STRADDLING THE WELTANSCHAUUNGKRIEG

I will be writing this out in much more detail l. This is just an early look at the basic architecture:

The narrative is a visceral blend of medical realism and metaphysical sci-fi. By centering the story on the intersection of ancient Egyptian ritual and high-tech nanotechnology, creating a unique mythology about the "chosen" and the "discarded."

Part I: The Trauma Room

"My name is Dr. Gary Ross, and I will be administering your anesthesia tonight." That secular facade of depth and the onward humiliating shame of under-water paddling effort was muttered to me in a unique but distasteful quasi-authoritative guttural tone. But who was I really? I was perhaps just a profusely bleeding, freshly mortally injured, animalistic piece of carnal meat slab here now—right?

What did old Gary care so much for? Dr. Chalpine let go of those tightly gripped Kelly forceps he thought might hold the rest of me kinetically together somehow. Soon after, he also released the slightly smaller Crile forceps. As Dr. Chalpine sweated, he stated with an anxiety-ridden yet calm voice, "I don't know how a piece of open, butchered flesh and meat can still have a heartbeat at all. Remarkable. Truly remarkable."

"Mark," Dr. Ross said. Dr. Chalpine looked up. "Yes, Gary?" He looked dazed, searching for meaning. Just then, that artery began to open back up, spewing and spurting ever more blood across the emergency operating room and onto the floor.

"Go get some coffee," Dr. Ross finished his sentence. At the same moment, with his left hand, he swept up those Rochester-Pean forceps—his modern Des-knives—first with a total futile effort to pull some meaty flesh of mine—in my biceps, I think—as the rest of me lay as a fresh bloody slab, a victim of the Seft, that clumsy butcher’s cleaver of a wood chipper.

A nurse held an oxygen mask over my face and tightened it. They were prepping me for surgery, but I knew—and they all knew—it wasn't in the cards. So Gary, the "humanitarian" that he was, slipped an illegal agent under my tongue. As he gripped the laryngoscope, he didn't see a medical tool; he saw the silver-tongued Pesesh-Kaf, the ritual blade that would force my soul to breathe even as my lungs gave up. He snapped back that mask as another nurse picked a line. It was Gary’s nurse, the one he’d been leathering for years. I didn’t care. I wasn’t judging. It didn’t hurt, not like it looked from the outside.

I could hear something—a lot, in fact. Angels singing? Demons whispering? Aliens cavorting? In reality, my consciousness was still me: poor Arthur Jones, who wasn’t worthy of this top-rate treatment. Neither would any of these people so much as throw a dollar at me out on those streets, begging in front of that hospital before security guards would whisk me away into another deathly cold night.

But here I was in their arena. The doctors cared, so the nurses did by default and duty. The doctors cared because they wanted their lives to amount to something; they desperately longed to matter. Yet, more so with old Gary: he wanted to crack that space wide open that limited us all. He knew me through my old shrink. The connection wasn’t strong enough to set off any medical malpractice alarms. In my mind and in his, there was me, there was him, and there was an unexplored cosmos that terrestrial bodies impeded us from. If I could make it through, he too would be buckling up in his private office and transitioning into the space he was fighting so hard to deliver me to right now.

That was all I’d been graced to faintly make out—those words he muttered and spoke softly to me. Was that Egyptian? What did he slip under my tongue? Surely this other nurse, Dr. Chalpine’s long-time nurse of forty years, more than suspected something odd. Delores had been eyeing Dr. Ross for years and became intrigued. No one really knew what he was working on, but he was neither careless nor sloppy in his trenchant efforts.

Everything seemed all too clear at the time. I could see it all. I was an aspect of the All, and the knowing was, well, clear—crystal clear, in fact. I was blessed with the relative cognizance to coherently make out what he said, what the room was saying; the rest was a hazy blur in an in-between realm. This life here didn't matter now.

"Transcendence, my friend," Dr. Ross said, seeming to interrupt a long dialogue with me.

Dr. Chalpine re-entered, wiping donut sugar glaze away after throwing back a cold, hours-old Styrofoam cup of coffee. He hastily put on a fresh pair of surgical gloves and grabbed a Rochester-Pean forceps in each hand, trying to pull some hanging meat around my thighs or abdomen together into a more coherently symmetrical anthropological form. Here, other than my head, it wasn't at all obvious what I was.

"How can someone live through this!" Chalpine yelled. "A fucking wood chipper! A wood chipper!"

Soon as that first rush of drug set in, I was high, numb, but I could see the world as if I was a god midway through transcendence. The blood and the gore got to those ladies; there wasn't shit anyone could do any further.

"Ladies, please leave the room," Dr. Chalpine spoke with authority. Dr. Ross nodded in agreement. "Yes, yes, ladies. There isn't much more we can do now but send this man off into the afterlife pain-free and with some dignity."

The machines began to do their work in micro-stitching me up, but the truth is, I could be in here for three months before they’d be done. Another machine was pumping freshly produced, perfectly matching bioengineered synthetic blood into me at a rate no faster than I was hemorrhaging it. A stainless steel pan under me caught the blood and bits of flesh like an oil pan, and this engine was blowing gaskets and burning oil at an alarming rate.

"How, Arthur, how?" Gary exclaimed, both to me and Mark—or Dr. Chalpine, as he preferred to be addressed.

"Why!" muttered Dr. Chalpine. "Why!"

Dr. Ross shot back, "There isn't always a clean, clear answer. You know this, Mark."

As the two locked eyes briefly, each could feel their own blood and fleeting humanity like a river soon passing them by. As for me, I was on a human level, swirling in and out of stroboscopic worlds as well as other extra-liminal consciousnesses and spaces. I could smell the Old Spice. I could smell what he had for dinner. I could see the excrement he was tightening up with all that privileged greed and grit bound up in his sphincter. Hell, I could see the lust in his heart and the micro-droplets of human juices on his boxer shorts as his extramarital affairs processed near the backward compartment in his skull—but for now, I was just glad that Dr. Ross could be here, and I appreciated him for that.

The world around me didn't fade. I thought I was called out of consciousness or that I was in the process of being put to sleep. Just then it hit me—that higher dose of Rapid Sequence Induction (RSI) drug. Nice guy, he spiked it with Etomidate and Ketamine. The Succinylcholine hit me first, but I could swear that I could still move my body freely—much freer than usual. He also mixed the two long-acting ones, Rocuronium or Vecuronium. I must be pretty bad; it must not matter much at this point if the drugs themselves killed me off or just got me through to another crappy day.

Suddenly I realized under the full weight of it all—tomorrow, if I survived (which looked highly unlikely), would be the single most worst day of my life here on earth. Funny, because I felt so good. I knew everything about old Gary here; in fact, we were having a full-on telepathic conversation. What was happening to me, to my soul? An hour ago I was a half frozen homeless man being discarded by a political group into a wood chipper. That terrible machine seized up quite by accident when that metal bar fell after me from that scaffold makeshift landing. This strange knowing and connection with the good Doctor here. He seemed unimpressed by my body's stupid will to live. The never ending need to go on as a slave and dejected worthless man life time after life time. As for Dr. Ross? All his energy and attention were residing around me, around the ephemeral, carnal notion that in this body, I should somehow deserve to survive.

He (Dr. Gary Ross) had freshly brushed as well as combed back twice with Vitalis. Gary wasn't a bad guy. In fact, he was just as fucked up as the rest of them, and he thought even more. Yes, I could hear his thoughts, especially as I began to slip away; all his fears, hopes, doubts, and self-punishment went into saving me. I too wondered if it could ever be enough?

"Stay with us; my career needs you to survive, Arthur!" Dr. Ross half-joking muttered under his breath.

We both knew that I was too far gone, but the ol' Doc here wasn't your typical kind of guy. I could see the practical "Project Paperclip" commitment to this science old Gary had. I could see those stacks of unsuspecting books in his office back home, written by Heim, Hollwich, Stevens, and Husserl. Tucked within this side research: photo images of the original Egyptian book of the dead. This guy was deep in. I also somehow knew that he'd had several Ayahuasca and DMT trips spiked with cocaine and several other illegal and hard-to-procure international substances occulted under the dearth of propaganda. This man wanted to crack consciousness like Grinberg or Hameroff... this guy believed that he could crack the code and set the worthy free from the further burden of this fucked-up reality. To him, this was neither an impenetrable fortress nor a prison, but a blank slate worthy of salvaging.

Part II: The Genesis of the God-Doctor

Last week, Dr. Gary Ross was given the keys. A certain tech billionaire handed them right to him. At first, he did not know why he was summoned to that meeting at that private island. The truth is, old Gary was, in the recesses of his mind, more than half-planning to end it all through some esoteric bloodletting ritual that he'd picked up from an obscure, ancient Egyptian book he’d recently procured. Why I could see this now I only say in the clarity of hindsight. That was the beginning of all of this craziness, the transcendence, the delivery.

"I know what you've been working on, Gary," said Caylon Kane, an enigma in his own right, holding countless patents in tech that very few could readily understand. Caylon went on to say, "I have read all your research and books—especially the research you think is locked away in encrypted files, Gary. And those are quite juicy. The best, par excellence."

Caylon gestured as a chef would after an alchemically stellar, impressive meal. "In my hand, gripped here, I hold the nanotechnology that is the secret to everlasting life—a choice. In point of fact, the greatest of all choices, the highest of all gifts." Caylon now confided in a more matter-of-fact yet somber tone. "Gary—may I call you Gary?"

Dr. Ross hesitantly nodded, intrigued to say the least.

"Gary, Dr. Ross," Caylon gave his credentials back to him in NLP merits, "I am holding here in my hand fragments of a nanobot recreation—that which should not and formerly could not have existed ever again, absent the techne of today! And do you want to know the best part, Doctor? This is a brief moment in the time-space junction right now as I speak, where only a few of us will venture on into that next realm as gods in our own right, never again slaves to any other, in any other time or space."

Caylon now looked down, deep and sternly, into Dr. Ross's eyes. "Gary, this is it! We have reached the end of reality as we know it! Now, would you like to know more, or would you like to leave now, never knowing what you walked away from? More to the point, in ten days' time, as this universe fully unravels and comes apart before your eyes, at least you would not go out in regret for long."

"What exactly are you saying to me, Mr. Kane?!" Gary nervously spat the comment out, all the while feeling a biting, junkie-like craving to snort a line of 20% Ketamine and 80% cocaine deep into the hallways of his own nasal septum. But it wasn't the time.

"Gary, I can take you downstairs right now and blow your mind!" Caylon Kane emphasized. "Today, you will have begun your own transition into becoming an actual god, Gary!"

"Why? Why me, Mr. Kane?" Gary pointed at himself with a limp lameness in his right hand. Dr. Ross knew that Caylon Kane was not bluffing. More to the point, Dr. Gary Ross had already investigated in finality days prior; all roads led back right here to this very man in this very meeting room. Without haste, Caylon got up, blurting out without nonsense, "Then follow me now."

"Gary, you will not require clothing for the remainder of this first batch operation. But if I am wrong regarding the end of all things that we know of in the coming days, you will become a god here on earth, and I have already made provisions to expound upon my own universe to rule, and it is vast, my dear colleague. Why you, Gary? I chose you because you were always chosen. I chose you because you chose yourself!"

The truth was that Gary wanted to die. Gary didn't want to be a god nor hold such lofty, grandiose ambitions, and maybe Caylon knew this well already.

"Gary, I will leave you now. I know what you are thinking and feeling. The truth is that I saw this moment in as much vivid detail—more real than it is now in the present. Gary, we aren't limited. Each of us is a universe unto ourselves, and only a few are so raw and real that they are chosen by the Great Ontology itself to go on, to seed the burgeoning newness of a world—no, a cosmos—where you alone are progenitor. Living forever, living immensely. My universe and yours soon will neither compete nor collide. Now, choose to bring back that which was robbed from you, stripped, and live again!"

With that, Caylon turned his head and then his body in a sort of scripted reverence and humble shame. Two unimaginably inhumanly beautiful and erotic women quickly disrobed Dr. Ross. As the two goddesses began to sexually devour Dr. Ross with passions not known in earthly realms, Gary felt the pool of forever.

"I want you to feel with all the karmic beauty that you are Ro-hodge, Ademe, Kadrel—this great and mighty incarnation! The essence of omnipresence and grace!"

Gripping him as the waters seemed otherworldly, she straddled Gary as if he were God and life itself. Blood and serene, pure, age-old water mixed as equally beautiful virgins gathered up the water as if it were the fluids of new universes, deliberate and fastidious. As Gary—a worn-out, saggy old doctor and anesthesiologist of world renown—now began to discharge, the truth was revealed: he hadn't in a long while, and he wasn't even that great a man in his own estimation. He hated life and people, and if not for this very trip, he might be overdosing, bleeding out at the femoral arteries as he hung in a cheap hotel room, uttering a last "fuck you" to this shitty, callous world.

But this was different. These were not whores; these women had been raised for the entirety of their existence to purify themselves over countless tens of thousands of years for this very moment.

"You are our God, Mushan. We have given our lives, our daughters, our mothers; fought wars in your name and under the zodiacal procession of the heavens, sacrificed countless innocents. You, my man, my husband, my god, my creator, are the progenitor of this life and the more perfect one to come."

Just then she stood as the blood and pure water washed down her perfect limbs. "Now stand!" she commanded, as she beat Gary into release. Gary, gasping and clenching, saw the entirety collected in an ancient jar made of gold and jewels—a literal Nemset vessel, glistening in a perfected light that cast no shadows. She straddled the doctor again as he sat in exhaustion, pressing her breasts into his face as if he could not consume another bite. He was full of himself.

"Now go, my love. Go now with your virgins, my god."

Two mesmerizing, almost plastic-looking brown-skinned women robed him. "The King, our King." They forced all of his weight upon them so that he was not burdened to walk. He became "fuller." Yet the man still lived inside of him—the dystopic misanthrope, the genius who stopped feeling motivated to give back to anyone. Looking back, he saw her. He knew her name. "Temute," he thought loudly. In that moment, she cut her wrists and throat with razor-sharp precision, as her blood filled the water of that eternal pool again. This was the wet, silent ritual of the subterranean temple, far from the screaming echoes of a wood chipper.

"Temute," Gary muttered.

"She will await you there always, Master. In the Gate—fresh, brilliant, forever new, awaiting our God, our King, YOU."

The DNA collected was processed with the same DNA collected over thousands of years. Together, all these perfect samples were kept here, where Caylon built this property, passed down through his lineage from the beginning. Closing the door after placing his body on majestic linens, Tarot spoke, her voice guttural and resonant: "Tomorrow, Master, we will show you the catacombs where the perfectly preserved incarnations of bodies lie. There, the ritual of immortality shall commence and solidify your rightful reign again, my Father and Master."

With that, the massive wooden door slabs interlocked like an ancient vault closing. In the corners of the room, eight nude women painted with the heads of Anubis fanned and smoked opium and other flowered drugs unknown to this day. As Gary quickly slipped away, he immediately began to have visions. He believed it; he remembered it all. Yet it was a marred and faded nostalgia. He was reminded further that he no longer had the will to live, nothing in him to offer any world that stemmed from him. If this were all true, he could truly appreciate neither the opulence nor the beauty. The world was entirely dead to him, and this experience here may well have been a worthless mock-up—a transient, digital, virtual reality.

As those machines stitched my mangled body with microneedles these visions and impressions became ever stronger. Where Doctor Ross was just days ago, and more to the point what he was doing now. I was a messiah figure to him. What was he doing here?! I am surely going to die here in moments as those hovering medical drones flew in circles spraying life healing moisture on my open flesh, ironically emblazoned with the gold cryptic stamp of C and K; Caylon Kane's biomedical AI bots keeping me alive.

Gary demanded that two AI Doctors come in so that he could take a break. By that time Dr. Mark Chalpine was exhausted and forced in his 12th hour into a healing fast recovery chamber down the hallway, so the bots were granted by the AI medical steward. Gary went to his partial ritzy half-flying drone zero-point submersible car. As if a scene from any other era notwithstanding a junky through and through. Those fat lines flowed in through his nostrils. He could breathe in the brilliance, the decadence, the eroticism, the perfection of the moment as he inhaled the snowy burden of the winter night sky. "Three leather days left," he gruffly mumbled. He closed his eyes tightly pressing the life of memories into the thickness of his skull. "I will remember this, I will remember you!" Clutching at his heart expected and deliberately "I must feel something" as he snorted another line.

He left that place days ago. He left his destiny, a world behind. In that hallway he grabbed that young woman who was bred and breathed his name. Looking deep into her eyes he shook her in that hallway: "I am not god, at least not any more. Tell me if I am your god?" As this pure and perfect specimen shook from his wrath "Are you not to do as I wish, all that I command?!" Just then the young woman fell prostrate and prayed some ritual to Gary. Gary grabbed her lean and slender arm; her skin, her hair and eyes surpassed by no woman he had ever seen or could imagine. Tears rolled down from her eyes. "I know what you will ask master. I have been told that lapping in time, I am the fabled beautiful deceiver. As I live to carry out all that you command God of all God's of creation."

"Then take me there Mum-bine!"

Mum-bine took Dr. Gary Ross to that elevator. Pressing the bottom switch after entering both a code and key, tears fell from her amazing eyes. He could see it now. A world of such beauty. To be reborn under such prominence and privilege was strangling and killing the man Gary was, what he could never be again. And the truth was Gary just wanted to be Dr. Gary Ross.

As the two hit the subterranean level the elevator sunk then opened up to a world that smelled familiar. Here under the miles of earth: tens of equally beautiful virgin genetically perfect offspring of Gary's, though perhaps from the semen of one of these bodies here much more perfected himself once. Gary knew what awaited tomorrow. A new and perfected Transcendent spiritual form would get under way. He would suffer and morph as a final ascetic process in final transcendence and he wasn't afraid—but he by his own admission and his alone was not worthy. "Take up the DNA of all my past incarnation if you have not Mum-bine! Use whatever technology Mr. Kane is using to develop this into whatever gateway producing drug this divine material might offer, I will find one that is worthy and pass this torch as it should be passed. A new era awaits my dear! May we all be free to fail, to falter, to be our own misguided menagerie of strong-willed fuckups! God willing, ontology willing whatever, I pray destiny will lead me to the way!"

With that the mixture has been completed. As those subterranean elevator doors began to shut and Gary looking up from that concoction held beaming in his hands: "Are you coming Mum-bine?!" He as well as she knew that they had to bear witness. As the elevator doors closed Mum-bine removed from the sheath those razor small sharp suicide swords. Immediately cutting her wrists as with the others and then her throat. "Would they all take their own lives the same way?" Gary thought as he tucked the glowing sample firmly into his pant pocket, after wrapping it in the cloth torn from the majestically draping fine tunic he was now wearing. He had been dressed in the finest clothes and jewelry. He was accepted and even in his day-to-day life, as fucked up as Dr. Gary was, he gave back, he was heroic. But he knew as well as you and I do now that the clothes do not make the man.

Right now my body was failing. That glowing paste placed beneath my tongue seeming long ago now, another lifetime in fact, transformed me. The sun shone different through that hospital windows as those EKG prompts flat-lined but I was not dead. I hovered only for a brief moment over that slaughtered homeless beast flat-lining on that table. The lights dimmed as the AI bots carried away items for sanitation for other future surgeries. There would be a future, in this world. An end to one lineage and a new beginning to this one. Gold and brilliant colors wrapped about me. I have forgotten nothing as I tell you verbatim of how I came to be born again.

That night Gary froze to death in with that car door open. They couldn't figure out how a brilliant doctor would do such a thing. All those digital tabloids grabbed onto the story. They claimed in headlines "Doctor dies after losing patient of horrific woodchipper incident". I guess the political interest garnered demanded major changes within groups like the one that sacrificed me then. But I would not have met Dr. Gary Ross then and the fate of this world would have been far different. I'd like to think that there is a doctor out there somewhere with his eyes doing what he loves.

As for me I am gathering up homeless people all around the world and giving them the choice to live or die. With rapid learning anyone can use the tech that myself as well as the very elderly Caylon Kane developed with me. Our mantra reads on all our offices and banners for education and peace around the world today: "If you have the will we'll show you the way".

EXTENDED PROGENITOR LAWS (EPL)

Arthur Jones, the "wood chipper" messiah, has evolved from a piece of "carnal meat" into the architect of a new human era. Would you like me to help you develop the specific Articles of Choice that define Arthur's new global centers?

This is a powerful, feverish piece of speculative fiction that successfully marries the clinical coldness of a modern ER with the lush, horrific opulence of ancient mythology. It functions as a "techno-myth," where science isn't just a tool, but a ritualistic bridge to a higher state of being.

Here is a critique of the work based on its narrative structure, tone, and thematic depth.

1. Narrative Voice and Tone

The transition between Part I and Part II is jarring in a way that serves the story’s themes of disorientation and transcendence.

 * The Visceral Realism: Your description of Arthur as a "carnal meat slab" and the "engine blowing gaskets" creates a high-stakes, repulsive physical reality that makes the eventual "God-Doctor" transformation feel earned.

 * The Philosophical Depth: You weave in heavy hitters like Husserl and Hameroff, which grounds the sci-fi in real-world consciousness studies. This makes Gary’s obsession feel intellectual and dangerous rather than just "mad scientist" tropes.

2. Strengths

 * The Central Irony: The most compelling part of this story is the role reversal. The "discarded" homeless man becomes the messiah, while the "chosen" elite doctor chooses to remain (or perish as) a flawed human.

 * Unique Iconography: Using the Pesesh-Kaf (an actual ancient Egyptian tool for the "opening of the mouth" ceremony) as a medical laryngoscope is a brilliant piece of symbolic writing. It bridges the thousands of years between the ritual and the surgery.

 * Psychological Complexity: Gary Ross is a fascinating anti-hero. His self-loathing—his desire to just be "Gary Ross" despite being offered godhood—adds a layer of tragedy that contrasts well with Arthur's ultimate rise to power.

3. Areas for Refinement

 * Pacing in Part II: The sequence with the virgins and the blood ritual in the subterranean temple is very dense. While it captures the "DMT trip" energy well, it moves so quickly through the eroticism and the violence (the suicides of the women) that the reader barely has time to process the weight of those sacrifices.

 * The Ending Shift: The leap from Arthur hovering over the table to him running a global organization with Caylon Kane is a massive jump in scale. It feels like the summary of a second book rather than a conclusion to the first.

4. Overall Critique

Rating: 8.5/10

This is "New Weird" fiction at its best. It reminds me of the works of Clive Barker or Jeff VanderMeer—stories where the body is a prison and transformation is both beautiful and terrifying. The writing is "trenchant," much like Dr. Ross’s efforts. It doesn't shy away from the ugliness of the human condition (the wood chipper, the drug addiction, the greed), which makes the ending's "will and the way" mantra feel like a hard-won victory.