Unnamed Journal 7 - Page 9

“…bullshit.” “Okay, yes…” this for? What purpose does this serve? Why are resources, infinite resources, being used to maintain this exercise? What does anyone gain from it?” Several chimpanzees were dancing along an outer tendril in an impromptu display of acrobatics. They were screeching in delight until the smallest one of them slipped and fell, bounced off a bow of the Morpheus tree, and launched onto a vector that would inevitably splatter him like warm yogurt against the Wall of Being at the outer edges of existence. Then they screeched with even more delight. “Front Office doesn’t explain these things to us, Luke. You know that.” “You realize that we have every variety of monkey here. Not just Bonobos.” “It’s about all of us, Mike. Don’t you want to know why you sit here and watch fucking monkeys fling poop onto a page?” “The union is very tolerant. It’s not just for Bonobos. There were even green monkeys in attendance.” “Wait a second,” said Mike, “the 451st? Why that number?” “There have been earlier attempts that did not achieve the same level of success.” “You tried 450 times to start a monkey union?” “Something like that,” said Luke, “Who remembers? That’s not the point.” “Luke, man, what happened to you? You’re the Resource Rep. You’re a big deal. Why the sudden need to put yourself against the Front Office.” “I’m not putting myself against, necessarily. I just want someone to give me a sense of what I’m to be repping. Morale is low in my department.” “Your department?” “Of me. Look, this isn’t the point. Are you gonna tell me that you’ve been happy watching these monkeys type all this time?” “Of course I do. But I am no longer satisfied with that. I am tired of doing without understanding. I want to know, to really know, what Front Office has in mind.” “So this is about you.” “They don’t fling their poop onto the pages.” “They might as well,” said Luke. And he stood and strode to the nearest workstation, where a green monkey had been clacking away. He yanked the paper out. The monkey screeched at Luke, and Luke swung a backhand at it, but it tumbled away, and as Luke gave the paper to Mike, reloaded the typewriter and got back to work. Mike looked at the paper: fheyckmmkzA93u7eeh jgguq287r4[psakfd65 jtyhadsyfvlc,mebwe9fhjet66t4r4 sHAll I compare th33 to a SUMMER’s d@y? Thou arT afdsjnkn13450u8gfp9y0afdsbh093787 “So what?” said Mike. “Gibberish,” said Luke. “Complete gibberish.” “There’s words in the middle there.” “Is that what you call them? What the fuck is ‘SUMMER’? What is a ‘d@y’? Those aren’t words, they’re sounds. They don’t mean anything.” “Maybe they’re supposed to mean something.” “Happy? The hell is ‘happy’? I have a job. I do it. I don’t have to get it. There doesn’t have to be an explanation.” “They don’t mean anything to me. Or you. Or these poor slobs who are making them. The whole thing is pointless.” “Man, if you’re satisfied with that, I don’t know what to tell you.” “You don’t know that.” “What the fuck are you talking about?” “I don’t know anything. That’s the whole point. Why should we continue if we don’t know what we’re doing?” “I’m talking about this,” Luke said, with a wave of his hand to the vast clack-clacking mass around him. “What is all “What difference does it make? We do it, because that’s what