Barney Clanton, and A Lesson in Futility

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Upon hairy legs, lay the overheating modern laptop computer, to which is affixed a glowing array of crystals, imperceptibly tiny, but when put together make a monitor, on which any one mindless something-or-other can be displayed. The legs, bare, belong to Barney Clanton, who at this moment is unperturbed, immersed, touching upon the trackpad of the computer with anxious vigour. To Clanton, the activity that he fervently enjoys night-upon-night is commonplace, a smaller task that he must complete in order to contribute to his larger, more long-term endeavour. A smaller cog in a larger machine, to use Clanton’s lexicon.

The man sits in his filth – mind you, the word is not used lightly – hoping that on a night not very dissimilar to this one, but hopefully this one, he will discover the person that he is searching for on an internet forum not very dissimilar to this one, but hopefully this one. Barney has had many unlucky nights, his vigorous scrolling, clicking and posting on question-and-answer forums leading only to dead ends and disappointed sighs. On GnosticBody.net, his handle was ‘not_a_guru’. On Thaumaturgy101, it was the same. On implant_theory.net, his usual username was taken, so he settled with fatherb0ard, a genius play on words that went gravely unappreciated by the members of the forum. Mr. Clanton tried also to purchase items on AlbedoBay, a backdoor anomalous marketplace for which he would later have a bitter taste in his mouth, and justifiably so – the hokey, lethargic scammers boast a larger-than-life inventory of anomalous goods that would prove to be imaginary, but only after the payment has been processed.

Barney exercises caution now, making sure to purchase from trusted sellers. By miracle, after one of these instances, at his door would arrive a package, containing inside a device that promised online to aid him in his journey to true, unadulterated anomalous transhumanism. Unfortunately, just as sellers can fib about the existence of their inventory, so too can they lie about the effectiveness of their inventory, as existent as it may be. Trusted sellers? Trusted by whom‽

He grunts and scratches his thigh, lodging underneath his fingernail what could either be a sesame seed or the remains of any one something-or-other the gentleman consumed in the weeks prior. He breathes both in and out through his mouth, a clever rejection of orthodontic propaganda, designed only to ensure your repeated business. In fact, all his breaths resemble a sigh, at which point you might think he is constantly fatigued, disappointed or unhappy. Barney’s house, a pigsty. Both bear resemblance to one another, and yet, Barney is, in some obscure way, content. He will tell you that it is because he wishes to exact revenge upon the world that wronged him, to prove his worth as a truly divine being with a purpose that transcends beyond his human form – do not pay him any mind. I say it is because he has hope. He hopes to become more than himself, to correct for his profound loneliness, sadness, and laziness. I am not delusional. At least I am self-aware.

The minute hand had just betrayed midnight, and it was now Friday morning. Barney’s hunt for what he truly desired did not adhere to the conventions of natural circadian rhythms as we understand it. In fact, just yesterday, he had stayed up until 8:12am searching on his laptop – a new personal record. No, Barney did not adhere to many conventions, that much is certain. Many a discussions can be had about the merits and demerits of contrarianism as a personal philosophy, but to our Barney, contrarianism is a polite word for fools who only think on the opposite end of the box – but still not outside of it.

A peek into his thoughts; Duds. Keep scrolling. Scam. Think I recognise that seller – someone said he’s not legit. Neanderthals, all of them. Preying upon the goodwill of the true believers, the true believers such as myself. The true believers. //Post-Human – For those dissatisfied with the human prison//. Promising.

The fingers, greasy, clicked the computer track-pad with haste. A new forum, the name of which hadn’t been mentioned in the close inter-connected web of anomalous transhumanist enthusiasts that exist only on this decrepit corner of the internet. The Sir finds this titillating. All those unlucky nights, and perhaps this may finally be the one to turn the tables.

No point in getting your hopes up though. A lot of honeypots out there. There’s probably a reason no one has mentioned this forum before.

You’re right.

Remember why you’re doing this.

You’re right.

The fingers, but with less haste, now slip and slide on the track-pad – cautiously, of course. Cranton caresses the computer screen, and does it decidedly with his right index finger. A cursor is already designed to point and click. A finger does one of those things, but not the other, and requires more physical effort. Truly, what are we fighting for, Barney, if not the complete absolution of the human body and its misrepresentation of the true essence of the human soul? Are we not against the capitalist agenda, the dehumanisation of the people, the reduction of human lives to mere numbers? Are we not advocates for the fact that humans are something more? That to live truly and freely, harnessing the exo-worldly, ‘anomalous’, is fundamentally necessary? Why use your finger, to hell with your finger! Your damned finger! You bumbling cretin! Get out of there-- wait, wait just yet! Your finger might have proved useful! There, underneath your fingertip. What do you see?

> AUTHENTIC ANOMALOUS GENETIC AND NEURO-PSYCHOLOGICAL MODIFIER. SMUGGLED FROM FOUNDATION. 0.018 BTC. PERFECT FOR TRANSHUMANISTS.

Dreadfully drab is this forum. The design, archaic, the moderators, non-existent, the content, similarly so. Perhaps if there is a semblance of an inner voice, screaming to you to avoid the future sorrow and disappointment, you might consider listening. A very promising product description, however.

//drearymary// is the seller. The forum comes recommended by whom, again? JelatinMan. A trusted seller on AlbedoBay. Of course, trusted. Trusted by the customers. The Foundation? Perhaps that requires some further research.

The cursor pre-emptively hovers over JelatinMan’s profile. Clicks. Periodic posts regarding flash sales of ‘Foundation’ products. Grateful comments, expressing gratitude for the smuggler and for JelatinMan. Envious comments, expressing jealousy of the commenters who got in early. Remarks about the quality of the products smuggled from the Foundation. One mention of drearymary – allegedly an insider who smuggles anomalous products from inside the organisation.

Yes, the Foundation. He had heard of them before. He had not given it any further thought, had believed that they were a forum with varying quality assurance.

Dreary. The epithet for my saviour.

Remember when I said the human body is incongruent with the human soul? Perhaps not all human souls, Barney. I’m speaking you into submission, my apologies. Your soul. Trapped in this reductive state. How pathetic, is it not? And this manner of life. If you were to rise above… well, none of it would matter, anymore, would it Barney? You would be free of the guilt. Of the feeling sorry for yourself. And what an ugly human emotion it can be, feeling sorry for yourself. Why? For what? Why feel sorry when you have done nothing harmful? $2,000. Going once. Going twice. Sold, to the man in his underwear!

You are more than this, Clanton. You are not your true self in this form. I suppose that is why you eat yourself comatose, you binge-watch television, you endlessly scroll on your phone – it’s because none of it will matter, when you finally decide to undergo your metamorphosis. When you finally decide to make a change. Is that it, Barney?

No. I am self-aware. What I have done to myself, I cannot undo. My prison is of my own design, and the key to my prison is Mary’s. No other key has, have, will have, or will has have ever worked. Look at yourself. Mincing your words. You sound like- no, let’s not go there. God knows the later years were the hardest. His eyes… as if staring into the inside of a Magic 8-ball. Perhaps if you shake him, his pupils will foretell your fate. How little comfort he had. Knowing that he was bound to that disgusting hospital bed until he drew his very last breath. Barney, doesn’t it sicken you? Being bound to a bed? Oh, but your situation is different I suppose. You have a purpose, after all. Unlike your father.

Shut up. Stop talking. Stop thinking. Magic 8-balls… what an interesting thing. Ask it a question, no matter how open-ended, and it will render 1 of 20 responses. So simple, so elegant. Epistemological humility. Heard of it? The idea that one must accept that he does not know everything, nor will he ever know everything. Yes, that is it, in layman’s terms. To only know 20 things… I have mixed feelings. My desire for knowledge overpowers me, but if I strip myself of desire, what do I become? Divine? I’m hardly fit to be divine. I’m thinking far too deeply. I think when I am excited. Nothing to be excited about yet. Don’t know what will happen.

Now giddy, the greasy fingers train themselves on the keys, and begin typing, as if orchestrating a symphony. A simple expression of interest is all that is needed to begin the transaction of goods. My expression of interest; ‘I’m interested.’ No second-guessing – my finger presses down on the ‘enter’ key.

You've done it now, Barney. Now, to wait for a response. 12:06AM. Still 12:06AM. Obsessively looking at the clock -- when in anticipation, the time does seem to slow down, does it not? Time moving slower... yes, it's a familiar feeling. When in that shrink's office. Obsessively looking at the clock. A second, a minute. Both bore resemblance to each other.

But you really tried, Clanton. You tried to let it help you. She was a nice girl, her words were elegant, she was pretty. But to you, nothing more. Nothing more than elegant, were her words. They didn't resonate. Yes, she was pretty, but her wide, pretty eyes only bore witness to your human flesh. To your soul, to me, they were otherwise blind. What mattered to her were your words. She moulded her advice to fit your words, what you told her. You are an eloquent speaker as well, Barney. But you cannot speak for me. I don't let you.

But there was a moment - and only a moment - where you could have changed. Your self-wallowing could have come to an end. When was it? No, you're asking the wrong question. It wasn't a moment in time. It was a moment in your ever-deteriorating mental state, a moment when you had exactly the amount of willpower to change, and the desire to do it. You have become a man of inaction, however, so the opportunity came and went. You were always a man of inaction, in fact. You were not different when your father was alive, you just had him around to clean up your messes. You had no one else to turn to after his departure, and //that's// what hit you the hardest, isn't it? That you're a hopeless, dependent man who cannot help himself, no matter how desperately hard he tries?

Perhaps I could've been of more help. Perhaps there were moments where I could've intervened. But too late now, the decision has been made. You have tried to help yourself in the ways that you knew how, and now, I must help you in the only way I know how.

12:07AM now. A notification already?

> my bitcoin wallet is bc1Fc79uP092mf0nWRnW82oamcpPo092m. send me the address. i'll ship the product as soon as i receive the payment. should arrive tomorrow morning.

------

And thus, from yesterday’s perspective, it was tomorrow morning, and there lay the parcel, outside the gentleman’s front door. The doorbell was extra loud this morning, for Barney spent his sleeping hours on the living room couch, in much closer proximity to the front door than his unmade bed. Unmade or not, it will not matter in due time.

Eagerly, Clanton lifts his plump body off of the couch by use of his feet, his tainted, human feet, then motions towards the door, with intention of opening it. Does so. Then, with knees bent, grabs the parcel – lighter than expected – and ambles back inside the house.

Now, seated on the couch, opens the parcel. With cautious hesitance; our Barney is no fool. Then, inside, a knife is revealed to Barney’s eager eyes. Now, not so eager. Confused, maybe. On the handle, engraved, a sigil of unidentifiable origin. Norse, perhaps? I don’t pretend to be familiar with such things. A handwritten instruction card, on which is printed;

> you know what to do
> the dermis is a barrier

Just what the hell is this? An encouragement to deglove myself? This is revoltingly grotesque!

Deglove yourself? No… not yourself. Your incompatible physical form? The one who is responsible for everything that has happened to you? That is who you are degloving. Don’t you see? This is a more poetic ending than I ever could have imagined. The pain you will feel… and then, metamorphosis. No pain, ever again.

Conflicting thoughts. Physical pain is a crutch, an obstacle; this thought fights for dominance. Perhaps it is the sunk cost fallacy… the amount of money I spent means that this must be worth it. No, not just the money. The years I have spent. The grief that ruined me. Stupid, stupid human emotions, how they have betrayed me. This body, how it has betrayed me. Today, this morning, this Friday morning in August, will be the very time the world will see me in my truest form. Barney Clanton? I have no need for such insignificant worldly attachments such as a name.

Instinctively, I, through Barney, plunge the knife deep into the skin of his, my, left forearm. A sudden surge of blood – yes, I have burst a vessel, to be certain. Oh, Barney. You old so-and-so. As if from a hose, the blood sprays vindictively, on a mission to cover the room wall-to-wall. I’d like it that way, so as not to look at the regretful state of my house on my way out. The stinging pain in my forearm, still not entirely registered in my brain, a mere attachment that grounds me to the world that was designed for everybody but me. Split the casing. Let me through.

Quickly, I grab the knife with my non-dominant hand, and stab my right fore-arm as well, this time making sure to drag the knife along the length of my fore-arm to make the process quicker. This time, it hurts. Barney's skin splits like wet paper, each layer of skin providing slightly more resistance than the last. The blood rushes from two sources now, and the pain is enough to blind a horse. Like a child, I cry. First, I cry from pain. Then, from joy. Elation, perhaps. I have achieved what I needed to achieve.

Starting at the wing of the left eyebrow, I trace a diagonal line across my face with the knife, proceeding first across my open eye – surely the hardest part – then across the bridge of my nose, and finally the right corner of my lips. Now blinded in one eye, I struggle to perceive depth. No bother. Diagonal line, other way now! Gently across the face this time, so as not to burst the eyeball so dramatically as last time. There we go. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Blinded by my eyes and my pain, I force myself to make one last incision, horizontally across my outstretched neck. Smoothly, it rips straight open, giving way to a new projectile stream of thick, red liquid – as far as I can tell, at least! A few more seconds of this, and then, as promised-

Finally, I am overcome with a new feeling, a feeling of floating. Not in empty space, no. In liquid, as if I were a fetus waiting to be born. I move my arms and legs freely, noticing that I no longer feel as though I am in my living room. I hear nothing, either. Only the strained, suffering gurgling of my human host. Then, a feeling as if I am surfacing in a pool. I find a soft wall, with a wide slit cut lengthwise, easy for me to fit my arm through. Assuming that this is Barney’s right arm, I position my left to align with his, and my face to align with his face too. After some pushing and pulling, I finally eject myself from Barney Clanton. I am finally me.

Once again blessed with the gift of vision – a vision that has been considerably enhanced, mind you – I take a moment to admire myself. I look down at my new body. Hardly perceptible. Hardly human. But more importantly – I feel different. My head, it feels emptier. Less burdened. Yes, that’s it, stripped of desire! But of course, how fitting it is that when I had desire, I did not desire to be rid of it! What a fool Barney was. I wish to go outside, I wish to bless people with my new form.

Barney was a self-indulgent man, that much is very certain. In his own laziness he relished, to his own inaction he surrendered. To me, eventually he surrendered, but with much resistance. I first tickled his brain, occasionally, to tease the old fool. At first, I tickled him with thoughts. More and more, I revealed myself to be what I truly am, a force of nature confined to a haphazard byproduct of nature, the human body. Then, I was not ignorable. Can you blame me? After years of watching the man continue in a never-ending downward spiral of regret, self-loathing and hoping that by some miracle, a divine purpose would befit him to explain away all his suffering, I couldn't not assist him - we had a mutual self-interest, after all.

All that Barney was, I am not. All that Barney was not, I am. Truly, a one-of-a-kind miracle. If I was capable of crying for joy, I might just. No longer bound by my past. Shackles, that is what the past is. Memory, a burden. Sloth, a curse, not a sin. No matter if Clanton was responsible or not. Nothing matters now. Nothing matters. Nothing. I am finally free! Free, I say! Free!

Bursting open the front door and expecting to see my humble street corner, I instead see a semi-circle formation of uniformed, armed officers, surrounding my front door, fingers trained on the triggers of their firearms. Before I can speak, they open fire.

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Barney Clanton, and A Lesson in Futility

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