Enema Through the Out Door: Transmigration for Ingrates
I got the Spacemummy kit in the mail. I had ordered it from the back of an underground sex comic called "Älska Bitta Mumie." It was manufactured by a company called Bjornix. It seemed a little sketchy. What do the Swedes know about mummification? But I figured, what the fuck, $19.99 to become a spacemummy, even if it doesn't work, the packaging alone would be worth it.
I was right about the box. The illustration was of a mummy firing a laser with a four-armed alien girl gripping him desperately about several different areas of his torso. But what about female spacemummies? I wondered if they were targeting my demographic a little too closely. But, hell, I could think of plenty of women, maybe not plenty, well, at least a couple and definitely one, who would do it.
Inside, I found a large mylar bag with a control box of some kind that led into a serial cable. At the other end of the bag was a wide plastic tube There was also a smudged, one page manual and a 3 and 1/4 inch floppy disk. "I guess I just hook this thing in to my computer. Better read the instructions first." They were difficult to decipher. It seemed to be in English, as if it was transcribed from voice recognition software and not corrected for errors. "Hmm. Know other parts kneaded. Put tube in toy letter trash can . Plays baddy India argon collector." Sounded like a boil-in-the-bag thing, like cooking a big turkey. "Lode zoftvare. Volvo instruct shoes and bingo spays mummeries."
I put the tube in a trash can, connected the cable to the computer and loaded the software, as instructed. The programmer's communication skills were marginally better, but the tone was a bit on the impatient side. Bitchy, even.
A dialogue box popped up in the middle of which was a yellow triangle with an exclamation mark inside. The following words chided me. "Get in the bag, stupid. Click OK when you've finally accomplished that.
"Oh, ok. Heh. Hope I don't suffocate like a baby with a drycleaning bag." First I took my clothes off, even though I wasn't instructed. I was wearing my favorite shirt, from the Maynard Krebbs collection, and didn't want to ruin it. I got in the bag. Fortunately the zipper had tabs on the inside too, so they had prepared for solitary nutjobs like me.
"Installation has detected preexisting bioware. The subject is either alive or has been mummified already. Would you like to delete this life and install another? You will not be able to reverse the effects once commenced."
"Sure, why not?" I hit OK.
"Place control box on top of head. You will begin to gastrolate in 5 seconds. Check screen for further instructions during the process."
Inside the bag, it was roomier than I thought. I could have had a friend or pet inside here with me. Maybe someone to make the afterlife easier for me. This was something to consider after metempsychosis. Then again, I never metempsychosis I didn't like.
The bag filled with fuzzy blue energy and clung to the surface of my body like cotton candy. Sitting in my chair in front of the computer, I twitched for awhile and then started convulsing gently like an epileptic coin operated horsey ride. I felt my bowels move inside me like I was going to take a big dump. Evidently, installation included belching and farting a string of intestinal fireworks. I wondered if this was my soul leaving my body. "Oh, Christ, what if I'm making a mistake?"
"Stand up." The screen told me. "Get the fuck out of the chair." I stood thinking the program wouldn't use foul language unless it was absolutely critical.
My lips began to recede from my mouth. My stomach rose in my throat depositing chips and chipotle salsa at my feet. Good thing I removed the threads. Fortunately, I was in no pain. The blue energy must have deadened my nerve endings. I felt ecstatic even.
My skin receded up my ass as my tongue flopped out of my mouth follwed by my entire digestive tract. It happened so quickly that I couldn't even register shock. What was on the inside was on the outside and vice versa. My guts twitched at my feet like squid turning to calamari. The tube made horrible noises and unmentionable goo drained into the trashcan.
The blue energy crackled across my naked musculature. The fat cooked off of me, just evaporating, melting and seeming to cure the muscles which themselves were shrinking and concentrating. Then I discovered what the extra room in the bag was for. My reversed skin with the hair on the inside jumped out of my mouth and stood on his hollow hands with his feet in my face till he collapsed from his own weight and lack of backbone. I didn't take that ironically.
I hacked up my lungs joyously. The lack of internal pressure caused my diaphram to push the rest of my organs out. Who knows how all that circulatory business got sorted out. It was just the sheer technological magic of it all.
Then I had a feeling you don't get very often in human form. I felt like a meat balloon, very light, and unencumbered by woe and the pressures of survival. But what about the psychologically disruptive and spiritually confusing journey through to the Other Side? I guess this was the wonder of living in these times. To be a Spacemummy, you didn't have to worry about that nonsense. Let the Rosicrucians puzzle over those mysteries.
"Place control box over nose." I did as it said and a tube probed up into my nose and sucked my brains out. There they went, what was supposed to be my whole world, the master controls, just slurped out like a jello shot. I hadn't needed those things at all. Felt fine without them. Better, in fact.
"Climb back into your skin. Place organs in canoptic urn of your choosing. Thanks for choosing Bjornix." I chose to leave it inside out because I like the way my hair felt on the inside. It also helped to fill out the spaces from having my fat cooked off and muscles shrunk. The bandages also help to keep the whole production together.
And that was it. I couldn't even puzzle over the mysteries of consciousness that it presents. So now that I'm a mummy, I wondered, how do I get out into space? I would have to solve this problem later. There's nothing more pathetic than a Spacemummy sitting around watching TV in a living room in Kansas.