Down on Freestreet

Note: This is a music related short story that I wrote a few years back that I figured a few of you might enjoy....Down on Free StreetThese streets we walk upon: 6 feet down, 8 miles high, pure revolution. The Bright New World’s digitally dark armaghetto, Illuminated, by sterilizing glare of fluorescence from antiquated cut-rate neon lights. Free Street, down where the freaks meet. In the shadows lurks one of the last remaining portals in the Kiosk system. The Kiosk system an ancient temple to the freedom of expression a by gone techno fad its rotting fiber optics now abandoned and in disrepair. Its inventor intended it to provide a paperless community bulletin board. You scanned your flier-- garage sales, missing dogs, gigs for local bands, all that phone pole stuff -- and it was put into the rotating slide show with other fliers. Your notice, piece or art, or statements flashed across kiosk portals in your desired range and radius. That was intent of the kiosks. A way to bridge the digital divide to help connect the world. First it was used by art freaks with too much time on their hands and the funds of government education programs. Then the musicians got into it, with not only their fliers, but their audio clips, and their video feeds, promising Hi Energy shakin’ action on the streets of dreams. The system boom tubed and flourished, making money for it’s inventors and then came the bust as the system was co-opted by corporate ‘street teams’ pimping faux thrills and watered down rebellions. Neutering the system until it hit the level power of impotence of TV, Radio and other Mass Media.Stiv voted to destroy the device. Destruction always leaves an impression, but for how long? Frankie voted for rehab. Modify, reshape and reorient the target kiosk. Make it part of the artistic rebirth of Free Street. The rebirth that at this point was of course mainly in Frankie’s mind.There were questions about the Kiosk of question. The kiosk was one of the oldest still in the system. Or was it still in the system? When was the last time that anyone had seen a flier from Free Street was seen in the system? The biggest question was it hadn’t been pulled from service with the rest of the older models? Who cared about the system, as it limped along now displaying the fliers of a few crazed cultists who clung to the system?Kan-Dice bore the best Idea. Misuse the kiosk. Vandalize it, and use it for that which it was intended. As a community posting place for messages. If they couldn't tap into its electronic Klean Khannel co-opted system, so just use the exterior. Old fashion methods of revolution often work best. A can Spray paint + stencil {can} = revolution, when used correctly.Revolutions take time, take visions, and take determination. Everything was at the ready. Kan-dice motioned her companions to assume their positions. She kneeled down; and applied the prepared stencil to the side of the kiosk. Bringing a small can of spray paint out of her coat, she quickly applied the metallic silver paint, to the dull dark exterior. They repeated their vandalism on the opposite side of the obelisk, this time using their stencil on a long dead viewer that faced to the west.They had discussed, debated, and argued the details of their graffiti. It had been decided to leave a message, not a symbol, or an icon. The message had to be something cryptic and comprehensible to the masses. Something, profound, but not pretentious. Something that mattered! Something that could spread, excite, puzzle, challenge and stimulate. Something, that could burn itself addictively, compulsively, and hauntingly into the exposed minds.It became the question of quotes. Many considered the classics, the pop culture, the political, the religious, and the obvious. All were rejected. God, Klinton the architect of the 96’ renaissance, and anything Tarintino just seemed to be the wrong spokesmen of this revolution. Of course their first though was to use the ‘Revolution Calling’ tag, the motto of their cell. Others rejected tags included: 'Give me convenience or give me death', ‘the oppressed liberated’, ‘a fool and his money are soon parted', ‘Who is Darkman?, ‘I want to be a Cowboy’ ‘We go where eagles dare’ 'what if god was one of us? '. None of them seemed right, none of them seemed right.They had settled on THE message. It was everything that they wanted, and in a magic way infinitely more. It was enigmatic, and evocative. It gave multiple references to the past, and questioned the present, all with a single simple message. Kan-Dice removed the stencil and stood. The three silently read the message to themselves. Nodding ready to each other, they walked and vanished into the night.The glare of the morning sunlight revealed the message remained. Untouched, Week after week. Months passed. The graffiti remained. Sub consciously burring its way in to the cerebral cortex of passerby’s. Nova kids, Interzone Agents, Poppin’ Snakes, cops, Teachers, Illegals, Astro-zombies, Crimson Skulls, Devil Locksmiths, Hookers, Kopiecops, Neon Boys, Andere the Giant Posse Members, Turbo AC's, Vice Dukes, Pimps, DJ’s, Janitors, security goons, junkies of all stripes. Web heads, Hi freaks, and the remaining denizens of Free Street, all absorbed the graffiti day in day out. It spread. Jokers and get-me-laid commies adopted it, punks, and my-folks-hate-it teens passed it on. Neighborhood to neighborhood, street by street, like a virus, it spread. For a time it was all over the place, and then, slowly it started to fade. The fad quotation had passed, it wasn’t cool any longer. The counter culture moved on to the next fad, this time a marketed ‘Hippie to be Squared’ tie dye mathamagic land deal rose up in the clan of hipsters on the Free Street scene. Of course several national brand names were involved. 3 years laterKan-dice, now known as Kandal Luiseberar, thought back to that initial message, where it was left, on a lonely Kiosk down on Free Street. So much and so little had changed. Her partners in the revolution had changed; her missions had grown from the initial acts of vandalism to her current mission a strike deep into the heart of the beast. From run from the Kopie Kop’s and a short jail jolt petty activism, to big league destruction watch list loss of life statement heard around the world.Kan-dice stepped off the mono-rail at the Klean Khannel Centro station. She was about to ascend into the palace of Ice as it was know in underground circles. She took the long cold tunnel under the highway, as she walked a line of graffiti on the wall caught her attention. She stepped back to see the word together and was shocked to see, scrawled across the length of the tunnel wall The Message. That message, which she and her two Specters had left so long ago. A dead end street, in a dead in place, on a seemingly dead kiosk. She smiled as she read the words. Indeed it was, unforgotten. With a new resolve, she adjusted her bag. She had slung it cross wise over her body holding it snug against her spine. Just a black and silver ballistic nylon messenger bag, like so many others carried into the gleaming spires of cooperate rot. Only I her case it contained a medium sized EMP- information killer Bomb. Her step renewed she headed for the Gates of Steel check point, the door way into Klean Khannel Centro. She paused in the door way and looked back, her brain screaming the message, her hands pulling out her mobile com/ent system. Behind her spelled out in large red letters were the words,'Do you Remember Rock'n'Roll Radio? 'Only now, someone had added his or her own punch line, ‘We want the Airwaves!’ emblazoned in gold 'Hey ho, let's go' she muttered under her breath, and vanished past those Gates of Steel and into the narthex of the complex.