I had been glyphed by a tattoo shaman, I

I had been glyphed by a tattoo shaman, I had nano prayer wheels in both arms, but those didn't keep people from dying. Earth had become an MMO with no logout and no regeneration. M

y home had never looked so ridiculous before.

It was so ridiculous to look at that the protagonist (Who shall rename nameless to protect his/her/its reputation) overted the eyes to avoid looking at it. Imagine a hamster maze

filled with ground beef and tangled in beige ethernet cables. The protagonist recoiled in horror at the sight of it and lost most of his/her/it's lunch. While he/she/it was looking

at some object or person, a second object or person performed some action that may or may not have affected the protagonist in some way. The protagonist said something witty and/or

provocative, and this was in turn reacted to by a second person. The protagonist then pondered some options and had to make a decision. A third person objected and some kind of

subplot branched off the main story-line. Was the third person the true protagonist? The other two wondered. "Third person does not explain itself to anyone ever," came the reply.

One year later, the narrative was not done. The third person allowed the protagonist time for snoozing between paragraphs. The subplot was hatched at that time. Meanwhile, the

younger version of me that just materialized on some Memphis street corner in August of 1969 with Marvin Gaye playing on the radio past that door and into the hairdressers shop was

disorienting, to say the least. Still, all the time travel wreaked havoc on my looks, so I plopped myself down in a chair for a fresh pompadour & smiled. I'd come full circle.