Duncan as he invariably always is,is researching,and todays dirt digging is harp and the weaponization of sound, but more pressingly he has an ongoing audio problem the recording of that is,, from his internal mic which does not seem to pick up anything below a scream which makes attention seeking via the medium of a webcam difficult if not impossible> start menu- search= audio control panel internal mic,ACOUSTIC ECHO CANCELLATION(ECHO STOP)?,NOSIE CANCELLATION (PURE AUDIO)?, these two choices that lay before him ,might have been, he thought the answer to his sound saga which has gone on since his mummy a year ago, bought him this new fangled porn library where the books are never used long enough to be over due .
Although Cyber savvy Duncan rarely allowed himself to escape the fluffy prison that was go ogles home page everything he ever needed intellectually at the touch of button, this was "insanely clever people country",he thought, he was! the tourist.
But which one would he choose? , A or B? whilst he pondered his decision a radio from the back of the room filled the air with the dirge of a man loosely speaking that is, who is known by the alias James Morrison despite constant attempts by him to personally to hide the fact his real name is Mr twat, from twat head land.
the nauseating waffle that was washing over Duncan making him seethe with disgust that he had to listen to it, as the radio producing it was way way over the other side of the room making reaching it impossible he thought,impossible that is without least a days supply of food and water and some strong sturdy hiking boots he truly was a lazy bastard, he mused amused. the wave of shit was clouding his already lacking judgement, and so before plumping for the eeny Meany Minny mo, he cranked up all levels to infinity ,and then hit the echo cancellation tick box..... nothing.... no play back" well it must be the pure audio" in fact he smiled and said a knowing "of course" well pure audio sounded quite nice didn't it? you can imagine being bathed in pure sunshine choirs of angels sitting on pure white light producing melodies that make you orgasm or shit your self depending on your mood, pure audio indeed seemed the obvious choice.
The sound was fairly innocuous at first a pleasant shrill echoed for all of three and a half seconds until, "fucking hell, that's not normal that's definitely not normal" the shriek of pure white noise or whatever the term was for the excruciating all enveloping sonic blast which was being aimed directly at his reptilian brain.
He recoiled from the laptop unable to get more than one metre away from the Compaq's death throws, it had been a whole minute now and the sound was peeling away layers of Duncan's brain like a hairy Terry's chocolate orange, his D.N.A morphing into something else something unsubstantial, splitting into confetti around him and still the twat played on, ironically high above the pure noise wailing on about how curly his hair is and why he loves some tart he cant have, it transcended, it could be that maybe James Morrison's recordings were the very key to hyper dimensional travel, it seemed possible.Or maybe it was all some CIA mind fuck brainwashing technique to persuade him to murder the net JFK that comes along anytime you hear middle of the road twat bile.
and as an axe hits the laptop duncan hits the floor. t.b.c
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