Superdy duper - mega massive chess game.

Screen shot of a massive chess game between two unknown masters.  I tried playing but there is no effective way to get mad and fling all the pieces off the board... so not my style at all.   Just give me a set of cheap plastic pieces and cardboard, way easier to throw on to the ground and stomp to smithereens, then wad up and burn.  

The value of Linear Enigmatical Parallel Sub-cognitive Preformation: chapter eleven synopsis.

Carefully evaluate and synthesize the inserted images and audio; then drink a large glass of water while holding a pencil, pen or an other wise thin elongated cylindrical object in between your canine's and premolar teeth.  Fill out question two through eight, then thoroughly erase your answers.  

DO NOT TURN PAGE.

Confounded unwanted map disrupts mental breakdown.

 Lucky sat in the shade of the mother rig, ignoring what Wade was saying, the usual. Trying not think about the other voice he had heard, or received, or sensed, or hallucinated (did I take any thing?), or could be his infection was hacked (unheard of), could be wide gamut perception (not supposed to gifted), or be it his other personalities finally breaking through, (never met them).  Then something unusual happened.  Uncalled for, the old map of his current location faded on, a graphic glowed in red; "'thermos plus pipeline equals hazard symbol'  what?, I've got to get out of here".

Map Off... Clear Cache

Sat up and looked down the row, a beam of humidity filtered light hit the thermos; a jittery white pro-misted polished stainless steel cylinder in the bottom right peripheral of his anamorphic visual field, cast flickering bright green flashes, burnt out to the point of clipping the bottom of the leaves, overlay on.  Twisted bits of information superimposed on the thicket, identify each hog with banners waving in that breeze that strolled through his mind.  A big letter P expertly built out of the soil: map off... clear cache, stands up, bumps into the hand tow and remembers the race is on.

The Joy of Gardening.

Pull the dam thing, tugged and pulses the motor, put both hands behind his back like being hand cuffed and grabbed the handle, trudge, sludge, give it a budge.   Near it, everything dims and swims in the collapsing world of the hypertherm, no sweat, I've gone to far.   Lucky thought he needed to say, to get permission, "need to lay down just for" and crumple in to the cool ground. His right shoulder landed in the soft mud of the well worked soil.  He balanced there, on that thin piece of mud located at the edge of human endurance, that cool mud ,perched four inches deep in the most delightful of locations.

The problem with row 79.

  Lucky puts on his boots, hat, and sunglasses; glugs down as much water a he can, jams the binoculars up into the tool rack, grabs the thermos; all in the fast minute the tower travels down.   After he hooks the tower to the deck's ladder, he hangs by his hands from the floor hatch for a bit, the heat rolls off the deck, he drops down and walks the thorax to the utility hatch in the floor.  Gingerly opens the little hot door and releases a ratchet strap - thump, goes the powered hand tow to the ground.  Stamps down a big a clump of cord grass the hand tow is snarled in;  grabs the handle, pulls the brake and guides it out from under the rig towards row seventy nine.

Strategic ignorance of cognitive dissonance.

       On the sat view of his area, little white dots scattered out at almost even intervals, the seeds of an afternoon thunderstorm.  Humidity and heat push it's way upward into the cool heights so fast that it seemed as if he was watching a time lapse of the event, the breeze died and the Kestrel had to flap its wings to keep it's position, giving lucky a little jolt.  "Strange, how long has that bird been there?" the bird hovered - it's body moving - and head staying still, keeping an eye on Lucky...  The bird gave up, soared down  just across the top of the corn field going out of sight, in search of elevation somewhere out on that flat treeless landscape, he stared on as if he could still see it.  The cloud was still growing at a rapid pace, the breeze was dead, temperature: one hundred five, the overlay magically over each hog showing is approximate position in the field, lucky took a swig out of his beat up plastic water bottle, the shiny thermos glaring in the sun, sealed his bag of chips.  lucky relaxed and systematically crept his view outward to the peripheral, all the sound, movement, heat, humidity, odors, and sub-aural vibrations occurring in real-time; no past, no future, no plan for the next moment, no longing for the past, every sense was engaged in the flow, filling up his briefly empty mind with the minutia of now.