Malcolm X. Hell they couldn’t even be either, they were all assassinated too. The government made it clear what happens to those with movements outside of the status quo. Fierce, direct opposition. It shut us the fuck up and we have been swirling into poverty ever since.
TWO WEEKS LATER: THE JOSH GROBAN CONCERT
“The News reporter looks like a bitch,” Coco said, sipping her rosemary honey latte. “She looks like she snorts coke off of Mr. Richard Lead Anchor's 3-inch mirror-plated dick.”
“Why is it mirror-plated?” deni3l asked.
“Because,” said Coco. “He likes to look at himself more than he likes to look at a beautiful woman doing coke off his little pee pee then getting sucked off. He’s a fucking pig of a man really.”
“I can’t argue with you there. The guy seems like a soulless vessel for politicians to shove a hand up his ass and talk through, yeah”
“Yeah!” Said Coco laughing, “yeah.” They tuned back into the TV. Mr. President was with Josh Groban. The fair-haired, Gen X, Baby Boomer Jesus. The perfect prodigal son, next to them both was America’s voice of God himself, Morgan Freeman. He had a cool smirk on his face as he always did, one ear pierced, and an energy that said, “They’re paying me an ungodly amount of money to be here. The stage was comparable to a Mega Church Set Up. A choir in the far-back right. Various musicians with Acoustic Guitars, Keys, and several world instruments, as Josh Groban is likely to belt out in multiple languages and styles. The stage was filled right now with Celebrity guests, Make A Wish Kids, politicians, their children, and more. The Crowd finished filing in, 50,000 people. Come to see Josh Groban to the backdrop of a MEGA Wall mid-construction, standing only about twenty-five feet right now of pure steel. It looked like a corporate heart flattened by a bread roller. “Welcome! My esteemed, celebrated, and vaccinated Americans. WE. ARE. IN. JOSH. GROBAN!” The crowd roared, and you could see the earth shake from the flat screen of the Calamity Cafe. What power to be wielded by such a baffling babbling old man. The antithesis of what we need, though he had no better ideas. “All proceeds of this event will continue to fuel our MEGA Wall. Progress is coming stunningly quick. With at least 20 feet of wall across the country already. It almost reminds me of the Berlin Wall, Magnificent. Elegant, and a symbol of safety.” And nobody is going to think about how the Berlin Wall represented hate, division, murder, and isolation. They love it here. They love perceived protection. “Before Josh plays his sweet ballads and show tunes ‘queer’ he mumbled but his microphone caught it with ease. We are going to have one lucky Grobanite play seven minutes in heaven with him! Where Josh will sing seven minutes of ASMR into their ear. Will “Chris Fittindisdickinurmouth please come to the stage!!!” The crowd was silent… Did they catch it? deni3l thought. Along the far left of the stage, a man in his mid-40s came running up with his hands flailing almost detached from his body. When he got up to the podium he started shrieking and fainted. Can’t even last seven minutes… When Chris Fittindisdickinurmouth got up from his minute-long coma he followed Josh backstage and enjoyed his seven minutes in heaven. In the meantime the PA played I’m Proud to Be an American, Back Streets Back, and California Love.
“What the fuck is this country man? No one cares about California Love. It's going to get sucked up more than the Anchor.” deni3l said a little too loudly, he received some leers from a couple, probably non-binary, in the back reading some douchey books of poetry and philosophy, probably Poe and Jung. “I bet I’d like ‘em,” deni3l thought. “Why the fuck do we have to be coded transphobic when we’re born how we are? This shit is disorienting enough.”
“It’s a shit show run by some shit apes, on a planet that used to be beautiful but now it just looks like a shit sandwich,” Coco said loudly then looking right over at the non-binary couple and smiled. Thank God for Coco.
Things at the Groban concert were heating up as much as they could for the over-40 crowd. It did seem beautiful, and admittedly, Josh Groban’s voice is wonderful and he is full of genuine humor. As much as he felt ashamed to carry that positive feeling he knew it was because there was love in Josh’s heart and he was probably being too harsh on the boy-haired 41-year-old. There’s something special about hate, the small poison is enough to affect his entire consciousness. He loathed his judgments and his pointed hatred. He knew it came from a place of hurt, low self-esteem, jealousy, and any number of things that were more internal than external. But loving is so hard, really loving, acting in love. To himself, to strangers, to loved ones. This world felt shallow and cold like no one will ever understand but it’s not like he understood eithe- The broadcast from channel 7 cut in. “BREAKING NEWS,” The lead anchor said in a faux masculine voice in hopes to appear stronger than his angel skin broadcasted to the audience. “The Slime Mob has descended upon the Josh Groban live show, Nicky the Token Spanish anchor is on the scene reporting. The screen cut to a delicate, androgynous young man with a casting microphone and a 50-foot slime monster behind him. “As you can see Dick, The Slime Mob is REAL and has descended upon the outdoor stage. It is suspected as people flee that there are already two thousand dead, including Josh Groban and Chris Fittindisdickinurmout. The President has been evacuated and they are planning to bomb the area eminentl- Explosions erupted on the screen, sending the camera to the ground, and static took over the television set.
“Holy fuck.” deni3l said. “The whole concert just got eaten or bombed…” The Television reoriented to Dick the anchorman and his co-anchor Sandra. “We are now reporting that the state of Nebraska has just been leveled in hopes to bring swift military justice to The Slime Mob. Mr. President is live to talk about the tragedy and war against this mucous-based menace. Mr. President had a look of solemn discontent and a blank stare on his countenance. “My serendipitous, solemn, sexy Americans… We have lost Nebraska today… I- I hated this plan, but it was the best way to lure The Slime Mob to a quick and immediate end. With my plan, we have killed the sickly green creature, and peace in the United States will stand. The camera shook on the TV. Mr. President said, “Oh shit shit shit!! The Slime Mobs are coming over the hill. What in the fuck?” The camera turned around and coming down the hillside were dozens of small oozes, descending upon the press conference and the President’s Pavilion.
“Oh Fuck,” Mr. President said. “No need to panic my focus, fucked, fine Americans. We will defeat this menace no many how many times they are replicated. Damn non-binary’s…” With that, they cut back to Dick and Sandra making out on the newscasting desk. As their tongues went further into each other’s mouths, the cameras didn’t stop rolling and they didn’t acknowledge that they were back on the air. The threat of imminent and oncoming death overrode any program constraints and shame they may care about their affair. They were fucking, on air. Dicks in pussies, the whole newsroom turned into a giant televised orgy.
TWO YEARS LATER: THE NORTHEAST UNITED STATES
July 25th, 2026
I can’t tell if things are better or worse. The skies are aqueous, healthier than I’ve ever seen them. Boston, New York, and Los Angeles are all in the process of being reclaimed by nature. Wildlife reigns and is an equal danger to us now. There is the comfort of small homes and townships. Those making a go at building and maintaining small communities in hopes of not being stumbled upon by any monster from The Slime Mob. They range from little things, no more than a couple of feet high. Leviathan's comparable to the size of skyscrapers. We’re lucky and blessed these monsters do not have the superior intelligence to track us, hunt us, and swallow us into their ever-growing void. I miss you, Coco. I think that you are what makes me feel like things are worse. The commodity, the glass cases in which we existed in, the Calamity Cafe was a drop in the bucket of frames to hold people that couldn’t live for themselves. This shattered when civilization cracked and its progress was halted over The Slime Mob.
We still have technology, cell phones, video games, and the internet. It’s just like society crashed and we’re having to reboot it. You should see the stars now Coco. Bright, resilient, uncaring, and free. It’s inspiring and the pains in my chest, the constant paranoia of whether I will ultimately be profound or not have dissolved. Our community relies on us all to gather, forage, and use all our resources, even the fun ones. I spend a lot of my time playing music with a group called necrolemur. We still have access to recording resources but we have been throwing shows in a forest outside of what was Brooklyn. You never have to go far to find support, we all need each other. Like I needed you, Coco, thank you for getting me through such a disheveled existence. I think you’d like it here now, fewer people are overflowing and stepping on one another. Nature itself brings the soul out of us. You’d probably still be a bit of an asshole because I am still quite bitter in my disposition. Nature, the environment, can change our habits too. But I can’t help feeling that our genes maintain who we are, no matter how malleable we may be, we still rubberband back the center and the core of what we are. Things are worse because you are not here with me. You were my best friend and my life is less without you. I am pushing on because that’s what humans do, it’s the only thing we know how to do for sure. I know I will see you sooner than later.
Loving you through infinity,
deni3l
