4 feet 11 inches tall 2.1 | fucking felled by torpor

"I could not move for damn pygmies. Down there deepthroating dick in the tall grass." - ib

Jody the Hat did not care for pygmies, aboriginals, straights or queers. 
     Jody the Hat was a suit for hire.
     He dressed conservatively. Did not say much. Held no opinions on politics or the weather.
     The only thing which moved him was dub. It flowed through him as the CT sickness stalks the interior. Dividing cabals. Twins. Seeding in the blood like the cargo of a fruit fly.
     The sky was a peculiar shade on the bruised side. Puce as a failing liver.
     The back of the Hat's neck was spotted before the deluge. It rode above the collar of his shirt like a mildewed fire hydrant. The reels kept jamming on the spool. The gears kept laddering his hose.
     There is no better operator east of Port Moresby, and if there is he's long since drowned.
     In the rain, the rain, the rain.
     To be specific, the indigenous peoples eschew dub, but he goes at it regardless. The continual threat of blow dart is an occupational hazard. One builds a resistance to Curare. Over time, the resultant weakness of the skeletal muscles promotes a vaguely pleasant torpor. The thing to do is just keep moving. Ignore the almost overwhelming urge to buckle at the knees.
     Or unbuckle one's breeches and squat down to shit.
     The mission to bring dub to the aboriginals, to bludgeon fibre cabling into submission, is not to be sneezed at. Most of them are hooked on the Central Transmitter. It is a joyless, unenviable, thankless task.
     Many are so addled they are past assisting.
     Only yesterday morning the Hat came across an entire herd of them. Lamont T. Shady's orphan children.
     Plumbed straight into the mainframe, configured head to toe.
     Sprawled out like epileptics kicking.
     The Hat stomps on limbs. Tiny wrists. He obliterates maybe fifteen players, on and off the wire, but of course it's too late. One of them has overdosed on a Pono. God knows where she got it from. The device is jammed on its highest setting, the purest reading he has stumbled on yet.
     93.6% grade A Radiohead. Enough to fell a young elephant.
     The Celtic pygmies, like their Pictish forebears, are a simple people. While it is true they abandoned the practice of painting their faces blue centuries ago, really there was never any need for it. 
     The weather is so cruel here that their genetically pallid hides are given to that colour regardless. 
     Dusted with freckles, crowned with plumes of blazing orange and red, they naturally gravitate to building huge bonfires. Around which they collectively dance. 
     The Ministry soon adopts the practice of employing airdrops over the region. The rapid deployment of industry approved drones.
     Jody the Hat does not dance. Not with Ivor. Not with Auntie.
     Of course, executives from the Central Transmitter Tweet that they are merely supplying demand. Such activities are perfectly legal. Inhale, and it is immediately apparent that they are bent on fostering addiction. Here, in the most remote parts of the highlands, as elsewhere.
     So starved are they for diversity of diet, they will gladly consume the most unpalatable swill.
     At first it was Zunes. Preloaded with The Nashville Eleven. Beyoncé.
     Jody the Hat merely shakes out his pants. Adjusts the crease accordingly.
     A few of the natives are thereafter spotted several miles outwith their natural territories. It's understood they have woven cowboy hats out of the forest vines which proliferate.
     Where some are given over to the primitive theatre of line dancing, others, still, appear to be gyrating most salaciously.
      If one has ever heard a jig and reel one will understand their susceptibility to the crudest intrigues of chicanery. Much like the native American Indian, they are predisposed to all forms of mental illness. Predominately depression. Small wonder, in fact, they invented the very firewater which did for a tribal nation what General Custer could not.
     A short while later, they graduate to 2nd Generation Nanos laced with CT approved Bitrate effluent. Beethoven. Coldplay. Diluted Techno and Acid House at 192 KBPS. The effects on the ground are devastating.
    The cure is basic but may require several "shots" to achieve the intended result. Utilizing those extreme frequencies found in dub, we at the same time tap into HBL activity as dispensing with the need to court the earbud.
    As the needle courts the vein.
    We go in direct and like a cauterizing iron eradicate, or overwrite, the cellular damage caused by low-end interference. Where the casual user exposes himself to infection, we seek to tattoo over underlying distortion.
    DYB, DYB, DYB. DOB, DOB, DOB.
    Dub, motherfucker. Dub. Kit Carson is a long time dead.
    Decant a ribbon of glass beads and out of holes they come scrabbling.
    Jody the Hat does not care for pygmies, aboriginals, straights or queers. Jody the Hat does not care for family. In his younger years, it's true, he favoured the blackjack in tight spaces. He even auditioned for the goon squad. Jail time cured him of that vanity. Jody the Hat does not care for warrants. Supreme court subpoenas. Jody the Hat does not care for anything save deep, righteous dub.