A SLAB, A MEET - THE CONDUCTED REDUNDANCY OF BANJO GYRO

In the netherworld recesses of a file sharing golden age, rose-tinted blue-light filtered chat-room glow auditing wonderment from a dial-up anarchy cult, a sideline evolutionary niche inadvertently delivered a petri dish breeding ground for the cracked brainiac to infiltrate fiberoptic saturation, unwittingly cognisant of any unrealised viral load. Grady Sain’s Banjo Gyro! is next gen, a summation of the infant chaos preceding, informed by wilful nothing, a vacuum artefact of slender and iconic uncanny zeal. Released at the gateway to the web’s pubescent swellings, it bypassed classification and has remained an abiding background presence, resurfacing to be appraised, praised, and reappraised, but mostly repurposed out of a context it was never adjusted enough to claim in any cyber subdivision of eschatology. Gleaned from a cultural bacterial soup as if psychically electrified by prophetic shoulder shrugs of ruin, every frame is a future haunted NFT. Purgatorial pangs of minimum wage slaves glide encoded slow food pastures, bulked up on additives rejected by big five pharma. Numbskull dumb waiter, slipstreaming atrophied thermacol containers, infected by tortured colour correction. The general aesthetic is served up to be: burger juice smeared screen. Pseudo-events gravitate heavily towards the sublimity of mundane employee sickness on the job. On the menu: fermented eyeballs, one yard stare.

THE PLAYERS

SAMMY: Our hero. First day on the job at a fast food stop of contrition. Every first day the same, grounding ground hogs into chilli dogs. Trapped in the sonic clutches of an infrasound mnemonic. Subject to unforeseen chilli dog tension. A life cycle order malfunction. Finds all tasks everywhere infused with low to high level panic.

BILL: Confusing guidance. On the look out for demons. Blondely sublimated soul warp. Itches to scratch The Riddle of the Griddle.

FINGER: Lost all discretion. Sent to the bathroom. Burns useless finger off in the fryer. Fails edentulous prospects in the regrowth of impertinent enamel. Go to the bathroom, Finger. 

THE PATRON: Embraces the demeanour of a pixelated anhedonia victim. Suspected to be demon adjacent. Spawns a delinquent clone urchin of collapsed stature. Indecent rictus grin. Doesn’t chew food properly (possible cause of indecent rictus grin). Possesses loose change. Takes his demon ass finger to the bathroom. Pisses like a demon.

MISTER ROBERT: Boss man in boss vest. Vacation absent. Owns a voided stare procured during the absorption of a sad preying mantis’ exoskeleton. Returns to be awkward. Life is a series of special moments when he’s around. Emits the virtualised scent of the type of guy who festers lunch break plasma fractal dreams of being the first space tourist suicide bomber in space.

MAИƧ:

Heart of the house.

THE TEAMMATES: Supergroup conceived under the influence of deep fat fryer grease stink. Yet to congeal a direction. Potential for one member to OD on saccharine and borrowed ADHD meds is high.

Ported antinomy recalibrated by traversing defective jump cables, snafued everything in non-specific video definition. Involuntary bronchial doggerel carried on the sputum of genetically dead-ended adenoids. Too many gums. If only jitter induced seizures coaxed life lessons this deep, no way demons would be saphenously augmenting lameness. Marinated brain cell reasoning inherited from intranet clique OGs, succumbing to self-induced time lagged mass aneurysms, resulting in static and charismatic bandmates. Spontaneous on the job unauthorised back-kitchen occult shootings of shit, retroactively edited to engender the correct representation of Biblically accurate mouth breathing. Any departure from insensate nonsense is accidental. In the end, all is encapsulated in the toyetic potential leveraged by unconscious adherence to wasted summers doom strolling on rollerbladed skid marks. A wayward reminder that post demon crisis, release exists after work in formation parking lot psychokinetic gang warfare.

by Rebecca Gransden

Rebecca Gransden lives on an island. She is published at Tangerine Press, X-R-A-Y, Expat Press, Muskeg, and Ligeia, among others. Her books are anemogram., Rusticles, Sea of Glass, and Creepy Sheen.

©Image by Makinita