Cell U.R. Tales from the Script

By Mark Plimsoll

A love story of our future as human cell-phones, a multi-media comedic satire of everything you love about B Movies and black-and-white thinking mixed with tomorrow's science and technology. A male Metroplexual loves two women; the belly-dancing Gypsy fortune teller Vampire Elvirus, and a SuperUser's beautiful, Wiccan, earth-mother daughter Louise, in the DevaState. Intelligent design evolves!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Plimsoll
• Release date: Feb 27, 2010
• ISBN: 9780976779551

Mark Plimsoll

His college professors said "Young people have little of importance to say. Go live life, explore, ask questions, before you try to create art." Mr. Plimsoll dove into Latin America (and learned Spanish - his favorite author received the 2010 Nobel Prize for Literature) and interprets the complexities of distinct worldviews, linguistic and personal. He has written two memoirs, “WMD Machete- A Global Citizen's coming of age in a Forgotten Earthquake that Killed Twenty-two Thousand,” and “Havana Ball- North American Philanthropy in Culture Clash.”He also wrote the novel “Godless Goddess, a Wiccan Adventure in Hawaii.” In 2009, he wrote, performed, produced, and published a CD-ROM musical multimedia audiobook, or radiodrama, titled “Cell U.R.” about the future of humanity with nanotechnology cell-phone implants in twenty-three half-hour podcasts.Recently, he published “Cell U.R. Tales from the Script” in book form, the script plus lyrics to the podcasts.

Book preview

Cell U.R. Tales from the Script

by Mark Plimsoll

Original, Unabridged, Uncensored!

A 'more-than-complete' novel, the script plus lyrics, to the twenty-three half-hour Podcasts (audiodrama), over nine hours of a Gothic Sci-Fi Vampire Musical Comedy Romance.

Written, performed, and produced by

Mark Plimsoll III

The Futurist's complete script, with song lyrics, to the CD-ROM containing the twenty-three half-hour podcasts of a future that resembles now, and

Forevermore !

Copyright information:

Smashwords Edition

Published by Mark Plimsoll, LLC at Smashwords

The Book Version Cell U.R. Tales from the Script

Of Mark Plimsoll's audiodrama,

"Cell U.R.

The Gothic Sci-Fi Vampire

Romantic Comedy Multimedia Audiodrama"

Twenty-three .mp3 half-hour Podcasts,

Written, performed, and produced by Mark Plimsoll III

eBook ISBN EAN 9780976779551

Copyright © 2009 by Mark Plimsoll

All rights reserved.

Permissions for copying, in whole or in part,

or contracts for production of derivative works,

and all other legal arrangements or entanglements,

must be made between the principals and Mark Plimsoll, LLC.

Contact information available through the publisher,

or go to www.markplimsoll.com

This book is also available as a printed book.

Go to www.markplimsoll.com for details.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Mark Plimsoll's

Cell U.R. Tales from the Script

Table Of Contents

(podcast 1) Meeting The Vampire

(podcast 2) To become Adulterated

(podcast 3) Life Ghouls

(podcast 4) Spaceship Rambler

(podcast 5) Carjacked

(podcast 6) She Bites

(podcast 7) The WILDING

(podcast 8) DevaCops

(podcast 9) Muck People Fertility Rites

(podcast 10) Loosing Virginities

(podcast 11) Fiancé's Seductive Mother

(podcast 12) Wiccan Solstice Orgy

(podcast 13) Barebacking Vampires

(podcast 14) In Trouble

(podcast 15) Love Dolls in War

(podcast 16) I, Pornstar

(podcast 17) Christopheles Rex

(podcast 18) The Pleasure Coma

(podcast 19) Consexual Scent

(podcast 20) Lost In Foam and Uncoupled

(podcast 21) Gangbang

(podcast 22) Dis Funk Shun

(podcast 23) Blood Cuddling

(podcast 1) Meeting The Vampire

The two men I just met squatted in the rain to fix my Transporter, right where it fell on its plexi-bubble side in the mud. When they finished, they wiped off their hands, and stood up to talk to me.

All done, good as new. No more walking for you.

Thanks a million. How much do I owe you?

Nothing.

I mean, how many work credits do you charge? It can't cost nothing.

Well, truth is sport, we came here to meet you. This didn't happen on accident.

It happened on purpose?

You find a note from a stranger in your apartment this morning?

How did you know?

I hope you memorized it, and take its advice. We're going to introduce you to someone.

Some body.

They laughed, put their arms around my shoulder and hands on my neck, and tried to forcibly walk me down this muddy village road towards a lone shack that looked sealed up and abandoned.

Hey, wait a minute. Where are you taking me?

They held my fat arms behind my back. They pulled my hair to raise my face up toward the rainy sky. The rain blinded me.

Don't even think about calling for help.

They both wore black, Gothic Biker clothing, but with a silver jewelry and strange designs that reminded me of bat wings and spider webs. Hats covered their hair, and their faces remained screwed up into enraged sneers and they strained their voices to hide their identities from my Nanorecorder.

Do you know what this is? The one with an oozy scar across his eyebrow lifted up a handful of black metal like a grenade covered with suction cups. Talk to me, beautiful. Or we'll cut it out of your lard.

I don't know.

Let me educate you then. They pulled my arms tighter behind my back whenever I tried to move. "We call it a Pingest, you as in Ping, Pinger, Pingest. It's the reason you can't get a response from the Central Server.

Yeah, the skinny one blurbled through a mouth missing teeth. Your transponder must make some response to each and every ping, and the Pingest never stops. So your transponder won't listen to you until we turn it off.

What do you want from me.

We want to introduce you to a girl.

Laughter. Sound good, Fat Boy?

They pushed and pulled me across that slimy road, through mud puddles and across the stream of filth that ran down the middle. My feet sank ankle deep in the sucking mud.

When their own slips and lost footing distracted them, I tried to break free.

I got one arm free and clawed at the one good eye in his wounded face.

He screamed and slipped away, so I whirled around and lifted the skinny guy off the ground. His grip slipped off my wet sleeve, and I tried to make a run for it.

Lightning with the great crack of nearby thunder lit the street silver for over a second, and seemed to immobilize the big raindrops to float an instant in space.

My feet slipped on the mud as I tried to run, so I yelled Awaken! Pipe up! Pipe up! Request Connection to CSS!

I heard them laugh on both sides of me, running easily on the drier parts of the road. They mocked me in women's voices Awaken, darling. Pipe up, pipe up, connect me to CSS. I'm in very big trouble, and they're gonna kill me if I don't shut up SO SHUT UP YOU FAT IDIOT. They tripped me with a kick to my trailing leg, and I fell sideways in the mud. Now look what you've done, and we wanted to introduce you to a girl.

The wounded one kicked me in the side. What a fat piece of shit. I can't even hurt him. He kicked me again and again, until he kicked me just under the middle of my chest, and I couldn't breathe. I thought I would die, and maybe I passed out for a bit.

They helped me to my feet and grabbed my forearms to bend my wrist into a painful position and so guide me across and up the road. We stopped in front of a heavy wooden door with huge bronze-age hinges.

Where are you taking me, a dungeon?

Oh no, this is where we show you how to liberate your soul for all eternity. They laughed, sounded metallic, like crows.

The door swung open and we walked into a dark room that smelled like a horse stable. I went to a horse stable in grade school, and I remember puking that first time.

Now what? I said.

Now, we wait. Wound-face held up the grenade of suction cups. Until we've exhausted your transponder, just in case.

What's this about a girl?

Shut up. You'll see soon enough, and have all eternity to think about it.

After a while, I heard a weak beep in my ear. I hear a sound.

A little sound, from within your own ear? We hear it too. It usually means you're dying. This time, it means that this Pinger has exhausted the energy reserves of our internal Transponders. Without a reserve of energy from our own body's ATP, it can mean you're starving and close to death. To us, it sounds like liberation.

The door opened, and I squinted against the light of a rainy day to see the silhouette of a medium height person with long hair. A coat like a cape hung and dripped water. A female voice asked us Transponders down?

Yes.

"Yes.'

She came close, and as she walked, took off the cape and handed it to the skinny man who observed her full figure with obvious delight. She ignored him and stared at me. Underneath the cape, she wore little; a tight black leather miniskirt, black knee boots, and a black bra of two wide belts that crossed at her collar bone and encircled the back of her neck. Her wet long hair clung to her head and fell to trace a spider web of arabesques, black filaments of Celtic designs, on her bluish tan skin. She wore large hoop earrings, and an amulet like a giant crab that rode upon the biggest breasts I ever saw.

She smiled and stretched her black lipstick across her silvered teeth. You used to like conspiracies, didn't you? Don't bother to lie, we read the record of your googles.

So what? Does that make me a terrorist?

Not yet. We're the terrorists. We want you to be afraid. Fear makes men loyal, and makes women obey. She leaned down close to me. I smelled her perfume, like funeral flowers. Nothing can make a woman loyal. Look into my eyes.

I did. They look like a cat's. Must of cost you a thousand work credits.

Sassy boy. I am so very sure you are correct, but mistaken. Look again.

In this dim light, I could make out how each of her eye's irises changed shape. They widened like curtains pulled apart from the middle until they both became round as a garter snake's. She smiled and held her lips pulled back.

I watched as her canines grew into fangs.

My heart started to race, and I tried to control myself, my breathing, to seem relaxed. I said Nanotechnology can do almost anything these days. All the girls have adjustable boobs.

She stood up with a hiss of anger. This time, it's for real. She put her foot in my groin and threatened to give it weight.

I struggled to get free, to scoot away on the chair.

The men tightened their grip and bent my wrists. The pain convinced me to sit still.

That's so much better, she cooed, and gently moved her foot against my groin. You read the note I left in your apartment?

That was you?

Certainly wasn't that poor robot you mistreated so badly.

You mean your antennae. When I get home I'm gonna microwave it.

Do what you like with it, it served our purpose. I don't know why so many people suddenly take an interest in a little piss-ant like you, and you panic out in the street. Make a big show, lucky no one saw us in the rain. We need you to do one more thing, a simple thing, a very little tiny thing, nothing really, and this time, I hope you listen, and listen good. The next time you see us, pipe down and make no sound. Do not ping anybody, do not turn on your recorders. We will ping you, and you must make no reaction at all. Afterwards, if all goes well land you're interested, I will explain things to you.

Why not now?

Because I do not know what they want. Not yet, but I plan to find out. I work for hire, sometimes, when I'm not busy. If you want to see me more of me, ping me sometime, some night when you're not too busy with your robots. I hate exhausted young men.

Can ICQ sometime?

She put her foot back on the ground and stepped back into the gloom. Sure. Turn on your Talisman, offline.

I pulled it out from under my shirt and said Talisman, offline mode.

The screen lit up and flashed Welcome Offline.

She aimed her Amulet at it, and said Beam business card.

(Song Vampire Strut, © 2009 Mark Plimsoll, Mark Plimsoll LLC. Written, performed, and produced by Mark Plimsoll )

I watched my screen, and her business card faded in with a glitter-text title that said

Vampire Elvirus, Fortune Teller, Tattoo Artist, Exotic Dancer, Escort for Hire, and Queen of your fantasies.

So her name's Elvirus. I would ping the Central Server about her later. The lighted image revealed her as a beautiful, exotic woman with high cheek bones, tan skin, and deep violet eyes. Then she smiled, and the fangs came out, and the camera panned down across her naked body as she fondled her breasts with the learned expertise of the human female's instinctual exhibitionism. She beamed me the trailer of a pornstar.

(podcast 2) To become Adulterated

I got back to my apartment late that night, exhausted from my adventure, being kidnapped by those two men who introduced me to that gorgeous Vampire Pornstar.

I decided to review the day's events, since the morning, so I called up my internal transponder's help system to review everything I'd recorded to refresh my memories.

Nano, pipe up.

Good evening. You are exhausted, Gnathal. Go to bed.

I want to review the day's events.

Tell me what you remember, and I will interrupt to fill in your nano-recordings, and we can record everything for your permanent record.

"Perfect. I remember I woke up to a dark and stormy day in the Metroplex. My apartment lights, already lit by the Central Server Salvador as programmed, hurt my eyes. What a night, I couldn't remember what drugs I mixed for my night-off with the Playgirl Trainer ® model 69 that remained on the couch, bent into a butt-up pretzel. Whatever we did together after our evening of dancing and chit-chat must have drained its batteries. I picked it up and threw it near the outlet for a convenient recharge whenever I might get around to wiping her off. What a mess. Looked like she received several loads of fun-spunk, even if I couldn't remember it.

Gnathal, let me replay a segment from this morning.

My internal Nanoplant's Momvox whispered in my ear in a decent imitation of my Foster Mom. She said Good morning. How did you sleep last night? Are you ready for some breakfast?

Why do you always ask how I slept last night? You think I know how I slept? I was unconscious.

Be nice. I'm only responding as programmed.

Well, erase that program. I want hot pizza for breakfast, and a bowl of ice cream. When am I scheduled for my coming of age? I'm bored with Playgirl model 69 Registered Trademark.

As a mere Beta-boy, your Activation cannot proceed until you learn to treat her like a human being. Such foul language. And you really need to lose weight. A lot of weight. You almost killed the poor thing.

It's not like she's a human being.

My Nanoplant's Dadvox cut in. Neither are you, not yet. Because of last night, your empathy index fell to almost zero. You're barely above a sixteen-year old soldier. Shall I reserve you a berth in the barracks, so you can be around others like yourself?

I hated that Memorex ® version of my FosterDad. For some reason, the CSS used it to represent angered authority. OK, message received. I'll study more, get good grades, do my chores, get to work on time, keep me and my things clean, and work on my humanities, as you ordered.

We at Central Server Salvador cannot order free human beings. But we can suggest that you follow our advice. Perhaps you might like to experience the multi-media version of Men are Martian, Women Venusians © or The First Day of the Work of Your Life © which I can download for less that twenty-five work units.

Ad-off. First day of the Work Of My Life © my ass. What work details do you have for me?

We would like you to survey the performance of Civic Work Crew on Main Effluence Tributary Nine.

Sounds lovely. When?

"You're already two hours late.'

Why didn't you wake me?

Momvox answered. You really outdid yourself last night, lowered your vitals quite a bit. You left your Nanoscanners and the nano-mike activated, so anytime you want to relive your four hours of drug-induced sexual depravity, let me know. I suggest you erase it though. Nothing to be proud of.

I heard my own nan-recorded voice say Pipe Down. and then the nanoVox said Good-bye.

I told the drapes to open so I could check out the darkness index, and looked out into a black rain-streaked mirror that showed me my future, a reflection of my melted, disheveled visage, as if I chose not to rejuvenate and go for natural aging. Too young to think about that now.

As I stepped into the Raver ® shower stall, it thundered to life and drenched me with a swirl of foam. The Nanovox started to spout some high-volume Muzak, made my headache throb.

Pipe down, I said, under my breath.

The Nanoplant's Compositevox said goodbye and faded away with that little disappointed puppy-dog whine designed to make me feel guilty for this disconnection from the Internet.

I thought about how I might treat a real flesh-and-blood girl. Flesh and bone? Flesh and body better. Skinny girls no longer attracted me. Last week, I googled the Central Server Salvador about it, and received over four thousand hits that condensed to some rot about a male's preference for full bodied females as evidence of maturation into child-bearing years, whatever that means.

The shower stall tried to masturbate me, but I commanded it to stop. Last night's activities left me raw.

After I dressed for work, a folded piece of Red-glo paper on the desk attracted my attention.

It stuck a little to the desktop, like a sticky note. I turned it over. It carried the word PIPE DOWN across both sides, scrawled in big bold letters and not in my handwriting.

I said Pipe down again, and heard no response. I took it into the walk-in closet and dimmed the lights for the outside chance my Nanoscanner's remained active and recording, even if unconnected.

I recalled the identifying marks of the Conspiracy Theorists, the paranoia evident in their podcasts, where people shout about everyone's right to permanence and transparency as they resent that the Central Server Salvador knows all, sees all, and controls all. In their eyes, that adds up to our future unhappiness.

I opened it up and read.

Destroy this note after you read it in the mirror.

I went into the bathroom, dimmed those lights as dark as I could and still make out the letters. The theory is that when you look into a mirror, the Nanoscanner's recorders will reverse the image again, so the optical character recognition won't work as well. I didn't believe that for a nanosecond. It wouldn't take many processor cycles to catch on to that ruse.

The note went on:

You have come to our attention and we need to talk. Do not feel endangered. Today, something unusual will happen to you. When it happens, REMEMBER TO PIPE DOWN without alerting the Central Server or using your internal recorders. React normally, without resistance or violence of any kind. Think of it as a test. We hold no affiliation with the CSS, which means you cannot stay away from us through use of supervisory personnel or normal civilian resources. We are sorry for the inconvenience. If all goes well, we will clear up this mystery, and become good friends.

We mean no one any harm.

Your New Friends

No affiliation with the CSS? Everyone, and everything associates with the Central Server Salvador, otherwise it wouldn't be central. How did this note get in here, and when?

Like most Beta-boys, I went through a period of incessant googles for conspiracies and anti-authoritarianism, and knew enough to debug my apartment occasionally.

The Playgirl ® model 69, as the only new suspicious acquisition, needed a thorough inspection. I found a couple of suspicious long hairs with a metallic luster that might serve as radio antennas for the antique clandestine radio frequencies, but without opening her up for a deeper electronic survey, an expertise which I do not have anyway, I couldn't proceed. I decided to regard her as a bug.

That might help explain the energy depletion. It's not like I kept my huge weight on top and demanded she exert herself, to judge from her final position. She probably sent radio signals that relayed to others my door codes, which thoughtlessly revealed during our silly relationship simulation. Playgirls, because they always ask for tokens of intimacy and trust, make great spies.

So after my sexcapades, last night I fell asleep exhausted, and someone used my door code to get in and leave me that cryptic note.

But why? Why would anyone go to all that trouble to sneak into my apartment to leave me this note, almost warning me about my kidnapping later that afternoon?

I couldn't be bothered with that now. I needed to record everything I remembered and mix it with the day's recorded memories.

"Nano, halt playback of earlier today. I just wanted to add here that I don't believe anything of importance happened as I dressed for work. As usual, I wanted to feel as good as a fat boy could before I lumbered off to the public transport system. So, as usual, I probably chanted to myself the motto of my generation.

Nano continue playback. I again heard my own voice from earlier today, as I left for work. Pipe-open. Nano, Play me the James Bond playlist.

(Song 007 Gunn, © 2009 Mark Plimsoll, Mark Plimsoll LLC. Written, performed, and produced by Mark Plimsoll

I remember feeling like James Bond with his Peter Gunn, shaken but not stirred, which I took to mean excited but not emotionally involved. I left for work with the vague notion this would be another Mission Impossible.

I stepped out into the empty hall of doors and the carpet carried me to the descendor. I stepped out on floor Zero and felt the big fans blow the perfumes of the rainy Metroplex through the garage. A public transporter, alerted by my internal responder as I stepped through the doorway, whirred up and stopped to pick me up.

I closed the clear plastic bubble windshield over my head, and said Main Effluence Tributary Nine and it carried me out into the rain.

On my talisman, I could see the recorded images of the Metroplex streets, where the darkness index hovered around seven, which meant the long strings of streetlights glowed feeble, warming up for a night that wouldn't arrive for another eight hours.

My public transporter merged smoothly with the commuter train, coupled, and I opened both ends to get out and walk around, to socialize with acquaintances and ping a couple of lovelies as an investment for my future Activation.

The girls looked monotonously the same; their nano-implant swelled bosoms conformed to this Spring season's style mandate from the NYC fashion fags. The jockoboys on steroids or Nanoswells strutted around these chickybabes and everyone laughed and beamed each other personal data, messages, and shared media files.

I used to do that too, but tended to group with other Obesoids like myself, until Duncan described me as a different sort of person, and proved it with a statistical analysis of my profile which said I should seek out non-conformists, intellectuals, artists, writers, criminals. This year, the non-style chickees wore black prudish clothing with silver jewelry, dyed their hair black, used black lipstick, pierced themselves, bought permanent tattoos to prove their commitment and separate themselves from the poseurs, and acted bored and negative about everything, as they had for the past five decades.

I felt like talking to someone, so I told my Nano-implant to Ping Duncan.

My Nano-implant turned down the Bond music, and said Duncan remains offline.

Ping with friend identifier.

Gnathal? the Nanovox whispered in my ear with Duncan's voice. GPS reports your location not seven transporters from me. Is this true?

En route to Main Effluence Tributary Nine. Correct?

Affirmative. Let's meet and pipe down together. I've got a jolly good spot of news for you, my man.

Affirmative.

Duncan talked with sort of an English-Australian accent. Around seven years of age he learned that people consider it classy so used a Brit set of Nanovoxes, signed up for lessons, and made it his own. He claims either low class Brit or rural Australian works, it didn't matter. People treat him differently, he says. Like he had class.

The Surface Commuter merged into the Subway, and as we entered the tunnel, the sound of the rain faded into a warm vibration of silence.

Duncan and I found an empty Transporter, and piped down together.

Gnathal, I'm a man.

Why should I care? You think I'm homosexual or something?

No, you don't understand. I'm Activated. I've come of age.

Since when?

Last week. Last night, I had me first real bird.

How?

We only rubbed down in a couple of positions. Not enough time, your know?

I don't mean positions. How did you convince them to Activate you?

Oh that, that's the easy part. I never got beyond Playgirl Missionary®, and I earned Activation. It's much harder with a real wench, wot.

So tell me how to earn Activation. Hey, why should I believe you?

'Lift your talisman, and let me beam you just a smidgeon of what I managed to record with me old Nanobuggies. You want it with sound? Better not. Don't want you walkin' around with a woody, now do we? And I'm gonna beam it to you with autodestruct after one view. Don't want you wanking to my chickee."

Our beams connected, and in a few seconds I saw, across the palm-size screen of my Talisman, a fairly ordinary girl with her face all screwed up like tortured or something. Lasted about thirty seconds, obviously a greatest hits cutout.

Got any more?

Found another Paris Hilton sex-tape video. Beam it to you?

She made so many they should call her Motel 6®. How did you get Activated?

"Easy. We've only go five Subway minutes left, so I'll be brief. Because of all me interest in Old World British stuff, I gathered how to treat a bitch, milady and all that rot. I simply arranged these wonderful evenings, a meal and entertainment, to woo her. Once in the bedroom, you spend all your time licking the dish until she begs