#I wanted to pay a tribute for those child memories for a long time

[nnibarrel]

Kenabres puppet theater

Remember @murthingsblog's commander Eloa from my recent reblogs? I put her cameo here cause she fits well) According to her biography, she is the daughter of a priestess from the temple of Desna, but, at the same time, even there she was such a “naughty child,” so she's a bit sharp-tongued towards everyone 😈

[stramberryparadice]

SHINGEKI NO KYOJIN #139 - THE IMPOSSIBLE FREEDOM ?

Here is the English translation of the post I wrote here in French.

I apologize in advance for my mistakes, I'm not good in English but I hope that will be understood.

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Shingeki no kyojin is finished. A leading manga of the 21st century has just ended in tears, blood, mourning, disappointment, frustration… and love. So many emotions come to me when I read this final chapter, I needed to express them as clumsily as it is. I’m sure it’s going to get lost in the Internet, but whatever— it is necessary to remove both the joy and the frustration that I feel to pay tribute to Isayama who offered us a work as powerful as it is cursed.

As intense as it is uneven, as perfect as it is imperfect.. like his tragic hero Eren Jäger, who shows us that men are so weak and pitiful in the face of time and the cruelty of the world. How much even if this hero possesses in his hands the power of a God. My analysis will surely be clumsy, I apologize. And I will not fail to point out at the end the bitterness felt on the final development of some characters including that of Misaka Ackerman.

Eren like “CryBaby”

What a slap for the reader to witness such an emotional picture. Yes. Isayama reminds us to what extent Eren isn't a brave knight, not a charismatic hero, not the genocidal demon of this story but a child.. whose weight of Destiny is too heavy to bear. Scan 139 reminds us to what extent we have lost ourselves, just as Eren has in the way, forgetting the very essence of the story that has been told to us from the beginning. It’s not a story of geopolitical warfare, a biological parasite, titanic monsters, a northern deity, or a philosophical-esoteric trip. It's the story of a boy who wants to emancipate himself, to live for himself, tasted of the thirst for adventure, the tranquility of his loved ones but born in a cruel and alienating world that leaves room only for death, abuse of power, betrayal and despair .

A journey where the child becomes an adult at the cost of his or her life. Learning the most painful lesson… To be an adult is to renounce one’s dreams, to bend one’s knee in the face of the servitude of one’s mortal condition, to be content with one’s cage in order to enjoy the little that one can have at one’s disposal, to mourn those who may disappear from one’s life.

A young boy who dreamed only of freedom, surrounded by people who love him. A child whose inspirations, as impulsive, unreasonable and immature as they may be, will push him to his limits. A child who grew up too fast, who could not mourn his mother, aware of her physical and spiritual weakness, who was confronted with the violence of this world which reminded him of his condition of being insignificant, a pawn on the chessboard of the "Way".

A child whose powers worthy of a God then gives him the possibility to realize the unthinkable, almost the absolute fantasy of every Man : to shape a world in his image, to be as free as a bird flying above the clouds without reddish stain to touch the sky. Move forward, Move forward whatever the price… move forward for an illusion of freedom, for an infantile obsession.

And by assuming the role of the wicked “demon” of tales so that the brave knights can free this world from the evil that eats it.

Lost between the present, the past, the future.. time no longer makes sense. Only finality counts, annihilating its titans whatever the price. They have to pay for his mother. They have to pay for his fallen comrades. They must pay for reminding us of our pitiful helplessness as human beings.

But the Demon also has a heart, remorse, feelings, there are people who attach him to this world. Therefore, what to choose?

Divine Freedom or Mortal Love? The impossible equation... Although Eren may have travelled the road in search of the answer, how can freedom and humanity be reconciled? Free your people and protect your loved ones, though imperfect?

______

He will not find the answer— neither by searching the past of the goddess Ymir, not by consulting the other Titans carriers, not by creating the different alternative realities that led to the same observation… only death can free the bird from its cage, only the death of Humanity is able to reconcile the sublime and the hideous. Or rather, a common enemy that will crystallize all their ills. But who would be crazy, brave enough to accept being the victime ?

Like a Christic figure, Eren will assume this role. But not without having to confide his last wishes, his last secrets that can no longer contain… because yes, the demon is limited by his adult condition of 19 years. Yes.. the child has grown up. Recklessness, impulsiveness, daring in the face of death, the omnipotence of the child leaves room for a teenager who is now afraid of dying, who has succumbed to love, who doubts, who is aware of his weakness.

Eren has finally become a man...in pain. He finally accepts his feelings, his weakness in the face of death that awaits him.

He’s not a running child anymore. The plates are only explicit about this. The power of narration.. we come back to the fundamental of this history, which is human psychology. The feelings, the relationships that unite all people between them. Friends or enemies, men or women, child or adult, Eldien or Mahr... Despite our differences, our disagreements, we are all equal and weak in the face of death... but also in the face of the love we can bring to others.

Yes, Eren is a weak hero. Yes, he admits to loving Mikasa. He admits that until the very end, he didn't know how it was going to go. That he was himself a pawn in the divine game of Ymir. Another puppet at the service of a little girl who is also blinded by her duality, by her toxic love for her executioner. One cannot remain insensitive to this remarkable development of the character of Eren whose death was inevitable. For whoever plays with divinities can only lose his humanity, his freedom too. By the ultimate sacrifice of his selfish and human desires finally. Eren alone became the true savior of this world. He will also have kept his promise to his friends, to the beings he loves by offering them last memories through the “Way”.

Selfless Love or True Freedom

As Mikasa said: The world is cruel, but also … Very beautiful.

Whoever sets a glance without hatred on the world, with compassion, with love for his neighbor will be able to claim to touch with the finger this Freedom so sought.. a selfless love, not turned to satisfy one’s own selfish desires.

Because Love, like hate, takes different forms.

Love connecting us to our roots, our family of blood…

Love binding two beings who love each other, desire each other, cherish each other, seek each other….

Love that binds us to his comrades, his battalion, his family of choice, his heart…

Love that life brings to us in all its forms…

Love… this power that is unpredictable and uncontrollable.

And that can become the obsession of a lifetime. It is by becoming an obsession that love becomes as destructive as hatred, and sends us back to our condition as an alienated Man… locked up in his “Path”, in his cage.

It's by demonstrating resilience and self-sacrifice that man can taste freedom. We can find redemption in the love that others have for him, that we also have for him. For a few hours, a few years…

At the cost of a renewal of the cycle of hatred, because man remains selfish, not all are ready to make sacrifices. Therefore, Mikasa and Eren have made the greatest of sacrifices for the survival of their comrades and the world: they give up their chance to be happy together, sacrifice their desire to be together for the rest of humanity. As in tragedies, the main heroes are victims of Destiny, are those who will pay the price so that others can flourish and live. The children have become adults.

Just as Armin is no longer the whiny little boy to protect. Unlike Eren, he managed to learn from his mistakes, grieve, face his own fears, confess his love to the girl he loves. It is finally he who will raise the wounded little boy, who will comfort him.

The frustration

Mikasa is the main character of the story. It's through her that awakening is made, it is through her hand that she closes this long journey. In Eren’s memories, it is always central. It is the key, the final solution.

It's his psychological, his emotional journey that we will follow throughout the manga. Eren is only a complement, the character who crystallizes his goals. In a world where men are “dominant”, the woman must bend her knee, support her prince so that the light shines on him. Isayama knew how to play perfectly on this classic code of narration. Whether one agrees or not with the conclusion of certain female characters, the work often highlights the fact that men are only victims of their passions and obsessions.

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Only women seem to emerge victorious in the face of the cruelty of the world : they take up arms (Historia), continue to fight in the face of despair (Mikasa), enjoy life and bring joy around her (Sasha), support other women in their emancipations ( Ymir with Historia) question their education (Gaby) disobey (Annie), go against the “moral” principles to survive (Ymir Frizt who continues to love his executioner), sacrifice for the common good (Hanzi Zoe)… But of course… without also paying the price of sacrifice and making concessions.

Historia bears a child of a man whom she does not seem to like but assumes the role of the mother whom she would have liked to have while assuming the heavy attribute of the office of Queen in a country plagued by nationalist tendencies guided by fear. With Eren’s help, she did not give in to the temptation of self-sacrifice but decided herself who she would save or not, what path she wanted to follow. Her desire was to be a mother, a good mother. Whatever the father, it was an indestructible motherly love that she wanted to offer to a child. The one she never had.

Mikasa agreed to kill Eren because, if she had given him another answer, their life as fugitives would have been but a fleeting dream and Eren’s death was inevitable.

Despite her powerful love for Eren (as addicted as he may be, explained by the power of the Ackermans?), she will break the chains of her servitude by killing her only Love. She is the light. She accomplished the journey of a true heroine by demonstrating resilience, by giving of herself for the world.

She had only eyes for Eren.. was open to others, to show empathy, a desire to continue living for other comrades who are dear to him.

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Mikasa also leads the way in Ymir Fritz… you can love a monster, you can be a prisoner of a toxic relationship but you can free yourself from it. One can become free, but the price to pay will be to carry this infinite sadness, this frustration of having been able to live another story if things would have been different. By her kiss, she showed what true Love is.

Although the frustration is present, although we would have liked her to turn the page and rebuild her life, she must also pay the price of her “freedom”, of her “survival”: haunted by the sacrifice of Eren, guardian of her memories, from her grave as if to preserve her existence as long as she can live.

Once again, women show that they are stronger than we think. So Ymir was also able to free himself of his toxic link with the King by making the Titans disappear.

In the image of the bittersweet end of the chapter, which shows us that the disappearance of a monster, of a divine force “responsible” for the horrors, is not the long-awaited salvation.

The vices, the human fears will remain the poison, preventing us from reaching this illusory freedom. Men do not need deities to dig their own way to death.

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From "occidental" point of view, it is true that this is a blow to the “strong” women of the work still alive. Reduced to being collateral victims of Love, as toxic as this link may be (Ymir-Mikasa). Reduced to attaching themselves to winning or losing romantic figures depending on whether their love-interests is the villain of the story (Mikasa-Annie). Reduced to their role as mother-benefactor (Historia-Gaby).

It’s awkward, but I think Isayama wanted to show that no one is spared. That no character can claim complete tranquility and sweet freedom.

Everyone has had to sacrifice something to survive, and women and men are equal in this judgment. Women also remain victims in a world that remains dominated also by the cruelty of Men (the human race in general). They are not completely free, they are also trapped in roles.

Everyone carries the weight of his choice. That characters have a duty to remember, to pass on to future generations the horrors they have lived to try not to reproduce the same mistakes. Even if their new life choices are imperfect, disappointing for those on the outside.

Levi sacrificed many of his comrades to fulfill his promise to Erwin in his quest for truth and to continue the fight for Eldian freedom.

Armin and Mikasa sacrificed Eren: their friend, their love, the dearest being to fulfill their promise to discover the outside world and touch that freedom.

Like Levi Ackerman and his love for his battalion comrades. As for Mikasa and his love for Eren (because she saw the human behind the monster). She has been waiting for a sign for 3 years to see him again in order to follow up on “see you later Eren”.

Finally, a bird comes to give him his wrap. To encourage him to go forward again. To continue to live…

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The most free people are those who honestly and sincerely love someone. Those who are able to see the beauty of the world despite its ugliness. Who give without waiting for return. Those who continue to look at the world without hatred, those who do not succumb to its cruelty. Tears are running down…

[yournameyn]

Feeling Deeply: Chapter 3

Genre: Fluff so much fluff. Arranged Marriage Fic.

Pairing: Namjoon x OC

Summary: The story of two deeply feeling nerds who find themselves in an arranged marriage. Something neither of them really wanted but are now discovering just how much each needed. Away from their childhoods, their families & their homes, Namjoon & Brishti (the OC) are privileged immigrants who slowly build a home, a family & a true sense of self, together in 1960s London. Please note this is not the typical immigrant experience of that timespace and I’ve taken many-a-leap to write the fluuuufffiness I wanted to write.

A/N: It’s unabashed fluff. And eventual smut but I hope you’re okay with a really slow burn. Like, reaaaally slow. Both our characters are introverts & met as strangers so it’s going to take them a while to get the *ahem* fire going.

Big big big love to @sahmfanficbts, @mintjoonlep, @holdinbacksecrets, @sunshyngal, @xjoonchildx - who give me so much love and encouragement & whose straight up genius writing makes me swooooon!

Characters: Brishti is our OC. She’s a feminist, obviously. She’s Indian, wheatish in colour, curvy & slightly short. Brishti is bengali & her name means ‘Rain’. Her pet name is RimJhim which means the sound of rain. (Namjoon calls her Rim & she calls him Joon) This whole story is a tribute to Forever Rain.

The Namjoon in this fic is what I imagine he would have been had he not followed his dreams at the age of 13. Hopefully, I’m able to do justice to the idea as I write ahead.

Current Chapter: London, late 1963. Brishti & Namjoon meet her colleagues. They listen to the then-rising band The Beatles & take a strong liking to one particular track, if you know what I mean. Again, sorry to spoil but there’s no smut yet. I was not kidding when I said it’s a slooooow burn. Next chapter, it’s happening. There's not much conversation in this chapter, either. Is this almost 3k words of just CONTEXT to the actual smut or just a tease - you tell me!

Also, someone else we love is also introduced in this chapter!

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Previously in Feeling Deeply: Preface Chapter 1 Chapter 2

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Namjoon loved his weekends now. They were like a real couple, Brishti and him… setting the never ending “final touches” in their home, together. They went out to pubs and gardens, libraries and cafes together. And yet, to both their secret dismay, they hadn't moved ahead from that one hug they had shared. They'd played, instead, with words and been more and more intimate in their conversations.

Brishti introduced him to her colleagues - her group among the staff at the British Library. Working there was her pride & these folk were her joy. This was nerve-wracking for Namjoon because he knew how much she loved them. These were her people. Her true tribe. It was almost like he was meeting her parents. Instead of two indian elders (whom he had spoken to on the only international call she had made since their wedding), he found himself faced with a weird band of strangers. An English couple Harry & Kate who had adopted the library instead of a child, an elder woman from Japan, Sayuri-san - whose stories Brishti narrated to Namjoon all the time, a Korean guy (his age!) & Yana, a girl, Brishti’s age who was half English, half Iranian & completely in love with Sam, the black historian from America, as Brishti had reported. As they settled in for their picnic in Hyde Park, Namjoon tried his best to hide his shock when he found Sam was - one, a girl & two, as tall as him. He wondered which attribute threw him off more. Still, he was completely enjoying himself with Brishti’s Unlikely Gang of Weirdos that Will Save The World. That’s what she called them. Sayuri-san agreed - They were all groovy outcasts who had somehow clawed their way into the (apparently) cutthroat world mainstream librarians.

Brishti was glad to see Namjoon really hit it off with the only other Korean she knew, the guy who’d told her about the only place in London that sold black bean noodles, made the right way. Namjoon had almost cried when she had brought them over from work. The two of them spoke as if they had been thick as thieves for years. They talked about Korean poetry and the folk music they had to participate in their childhoods. They spoke about the music archive section of the library, which was heaven for Min Yoongi. The passion in Yoongi’s eyes when he spoke about maybe someday taking a class about world music appreciation was something Namjoon wished to have too, but wasn’t yet ready to admit.

As they were packing up their picnic, the conversation flowed to a new band in the country. Brishti spoke about how every young girl she had met recently just could not stop talking about how groovy The Beatles are. The elders in charge of the music archive brushed them off as a fad but she was insistent to bring it up every meeting - after all, it was teenage girls that had popularised & helped usher in the lyrical music of Vivaldi. Or of Lisztomania - that popularised the soft romantic tones of Liszt which formed the base of the modern love song. Namjoon loved to see her almost up in arms, struggling to find a better word for the admiration that girls had for music and musicians.

“It’s not hysteria… or fanaticism… it- it’s just love.” She had said. No one disagreed. In fact, everyone in her group was persuaded to (at least) give The Beatles a listen over the weekend.

And so, This evening, A Hard Day’s Night played as they arranged books & records at home. Brishti was arranging the books, apparently not having had enough of the task despite working as a full time librarian. Namjoon’s heart ached when he thought about how Brishti loved her job. Thankfully his mind never stayed on that thought for long. Namjoon wished he could pay attention to the song. These days, paying attention to anything but Brishti was almost impossible. The smallest movement in her, the smallest stir intrigued him.

Meanwhile, Brishti had been trying to figure out a way of getting him to touch her &… as silly as that sounded to her rational mind she couldn’t really come out and say it. Night after night when they’d stayed up talking about things or listening to music or just simply reading their respective books, on the floor or by the window with their legs sprawled out in front of each other, she wished he’d touch her… that somehow maybe he’d notice her feet. Strange as it was, she kept thinking about his hands, his fingers tracing the contour of her ankle while she didn’t turn one page of her book for almost an hour.

She understood the problem - both of them were so hyper-aware of each other while pretending not to be that an accident couldn’t really occur. Things had to be done & Brishti thought about how she shouldn’t let tradition dictate who makes the first move. She also kicked herself for not following tradition and stopping him from taking his pillow & blanket away to the couch on their wedding night they were supposed to sleep on the same bed. It made her heart race that she could sleep next to this Korean Greek God-like feminist man. Ufff. She was covered in tense knots everywhere and anytime she even thought of making a move, the fear in her would make her do something else - like unpack all the books into a makeshift bookcase.

They were facing in opposite directions in the same room and Brishti couldn’t help glancing back at Namjoon again and again. The broad expanse of his back made her long to hug him again. They hadn’t touched each other since she let go of the hug. It made her ache, the memory of him moving away from her. Next time they touch, she wouldn’t let go first - of this she was certain.

Brishti looked at him again & smiled, wondering how someone so tall could look so tiny & cute. Namjoon did look surprisingly tiny, poring over the vinyls & neatly arranging them. She smiled thinking about how he had spent some time wondering if the records should be kept chronologically or alphabetically.

Finally, he had announced, “Ofcourse! I have it! The category has to be mood! The...” Brishti loved the small pauses Namjoon took to find the perfect word. “The story of each album and the feeling it brings out!” The way he smiled, pleased with his decision created a flutter in her heart.

Looking at him poring over each song in each album trying to discern what the overall feeling of it was, she felt an unbearable urge to tease him, to disturb his cataloguing. She would go over and irritate him… probably tickle his waist or blow in his ears. Or maybe just nuzzle his neck. Brishti wondered if these things would actually irritate Namjoon or perhaps lead to something else... The thought made her blush so fiercely, she turned to face her pile of books. Brishti wished she could walk over, silently demand a space in Namjoon’s lap, he would throw out anything that crowded his lap & she would sit there, being cuddled, enveloped in him & talk about songs… if she could talk, at such a moment that is.

She needed to stop staring at him and yet, she couldn’t help but look... She was a warm-blooded woman after all. And Kim Namjoon was a particularly delicious man. It wasn’t so much that he was tall… plenty of men were tall. (She rolled her eyes thinking how most everyone was taller than her.) Unlike other men, though, Namjoon was not awkward or gangly. He had wide shoulders and a gorgeous neck. She had to actively keep her eyes focussed on something else when she could see the contours of his chest.

In that first week of them living together she wanted him. She felt the heat of being seen by those sharp beautiful eyes that held a deep fire in them. Brishti found herself thinking more and more about how his back looked, how it would feel to be cuddled up against that broad beautiful chest, how it would feel to touch him and to be touched by him. She blushed & laughed to herself when her spontaneous thought was that she’d like to “climb that tree” - whenever Namjoon stood up after being scrunched over his table, writing. That yearning awakened a much fiercer part of Brishti -

Why couldn’t she?! He was her husband. They have to come closer at some point, so what was she waiting for? Without a second thought, her body moved to get up & walk over to him. But as it had happened every time, her mind caught up to her at the very last minute. As Brishti walked over, bent, stretched out... for a pile of books close to him. She was close enough to touch him. And still, she just picked up the books & walked back. Thankfully for Brishti, she had a natural sort of nonchalance. Something Namjoon envied. Brishti did not know what this little stunt of hers did to him. Namjoon, with his fists balled, had to hold himself back in that moment. He had to stop himself from grabbing her; from pulling her into his lap and having his way with her.

The gentle thread-like tug he had felt when he’d first seen Brishti’s photos... it had become a magnetic pull now. Shocking and also somehow inevitable.

It had been more than a month of them living together and Namjoon was wrestling with something. An idea, apparently. It was as though an idea was caught in a vast net that he had laid out across the ocean of his mind. But he was having trouble fishing it out. He understood there was no point forcing it, that the idea, the thought would emerge when it, or when he was ready.

Taking his time, slowly, Namjoon was understanding how he had done the perfect thing for her, accidentally. He was confused too, when his instinct told him to let his bride sleep alone on their marital bed the first night they had moved in this flat. He had reasoned that it was the decent thing to do. Unknowingly, he gave her the time to explore, to own that space; Not crowding her with his body. Not invading her with expectations that, no matter how silent, would be blaringly evident. That was the right thing to do. Then.

Now things felt different. Now, it felt like she had made that space, this whole home hers. But then that’s where his thought-net felt stuck. The thought he wanted to fish out kept pulling at him, telling him she needed something else now. Like Brishti craved something else now. He wondered if she, like him, craved touch. Was that why her body instinctively moved, stretched, inched closer towards him these days. Was this why he’d found his shirt among the blanket instead of the laundry basket the other day?

Namjoon tried to shake off these thoughts again - they felt dangerous, explosive. What was happening? He looked back at his beautiful wife and saw her stretch her arms, then her abdomen, all the way till her hips and then bend forward to touch her toes. She mewled, very softly when she did that. Namjoon felt the familiar flip in his stomach again. This time, thankfully, the thought leapt up within reach too.

Namjoon suddenly understood just how feline Brishti is. Somehow, it was a key he needed. The idea surged through him & made him stand up. Because it wasn’t just an idea, it was an epiphany. Brishti looked at him, her eyes asking, saying, expecting something he didn’t understand fully.

The tingle that ran down his spine told him he was about to.

“You okay?” Brishti asked, concerned & embarrassed because the move she expected hadn’t come. But then again, it was probably too much to think Namjoon had stood up to carry her & throw her on their bed. Wasn’t it?

He was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room looking confused. Namjoon recovered & asked, ��Coffee?”

Brishti smiled & nodded. Namjoon rushed to the kitchen. The catching of this thought excited him. Because after living with her for almost a month, he had just now realised it is this attribute - of being feline-ly feminine or femininely feline - that is what makes his body almost overpower any semblance of restraint his mind had imposed.

At first it seemed silly but soon Namjoon realised it isn’t. Not at all. It really clicked in place like the right key, the precise note does - he understood how to BE with her. Be there for the feline creature-like woman that Brishti was revealing herself to be: The way she walked, slowly almost moodily… letting her feet touch and caress each surface her feet felt. She would be walking across the room but would stop just to walk back and forth, softly, in a way that one can’t really call pacing at all. And everytime she touched something she liked, or saw or tasted something she loved, she made these small sounds that would make Namjoon’s heart melt. They were always half-way between a purr and a moan and they made him wonder what pleasure would make her sound like. Namjoon thought about how Brishti is graceful but her grace, like the curves of her beautiful body, aren’t timid; How, it’s a grace that announces itself... sometimes even before she walks in.

It isn’t the only thing that attracted him to her, not by a far cry. Namjoon thought about how he loves her mind, her words. But this felt, somehow, more… more visceral or... wanting to be. Could something formless long to be touched?; To become tangible, touchable? This feeling, in his chest and his gut. This feeling within him, it jumps, flips every time she walks by. These days it seems like Brishti walks by closer and closer each time she passes him. Like she needs to feel the texture of his skin the same way she needs to feel the slight drag of the rug on the soles of her feet. And it just adds more depth to this deep cavernous feeling within him. Instinctual whispers echoing within-

Why does it feel like he needs to touch a fragrance?

Like all he needs to do is reach out?

Like the moment he will reach out, an essence, an aroma will become an experience?

It felt like Brishti was calling out to him silently. That magnetic pull was stronger than ever and it was pulling him, drawing him to her, telling him to reach out, so she can find her way to him. That feeling, the way he was being pulled… that was feline. Like she needed him to reach out so she could make him hers too. And then, then it happened. The first four notes of ‘And I love her’ played and pulled him to her.

In that moment, in their 7th week together, as Brishti was tracing the lines of Namjoon’s back, gawking at him, thinking about this man - this gorgeous, curious, wonderful man - as her husband… a thought so fantastical it would make her squirm in her seat. Just as she was recovering from the thought, releasing the tension in her shoulders. The knots he didn’t know he caused, Namjoon kept the cups of coffee aside and extended his hand.

‘I give her all my love, that’s all I do…” To him, the instant she did it again, - the stretching her arms all the way up. The little moan she made every time she did that, the way her back arched and highlighted all her curves… it drove him, his body, his instinct to reach out.

“And if you saw my love, you’d love her too.”

The stomach flipped, again. This time, though, his instinct acted before his mind knew what he was supposed to do. Thankfully, his mind caught up -

He had just reached out. Reached out for her to claim him. But to one who didn’t know everything that had been going on inside both their hearts, it would look like he was inviting her to dance. Brishti looked at his hand and then at his eyes and suddenly Namjoon understood the reason for this magnetic pull... these lyrics is what she was saying all along -

“A love like ours could never die, as long as I have you near me...”

She took his hand & left no distance between them. Brishti realised there was music playing in the room only after she took Namjoon’s hand. Before this, she could only hear her own heartbeat, sharpened to an intensity never before experienced. Sharpened to a glint in a way that only love can. Love… and unmistakable, undeniable lust. Her heart had been beating with so much longing it had clouded everything else.

Now, in this moment, with his heart so close to hers, she could finally hear the music. This is what she had needed. This is what her heart had been pining for. And she knew. Without the shadow of a doubt she knew... he had heard her.

Brishti moved to the simple guitar strings that were tugging them both. The melody deepened each time the same four notes played. And each time they rooted deeper in the soil of her heart, she moved him too. His hands on her waist, caressing her curves everytime the four notes played. And they played over and over again… Namjoon followed the lyrics and sang along with his beautiful deep dark chocolate voice in her ears, saying -

“And I love her...”,

And his strong arms around her. How could she… Brishti, even if her name didn’t mean the rain, how could she have resisted pouring?

“Bright are the stars that shine, dark is the sky, I know this love of mine will never die...”

This evening was the first time they’d really touched each other. Stood so close to each other. Moved together.

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Oooooh god you read it?! Thank you so much! Please let me know what you think! Get into my messages about it! I would love to hear what you felt about this!

This is the song that's mentioned here in case anyone is curious.

[poodlejoonas]

Dad!BC AU - before and after

Because I’m feeling so soft tonight, I wanna share my thoughts on the guys before and after they become dads. Everyone knows that kids change people, but sometimes the change is nice and wholesome. 

I blame Joel and his sentimental edgy ass for that post on Instagram earlier.

(Under the read-more for length)

As the first dad of the group, Joonas was terrified of what the change would bring for him and Kirsten. He knew he would make his mistakes and he dreaded the day they would come. He was afraid that he was too immature to be a father - he read the comments online about him as a punk, about his Danish girlfriend who could barely read the hate comments written about her, and about their baby and how so many people “wished the poor girl luck” in dealing with a childish father like him. On top of that, Kirsten’s parents were begging her to leave Finland and him so they could help raise Sohvi because they thought they could do a better job than him. He was motivated to become the best dad he could be to prove them all wrong, but also to give his daughter the best life she deserved. He admits to his mistakes in the early days of fatherhood - he knows he should have been kinder to Kirsten when she was struggling mentally as a new mom.

Years later, with their third child on the way, the first two are a little bit older and they adore the hell out of their dad. Sohvi loves music like him and unapologetically stands her ground on the things she believes in. Lukas is a cannonball of a personality who loves the ice and playing hockey as much as his cousin Enkka. And the youngest of the Porkos, Jakob (aka “Jaska”) grows up to enjoy the softer things in life - reading, baking, knitting, and cuddling on a lazy day. Even through his busy schedule, he makes time to make memories with each of them in a way that matters to them - jamming out with Sohvi, skating with Lukas, and reading bedtime stories to Jaska. They all take his punk attitude, the very thing that many people used to discount his abilities to raise one child, let alone three. His family is perfect, and he realizes now that he had nothing to fear when he held his daughter for the first time.

--

Joel had never given the thought of a family of his own much consideration. He was too busy being a rock star and conquering the world, and he was afraid of what the change after having a kid would look like for him. He wanted to be happy for Joonas when he told the group in Rotterdam that he was going to be a dad, but he was afraid of losing his best friend to an uncertain future. He grew to love his niece, after some time and a little bit of effort on his part, but he still thought they just weren’t for him.

When he went out on a blind date with Emilia Peltonen months later, he wasn’t expecting it to go anywhere from there. But she gave him a second chance, and a third, and so on, until they were finally living together. Milli finally asked him what he thought of the idea of having kids, and he thought he needed “some time” to think on it. It took him all of about 12 hours to make up his mind, but they waited almost a full year before they were finally successful. In that time, he asked her to marry him, regardless of whether a baby would even come along. Still, he had his doubts about his own abilities to give his son a happy life - he was impatient and snappy, his mental health would fall apart some days, he was never the most affectionate person. And yet, none of that matters to little Viktor; Joel is his idol and, in his mind, he’s the coolest guy on Earth and he wants to be just like him someday. He teaches Enkka to skate and fosters his love for hockey and music. When Enkka needs a hug, either when he’s sleepy or he just woke up from a bad dream, he knows his dad will be there to catch him. So many people love to see that he went from being a dark edgelord online with a pessimistic sense of humor, to being the best dad and husband of their group whose public presence is covered with the signs of his pride in his family. Joel’s transformation surprised so many people, but the change was a welcome sight.

--

(TW: mention of miscarriage)

Niko wanted to be a dad from the beginning. When he dated Jenna in high school, the hopeless romantic in him dreamed of their little family and the future they would build together. He was devastated when they went their separate ways, thanks to their very different paths in life. He gave up on his dream of their little ones, until they crossed paths again. He knew he would be a fool to give up his second chance. He was overjoyed to learn that Jenna was pregnant with their first child; unlike the first two dads, he had no fears in the back of his mind that he would be a good one. As soon as he stepped into his house, he turned off the rock star Niko the world sees, and became Leevi’s dad and Jenna’s husband with every ounce of his being.

They made a promise to each other: when Leevi says his first word, it’s time for baby number two. Blissfully unaware of his parents’ plan to give him a sibling, Leevi watched Rommi walk by and blurted out his first word: kissa! Within two months, they were expecting their daughter to round out their little family. Lahja Rose was born the next February, two weeks past her original due date. Her father was a little heartbroken - she was supposed to be born on his birthday, hence the name Lahja (“gift”). But he was happy to finally have his little Rose to pay tribute to his favorite film (even if people made their fair share of jokes about it). They hit their first real snag as a family when, between 6 and 11 months, Lahja lived with on/off inner ear infections. Her parents did everything they could to help relieve her pain, eventually opting for surgery to fix it. Niko was a wreck for the full five months, refusing to leave his family’s side and being more than willing to fight anyone who disrespected his decision to have privacy with his family. Niko helped Jenna through the painful process of losing what would have been their third child. They mourned, they healed, and they decided that they were at peace just having their two.

--

Olli wanted to be a dad, but he was terrified when he learned he had two on the way. Kaarina wanted to laugh at his adorkable response to the news - “count them again” - but she knew his fears were valid. She’d known this man since they were children, and his response to the news was typical of him as an anxious mess under his cool and seemingly collected personality. Her fears were the same; after all, she had no idea what changes were to come for her health. But both girls had a hold on his heart long before they were even born. Olli was willing to do anything to make Riina and the twins feel comfortable until their arrival a week before Christmas. The moment Elina was placed in his arms and he saw the way Elisabet fit in Riina’s, he wondered where those fears even belonged now.

Well... just a little more than three months later, when he was convinced he’d gotten his wife pregnant again, Olli was rightfully scared shitless. He loved his girls, but he couldn’t have three kids before the first two even celebrated their first birthday. Having narrowly dodged that nightmare, he took all the next steps to ensure that it never happened again. He was happy with his two, and so was Riina. The Matelas spend their summers at their beach home, the twins developing as much of a love for the ocean as him. They wear the best coordinated outfits - but not matching though, Olli and Riina want them to maintain their own personality outside of being twins. He’s more than happy to let them put a tiara on him and invite him to their “garden tea party” in their shared room. It was tough at first, but he soon became a master of carrying one in each arm while they felt tall and safe with him. But he can be a bit strict with them sometimes; he loves them, but he doesn’t want them to follow in his footsteps as a rock star. He knows it can be difficult and fun, but he doesn’t want his daughters to fall victim to the lifestyle. And yet, Elisabet was determined to forge her own path in music, while Elina took to the ice like Lukas and Enkka as a figure skater. There was no use in trying to stifle their dreams. Olli’s proud of his girls, and he’s always wanted them to be happy.

--

Tommi’s family came pre-started. He was introduced to Marja Oksanen, a single mom to a young son who escaped a dangerous relationship with the father of her child. She was afraid that learning about her son would drive him away, that he wouldn’t bother with a single mom if she couldn’t put their relationship first. But Tommi loved this woman already, and someday he was sure he would love her son. He had his reasons to be wary around the boy since he’d never had a father figure in his life (outside of his Uncle Niko for the year or so that Marja and Miikka lived with him and Jenna). He let Miikka accept him first, and he waited for his cue before he grew into his role as his step-dad.

He readily agreed when Marja asked him if he wanted a baby with her (or “another cub” to fit the bear theme they adopted for their family). Tommi would have been happy to have several cubs with her. But when her pregnancy with Anna left her on constant bed rest and their daughter was born a month earlier than she should have, he couldn’t put her through that stress again. Marja’s health mattered more than the thought of a large family. Besides, he was more than happy with “Baby Bear” (Miikka) and “Cub” (Anna), because despite the fact that Miikka was not his son by birth, he was his son by love. And he was willing to defend that from anyone who dares to insult their family dynamic. Tommi is a master of being a dad; his energy calms both kids down when they’re stressed or in need of some love and understanding. It’s not an uncommon sight to see him with one on either side of him as the three of them relax in his recliner. So many people know Tommi as a man with a tough exterior, who doesn’t let his emotions show, doesn’t talk much, and doesn’t garner much attention in a room. But Tommi with his children is a different person altogether. He shares a side of him that belongs to his family.

--

As the last to become a dad, Aleksi had a wealth of experience to rely on when he needed help with his son. He made the difficult decision to voluntarily become a single dad when his ex-girlfriend Laila expressed zero desire to become a mother. He endured so much stress and heartache in the process, from Laila dragging him in the media over his decision to announce the pregnancy to being banned from Noah’s birth altogether. He first laid eyes on Noah when he was just under an hour old, having only been held by the nurses who prepared him to meet his father. He spared no expense in spending two nights in the hospital with him in a suite, even when Laila had long checked out and left without saying goodbye to either of them.

He felt a twinge of shame when he accepted help from Joonas in taking care of his son. He wanted to do it by himself and prove that he could be a good dad alone. But having a village of friends behind him helped ease him into everything that fatherhood would throw at him. When Noah is diagnosed on the autism spectrum when he’s three, Aleksi immediately learns everything he can to understand his son better. He becomes his biggest defender when people try to push him out of his comfort zone, telling him that they can respect his decision to wear his noise-cancelling headphones when he needs them or they can leave both of them alone. He learns sign language to communicate with Noah whenever he goes mute and he shows solidarity when Noah stims in public. He stays out of the dating scene for years to stop a revolving door of strangers from coming around his son who is shy around new people and lives with separation anxiety from losing his mother at a young age. But Hanna Laaksonen was the perfect exception, as a child psychologist with a Master’s degree in early childhood development. The rest of his friends watched as Aleksi fell in love with her and as Noah began to call her Mom. Still, Aleksi always put Noah first, the same as he always had, and Hanna respected that fact.

[lizacstuff]

Your thoughts on the epi? I thought it was a good episode overall. Serkan is acting the way I thought he would: he wants to be the perfect Dad, is scared she won't love him, is spoiling her but also teaching her things. I'm not quite sure why Kiraz isn't calling him Baba, maybe she needs time to adjust to calling him that. I have mixed emotions when it comes to the way Eda spied on Serkan. I understand she's worried but trust the man a little. No comments on Aydan and Ayfer! They are too much!

Hello! I liked the episode. It felt very light, very romcom-y and I thought it was very enjoyable to watch. Loved every minute of Serkan trying to be the ideal dad and I'm here for the Edser UST this ep brought. They want each other sooooo much. And, yes, Eda wants him, she wants him bad. I thought the custody thing at the end was silly and convoluted, but, hey, I'm totally here for the "they're not together and fighting their feelings, but forced to live together" trope so I will just ignore how unbelievable it would be for Edser to be drowning in hearteyes for each other all ep, getting along in regards to Kiraz, AND seemingly aware that Aydan/Ayfer were up to something and still allow a misunderstanding over their shenanigans to spiral to that nonsense degree.

Maybe the folks that think that Serkan & Eda were playing all the meddling family and friends are right, and they set it up beforehand, it's just that I've thought things were a fake out on this show so many times, only for them to be real, so at this point I'm operating under the assumption that this is just a romcom plot point to throw our romantic leads together and it's not worth examining it too closely.

I'll give my thoughts on the "Baba" vs "Serkan Bolat" thing and Eda's actions after we talk a bit about the B, C and D players... Thankfully we had plenty of Edser and Kiraz screen time this ep so the supporting stories didn't overwhelm the episode too much.

(much more under the cut)

That being said, who can we pay to get these people to mind their own f-cking business? LMAO. At least Engin and Piril weren't annoying and were actually trying to be helpful. I mean, Piril is still cancelled, but if she's not causing trouble now then she's not at the top of my shit list. However, I did laugh at her when she's sort of pleading with Serkan: "We've been friends for a long time, you'll understand why I did this." Um... what, Piril? You're sitting there approximately 72 hours after Serkan found out he has a child and he's already proven that he's ALL IN on being a father, and you expect Serkan to think you were right for hiding it from him? Cause why? He has already proven that any concerns you had about him rejecting Kiraz were invalid. The only thing wrong with Serkan's anger at Piril is that it will probably only last for that scene.

Anyone else think Kerem the assistant is an ass? Seriously, do they really want us to root for sweet Pina to be with this dickweasel? He's insecure, he thinks he knows it all, he's snarky and lashes out, he's vindictive. No thanks.

As for Aydan and Ayfer. Ooph. As punishment for their unprecedented assery this episode they both need to be stranded on a desert island with only each other. Only then maybe they'll learn not to insert themselves by such underhanded means. They're both giant pains in the ass, but Ayfer still annoys me more than Aydan. Because here's the thing, once Edser is back together and Serkan is happy, Aydan will fully embrace Eda again, but I don't think the same can be said for Ayfer. Did you see some of the bitchy, sour faces Ayfer was making, taunting Eda about her soft spot for Serkan. She's insufferable.

Turning to the nonsense meddling custody plot line, Kemal and Seyfi were just following orders, but what is Melo's excuse? It's unfortunate that the narrative pulled her into this. Ayfer may have her head in the sand, and not really care what Eda wants, but Melo does and she knew that Eda wanted to cooperate with Serkan and bring him into Kiraz's life, she knew that Eda was about 2 seconds from melting every time she was near Serkan, and that they were likely on the cusp of rekindling their relationship. There is no way she should have been complicit in trying to get evidence against Serkan or visiting lawyers behind Eda's back.

However, even after being complicit in Ayfer's nonsense, she still deserves a helluva lot better than Burak. That guy was annoying af this episode. What exactly does he think he's doing? I'm sorry, in that situation you step back and give the people going through such a monumental life change some space. Again, it's not like it needs to be forever, but you don't try and monopolize the kid's time the night of and 2 days after she meets her long-lost father. He needs to fuck all he way off.

Also since Eda had no interest in this guy, why is he coming over to tuck in the kid EVERY night? I get that he's been good to Kiraz and they have a nice relationship, but that's soooo overkill, it's just not normal. Especially since they've said they've only been living there a year. The only reason for a dude to revolve his entire life around a kid like that is because he's actively trying to get in the mom's pants. So when it comes to Burak's intentions, Eda is as dense as Serkan used to be with Balca/Selin/Actress. Burak only took that level of interest and inserted himself into their lives because he wanted Eda, and Eda should realize that and have a frank conversation with him. Eda doesn't even have to be cognizant that she will inevitably get back together with Serkan, she already knows she has no interest in Burak. She should tell him. And if she's already told him (which it seems she might have from her comments to Ayfer and Melo) she should put some boundaries in place because his presence was ridiculous.

It still blows my mind that this sad sack thinks he has a shot with Eda. Seriously, while the dude isn't hideous, he's also not attractive and he has the personality of dead grass coupled with the charisma of warm mayonnaise. He's not worthy of either Eda or Melo. The scene of Melo and Burak walking on the beach made me a bit uncomfortable. They're totally setting that relationship up, but so far all we see is Melo obviously harboring feelings for him as Burak broods over his Eda delusions. We'll have to see how this plays out, but I feel like Burak didn't need to be this upset over Eda for the story to work, and it would be a lot easier to root for him with Melo if by episode 5 if he wasn't still actively trying, as Engin said, to take over Serkan's family.

On to Edser and the newly forming Bolat family unit. It's funny, I'm not someone who thinks a woman needs to take her husband's last name, I think people should do whatever they want, but for whatever reason I really, really want Eda and Kiraz to have his name. Maybe because I think they all crave having people to belong to in a sense. Serkan because he was unloved and sent overseas alone at such a young age, Eda because she was an orphan, Kiraz because she didn't have a dad in early childhood. So for that reason, I really do feel like it will be meaningful to have them tied together that way as a family unit. They belong to each other now (or they will soon).

Along those lines, you say you're not sure why Kiraz isn't calling him Baba, narratively, I think it's because that will be a big milestone in their relationship. When she feels comfortable enough, connected enough, and secure enough with him to do that, it's going to melt all of our hearts right out of our chests. If she'd done it right away it wouldn't feel as special as it's going to feel when it eventually happens because she feels it (not just because it's a fact).

As for her calling him Serkan Bolat, I think it's adorable. That's how she knew him before, it would be weird if she called him anything other than that or Baba, (like Serkan or Abi) because then it would be like she was settling on that, but calling him by his full name, which is such a part of his identity, is cute and charming and pays tribute to the interactions they had before they knew of their relationship, and it's a signal that it's only temporary. Baba is coming, don't worry.

Loved Kiraz showing Serkan her room and all of her things, and really loved Eda standing there, smiling, soaking it in. I've seen a lot of criticism of Eda in this episode and she did have a few moments that were unnecessarily harsh, but I think it's also valid to give her a minute to adjust because this is a lot of change in just a couple of days. While she now knows Serkan had understandable, and even noble, reasons for what he did and said, that still doesn't erase the heartbreak and pain he put her through, or the 5 years of being a single mother and not having anyone to consult or needing to consult anyone on decisions regarding Kiraz.

I do think, though, that we didn't see Eda give him enough credit when he covered for her lies to Kiraz. When Kiraz asked her why she didn't tell her Serkan Bolat was her father and then asked him when mom didn't answer, he could have easily told the truth and thrown Eda under the bus, big time, but instead he comes up with something that passes as an explanation, doesn't make anyone a villain, but also doesn't make him look great. I wish we'd seen Eda recognize that. It was a magnanimous gesture on his part, since he and Kiraz were the ones who were lied to for 5 years.

However, her running a bit hot and cold this episode makes sense. On one hand when she's around him her heart feels that strong orbital pull towards him. She loves him. She always has loved him, she always will love him. Just like with Serkan, that will not change, and obviously didn't after heartbreak and separation. But it also makes sense that at times her head takes over and with it the fear and the memory of the pain and she freezes up a bit. It doesn't ding her or their love, she just needs time to let herself believe that this is really happening. That Serkan is back, that he still loves her, that he loves their daughter and wants to be a father and form a family. From the way she recorded those videos, how many times do we think she dreamed of them being a happy family together? I'm guessing a lot. Now it's within her grasp and I think she just needs to be sure that Serkan is for real before she fully succumbs to this dream.

She also needs to get over her pride, I'm sure there's a part of her (Ayfer's voice) telling her a woman doesn't go back to a man who hurt her that badly. But as we saw, girlfriend was snuggling with his shirt, she still has it so bad for him. But, pro tip, Eda, he wanted to stay the night, wouldn't it be so much more fulfilling to snuggle with the real thing? I promise it would... just let him in. The lawn scene was hilarious. Kerem is really and truly a gifted physical comedian. We know how tight the timelines are on this show and they don't get to do a lot of takes, but his stumbling over the furniture and falling was flawlessly done. Hande was great too... that bat! Of course the sexual tension in the robes and towel scene was magnificent. When she first walked in wearing that towell I thought my man was going to combust. That look on his face, priceless.

Speaking of priceless, what first-day Baba makes his little girl's dreams come true like Serkan Bolat does? Staying up all night to build her flying house? MY HEART!

What a fantastic first gift. It was incredibly thoughtful, it was meaningful to the two of them, and it was also Serkan giving a piece of himself (using his skills in what he does best as an architect) to her.

Absolute perfection.

And how sweet that Serkan wanted to spend the day with her alone!?! I really liked that because we all know he loves Eda, he wants Eda back, and he will use any excuse to spend time with Eda. And he could have done that here, but he doesn't. So the fact that he wanted to spend the day alone with Kiraz, clearly illustrates that his interest in Kiraz, his desire to be her father stands on it's own. Kiraz is not just an excuse to get close to Eda, he is pursuing both relationships, and they are both important to him.

Also you said that you have mixed emotions on the way Eda spied on Serkan, that she doesn't trust him, but honestly I really don't think it's about that. She might have been a little discombobulated by the idea because the man has never really spent any time with children and here he's thrust into fatherhood, but she trusts him and knows Kiraz is safe with him. Honestly, I think her biggest driving factor in following them is FOMO.

She doesn't want to miss this! She has wondered what kind of father he might be for years, and now she wants to witness it. She wants to be there and see what he's like when he's spending time with her. She also wants to be a part of it, and a part of her might be a little jealous. For years she's been the only parent, and now another parental bond is forming and it's natural she is curious what that's going to look like.

Melo even sees through her during their conversations while they're out spying. Eda pretends it's because she's worried that Serkan doesn't know what he's doing, but Melo susses out that it's really because she missed Serkan. I think she really just wanted to be a part of it.

And her ulterior motives are exposed when she reacts with jealousy over the park moms and then with Hulya. She's jealous over Serkan, but also over what it might mean if Serkan had a woman in his life that's not Eda. (Real simple way to ensure that doesn't happen, Eda, just saying). On first watch it was a little frustrating to watch Eda be upset about Huyla and not have it cleared up immediately. However, on the second time through I found it incredibly enjoyable to watch. Hilarious even. Knowing that Serkan is going to let her off the hook just a few minutes later, and it's not going to be a drawn out misunderstanding, it's very fun to watch him just totally bask in her jealousy. The way he sits there and giggles and is just so chuffed at her display was very endearing. Since he's been celibate for 5 years, I suppose he's earned an incrediulous laugh at her thinking he has all these women on the line.

Eda is not wrong to be concerned about the Bolat's ability to spoil Kiraz with material things, Aydan can get out of control, however I can't be mad at the pony. The girl asked him if he had horses the first day they met, she said she wanted a dad like Serkan who had horses, he HAD to get her one she could actually ride! The girl was deprived of her father for 5 years because both of her parents are stubborn, so, let's be real, she kinda deserves a pony. Besides Eda should be more worried about the "spoiling" she gets from her camp, where she, Ayfer, Melo and Burak let her get away with constantly running away/running wild, eating ice cream whenever she wants, being rude to strangers etc. The fact that she's taught it's okay to knock a customer's water over without apologizing is more damaging to a forming personality than a pony. (Yes, that was another dig at Burak.) The point is, spoiling isn't only about material things, and from the glimpses we've seen of Baba Serkan he's already taught her about taking responsibility (confessing to breaking the window and apologizing), being self sufficient (tying shoelaces, putting pjs on herself), and setting behavioral boundaries (don't shoot arrows at people in hotels, you shouldn't hug strangers). He's going to be a very good influence in her life, because despite growing up with material privilege the man believes in hard work, effort and personal accountability.

Anyway, loved that when Serkan told Eda about dinner with Engin/Piril/Can she looked so secretly pleased when she casually agreed to go. I think that goes hand in hand with why she was spying, she won't let herself admit it, but she so badly wants them to do things as a family. That was part of her tug o' war this episode. Wanting that, but then suddenly worrying that maybe she shouldn't want that after everything that's happened, those feelings are helped along by Ayfer's judgemental looks and comments, and Burak trying to assert his place and Eda maybe feeling guilty.

Eda's behavior at dinner perfectly summarized the war going on between her head and heart this episode. First she fights with Serkan, going so far as to tell him she hates him, but the second she gets good news she flings herself into his arms. He's the person she wants to celebrate with, he's the person she wants congratulations from. So even if she was mad at him, she can't help herself. Also thank you Engin for telling Eda how Serkan lost weight and didn't come to work for months after she left. Those are important things for her to know. Also reinforced later by Aydan.

And thank you, Jan, for planting that fear of her dad leaving again with Kiraz, because it gave us sleep over at the Bolat house. It also gave us Kiraz asking Serkan if he will leave her. A good question and I'm glad we have Serkan's promise to never leave her. Just with the way tragedy (and meddling family members and obsessed stalkers) seems to find both Eda and Serkan, it's good he's made that promise. And it's good that he knows she needs that promise.

Now onto the secret room. I suppose if you're going to keep all of that and you have a large house, then you might as well keep it in a special room. This was a huge missing piece for Eda. Something tangible that she can see with her own two eyes that proves that he never forgot her and has been pining for her since the day they parted. I thought Eda was suitably touched by it all, and the fact that he got her gifts for every birthday. Anyone else think that they're going to get married on the beach and she's going to wear those flip-flops, that white dress, and the locket when they do? That's what sprung to my mind. The Neslihan scarf product placement made me roll my eyes, though.

To be honest I really didn't care what the gifts were, all I cared about was that thank you cheek kiss. I DIE. The birthday-present-thank-you cheek kiss he gave her in 7 is one of my all time favorite scenes and this parallel was a long time coming and wonderfully executed. And then they delivered on the USTy stare off where they clearly want to make out, but they're not quite there yet. It was going to have to be Eda that broke them out of it, because up to Serkan they either kiss or he stares at her for the rest of time.

Did anyone else feel a crick in their back, neck, legs at how Eda slept on that couch? Serkan was as comfy as can be, stretched out using her legs as a pillow and her torso as a blanket, lol. I wish the editors would have given us a couple of more seconds lingering on them all contorted like that. It was too precious. It would have been sweet if they'd had Kiraz find them and watch them for a minute before waking them up. Show the parent-trapping gears turning in her mind.

Buba absolutely deserved Serkan showing up to spoil his outing. And of course both ladies instantly gravitated to Serkan. I liked this scene because it gave us over-the-top BDE Serkan, a whiff of "Drain the pool" Serkan, the comedy of Engin and Serkan doing the Cyrano thing, and the obvious little "fish" measuring metaphor. But what I really liked was Eda telling him that he didn't need to try so hard to win Kiraz, that he just had to be himself. That was important and lovely, and illustrated to him that she really did want him to develop a good relationship with Kiraz.

The best moments of the episode for them, though, came during their family stargazing outing. Loved Serkan's extra safety precautions, including the mirror just so he can see her in the backseat. Though, if he's that concerned about it, maybe a larger car, lmao? Kiraz tricking them into kissing was an auspicious start to the evening, hopefully that's a taste of things to come. I'm here for her forcing the two of them into intimate situations.

The way Serkan was looking at the two of them throughout the stargazing was something else. He was looking at them with such longing. Like he couldn't believe they were so close, but he wanted them so badly. DUDE, they are right there, continue to play your cards right (and not let Ayfer and Aydan spoil things, spoiler alert, they do) and you're just days away from having everything you want. Loved that he changed the Apollo story to give it the happy ending he wants. Hopefully, that gave hope to any doomsdayers out there that think this show is going to end in tragedy. (Spoiler alert, it's not).

The only shame is that they have that nice (if not detached from reality conversation since they pretend they're not going to be together raising Kiraz) adult conversation about cooperating and working out how they're going to deal with Aydan and Ayfer, only for things to go totally off the rails during said conversations. As I said off the top of this marathon post, it was totally unbelievable in the context of the rest of the episode, but as I always say you can't take this show too seriously, and I prefer to just enjoy the situations as they come and not get too annoyed when they take these writing shortcuts to drive the plot. I plan on very much enjoying Eda and Serkan forced to live together while they're (or at least she) is still pretending they're not going to end up together. Looks like next week is another fun romcom romp, and I'm here for it!

[hollenka99]

A God Walks Into a Temple

Summary: The Blood God is someone to be feared as much as revered. So that is why he is going to raise this baby he just met to be a soldier, definitely not for any other reason. Prologue of Blood and Feathers.

If you were to research the cultural history of piglins, perhaps one of the most prominent figures you will encounter is the Blood God. This deity can be found mentioned as far back as their records go. He likely predates any ancient literature they have. There are disputes, as with anything from that far back in history, as to his origins or his true role. Some say he is simply a war god for a race that easily become hostile. Others argue he is Death personified while a handful speculate he is specifically the patron of those who die bloody. Whatever attributes he is labelled as, be it war, bloodshed, death, chaos or vengeance, it is clear the Blood God is not an individual to be messed with. A significant piglin settlement is rarely devoid of some sort of effigy pertaining to their god, especially the ruins of old cities. A common sight is a golden statue portraying a grand piglin dressed in armour and armed with a sword, typically in a stance suggesting he is rallying his forces to fight and potentially fall in his name. The only method known to kill the Blood God is causing him fall in battle. Even then he will not be quashed for long. Within weeks, he will be reborn amongst his piglin brethren. His bloodthirsty nature will reveal itself before too long and his years of harsh yet necessary training will begin so he may lead his followers into battle once more. The last time the Blood God was defeated was centuries ago. The days of his youth in this life are faded memories. The blood that he has witnessed with these eyes alone has been enough to replace vast bodies of water. He has admired each tribute to him, dilapidated and well maintained alike, countless times. He's not even sure of the quantity that have been sacrificed in his name by this point. Functional immortality can get dull, repetitive even, with enough time. So perhaps it’s a good thing he finds himself passing an avian settlement that night. The valley is populated by a small city. The architecture is tall, practically dominated by skyscrapers. There is a temple a fair distance away at another point of the rim surrounding the place. In the darkness, he can just about make out a series of stairs leading up to it, all well lit by lamps. The local area up here is full of farmland. However, it would seem the year's harvest has been collected by now. A small gathering exit the temple. They disband with some flying home and others ushering themselves down the stairs reminiscent of defeated troops. That is the least of his concerns though, especially given his divine visitor who lands beside him with a swoop. "Well well well, this is a rare sight. Bit far from the Nether, aren't you, Blood God?" "Perhaps. And you are? Sky goddess undoubtedly but which one? There are a few of you." She gives him a thoughtful smile. From her hair, she retrieves a yellow flower which she proceeds to twirl within her fingers for a moment. "Celandine. Perhaps you are more familiar with my mother, Aderyn, the Mother of Birds." "Sure. You're all the same anyway." "Oh, is that so?" She laughs in mock offense. "Then I suppose all piglins and Netherworlders are of the same breed too." He grunts in acknowledgement that she has spoken but gives her words no further attention. Instead, he gestures towards the temple and asks "What's going on down there, some ritual?" "Ah." She gazes in the same direction as him. "Now that would be the Offering of Hatchlings. They do this every year. As you may or may not have noticed, the wind have been growing colder recently. They've gathered the year's harvest and it is time for them to temporarily migrate to a warmer climate. But, of course, they want us to ensure their journey is a successfully safe one. For whatever reason, they've convinced themselves the way to sweeten the deal is to leave two of their children that were born in the past 12 months behind for us along with other gifts. Come, I'll show you if you'd like." "Well, I got nothing better to do. Lead the way." The interior wasn't anything significant. White walls surrounded them without a ceiling. What did surprise the Blood God, however, was how there was more room to walk around than the view from outside gave the impression of. That said, the centrepiece of the room is, by far, the large sculpture that resembled a nest, filled with cushioning. Surrounding it are gifts like samples of freshly yielded crops, gems and gold ingots. Situated on top are two winged infants in white gowns that had been abandoned as part of the ritual. On the left was a girl with hair as dark as her complexion and light purple feathers that may grow richer in tone as she ages. She bawls from fresh abandonment but the empty air is yet to pay her any notice. Then to the right was her companion who was seemingly slightly older and far calmer. The boy stares up at him with blue eyes that match the gradient of his wings. He does not cry or murmur despite the ceremonial desertion of his parents or the oversized figure (even by piglin brute standards) of a god looming over him. The infant... even breaks into a tiny smile at him. "They just leave them out here? Surely there must be some parents that get attached to their child." "Oh, of course, all the time. Some see it as a great honour but others do view it as a great loss, yes." She sighs. "I have made it my vocation to watch over their community and ensure these chosen children are kept safe. I even bless them with longevity so that they may endure far into old age. There is another town far from here where I send them. There's always someone who is willing to raise a new arrival." "I see." He does not know nor understand why the notion appears in his mind. He has no reason to care about some dumb baby, especially not one who isn't even remotely the same species as him. Caring about living things isn't on brand for him either. Nah, he was more the type to make things stop living, not ensure their survival. Although... he could use this as an opportunity to raise a warrior whose skills were on par with his and those of his greatest recruits. Maybe if this experiment produces successful results, he will consider home growing armies' worth of overworlder children. Oh, who is he kidding? He simply wants a change of pace, a new experience. As far as he can recall across the spans of all his lives, he has rarely troubled himself with trivial distractions such as a family or passing his knowledge based of vast years of experience to the next generation. Who says he can't break that pattern? "What if I took this one with me, the boy?" She raises an scrutinising eyebrow. "Are you sure?" "I have lived eons. How difficult can one child be to maintain?" The incredulous look towards him persists before laughter unfurls from her mouth. She comments something about how he is setting himself up for more than a few surprises. It bears no consequence since she complies with his request regardless. As Celandine advises him on the basics like how to hold the boy and gods above, no, you cannot feed him cow's milk as to compensate for a lack of his mother's own. Shortly before the pair depart for their new life together, he is told the child's name is Phillip. He see no reason to change it.

[ohprettyweeper]

After You’re Gone

Moved from my previous fic blog.

Summary: Moving on is never as easy as they say it is. Pairing: Tyler x Reader Word Count: 1240 Warnings: Angst. The sad kind. I’ll put other ones in the tags because I don’t wanna spoil the fic. Song Inspo: You Were Meant for Me - Jewel; I was singing this song in the shower and boom fic idea. Doesn’t go exactly with the song – anyway. Enjoy the sadness. 

At six o’ clock on the dot, your alarm buzzed on the nightstand. You slapped it off, but didn’t bother with the snooze button. You had been awake off and on for the last few hours trying to get comfortable anyway, and the doctor had recommended a regular routine to get you out of the depths to which you had sunk over the last few months. That meant getting up at the same time, having the same thing for breakfast, taking the same route to and from work — all of it. Your routine would change soon enough, but while you had control over your agenda, you would manage as best you could.

The dishes from your usual pancakes and eggs rinsed off easily enough. From there it was on to brushing your teeth, wiping down the mirror and the sink, then making the short walk to work. The weather was dreary but warm, so you didn’t mind. With your keys safely in your purse and the door to your new place locked behind you, you took the steps one at a time and took a left on the sidewalk.

“Hey, Y/N. How’s it today?” your mother asked when you called her.

“Same as every day since Tyler’s been gone,” you replied flatly, nodding a thank-you to the lady at the coffee cart. “You sound out of breath, what are you doing?”

“Taking a walk. Figure I should get out more. You should too, you know. I know you went out with your brother the other day. It’s not the end, sweetheart. It’s an ending, and a new beginning.”

You licked your lips; she was going to go on one of her positive lifestyle rants soon and you weren’t in the mood. “Hey, work’s calling on the other line. I’ll check in with you tonight.”

She didn’t like it, you could tell her tone when she said goodbye. You shook your head and stuffed your phone in your bag. It had been three months, and that wasn’t really that long. Not after something like you and Tyler had came to an end the way it did.

A few blocks from the office, rain started to pour from the cloudy sky.

“Perfect,” you muttered out loud. With a groan of frustration, you pulled your hood up over your head and dropped the coffee into the nearest bin. You shouldn’t be drinking it anyway, and it would only spill during your jog to work.

“You’re soaking!” Ashley exclaimed as soon as you arrived at your cubicle. She helped you out of your jacket, though you assured her you were fine. “You should have hailed a cab.”

“It was a few blocks. What’s the point?” you shrugged. “Is the new issue out?”

Ashley nodded. “They’re already loving your article, Y/N.”

You swallowed hard. “Good. That’s good. It’s good for the magazine.”

“Editor picked some great photos from the ones you picked out. You should check it out, when you get home.”

The newest issue of Rolling Stone slapped onto your desk. You quickly shoved it into your bag; you didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to see his picture and read the words you had written about him and Josh and being part of their lives. That wasn’t reality anymore.

“Are you getting out at all?” Ashley asked quietly.

“Saw a movie the other night, with my brother. It was a comedy, but it just wasn’t — nothing’s funny right now. I’m sure it will be at some point but right now, it’s just not. I’m too sad. Almost made me miss him more. We laughed together all the time.” A smile snuck to your lips as you thought back to all the jokes and pranks and laughs for stupid reasons you had shared with Tyler. As stealthy as the memories were, the smile wasn’t strong enough to exercise facial muscles you had only forced your body to use since he had been gone.

Ashley went back to her work then, for which you were honestly grateful. Nothing anyone could say was enough or helpful anymore. You just had to work through this on your own.

You stayed through the whole work day, forcing those fake smiles and making small talk with co-workers who didn’t know you as well as Ashley and would still try to give you small tidbits of quasi-wisdom. It all sounded like bullshit that should be embroidered on a pillow or printed on t-shirts; you hated every bit of it. It wasn’t in you, however, to be rude, so you simply thanked them for their kindness and moved on.

After a light supper, you decided you would just spend the rest of the evening in bed. You brushed your teeth, put the toothpaste and toothbrush away, then decided to leave the bathroom light on, cracking the door slightly so that light still illuminated the bedroom. That with the television on in the background should help you sleep.

Since getting through the day took most of your energy and you needed a good release anyway, you pulled the new Rolling Stone issue from your bag. You settled under the comforter and against the pillows, pulling an extra one behind your back for more support.

Inside: Y/N Joseph Pays Tribute to Twenty One Pilots

You already knew the page number, so you flipped there quickly. There it was, your article recounting how you had met Tyler and Josh at a party for the magazine, quickly connected with Tyler and been married just under two years later, all the while forming a friendship with Josh that was just as strong as the one he had with Tyler. Just ahead of your article, in italics, was a foreword from the magazine. As if anyone needed a reminder or explanation for the event that had prompted your article.

In January of 2019, Tyler Joseph and Josh Dun were returning from the European leg of their tour when the plane carrying the two-man band and crew crashed in the mid-Atlantic. There were no survivors.

Instead of wiping your tears — because what was the point — you let them fall freely as you read over the final version of your article. In the interest of your own mental health and progress through the first stages of the grieving process, you had allowed your editor and Ashley to handle the final layout. They only needed a few pictures, but you couldn’t narrow it down, so they did — and they had chosen perfectly.

After you finished reading the article, you dropped the magazine on what should have been Tyler’s side of the bed. You let your head fall back so that you were staring at the ceiling, and rubbed your belly. In a couple more months, the bittersweet arrival of your first and only child with Tyler would no doubt bring you equal amounts of happiness and sadness, experiencing it all without him. Remembering that you would always have this child to remind you of the love you and Tyler had shared in those few, short years, was the one thing that kept you going anymore.

With that thought in mind, you closed your eyes and silently thanked your husband for leaving you with a small piece of him to get you through the darkest days on you would spend alone, then closed your eyes and attempted a much needed sleep.

[julia-highstorms]

Undermount series: The Heir to House Nightbloom

Chapter 1 - Shocking News

Summary: The story revolves around Luxia (my MC), who has her life turned upside down when both her parents die and she’s back to Undermount, to live with her grandfather, Sir Emrys Nightbloom, a respected scholar and private professor to the most influential houses. Now, being an outsider to the elven society, she must learn its culture and traditions and how to fit in (or not). While falling in love with the heir to the Ascendent House, Tyril Starfury.

Author’s note: I am very excited with this idea and it had been playing in my mind for a while now, so I thought “what the hell!” and I am finally posting the first chapter here! I wanted to write a couple more chapters before start posting it because I know me and it will take me 84 years to post a new chapter 🤦 but oh welp. Maybe posting it now I force myself to write more regularly? Who knows. Anyway, sorry in advance for the lateness of upcoming chapters.

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Pixelberry Studios.

Rating: T (trigger warning: death, violence)

Pairing: Tyril Starfury x Luxia Nightbloom (F!Elf!MC) - read more about them here

Word count: +1.8K

___________________

Chapter 1 - Shocking News

The young lord leaned comfortably against his favorite armchair and looked outside the window, admiring the House Starfury Gardens. 

That was one of the few moments in which he could sit down with a book in his hands and relax. Just relax.

As Tyril reached majority, more and more responsibilities were passed down to him by his father - Valir Starfury, the current Lord Starfury -, which the young man accepted proudly. Sooner or later, they knew he would inherit that duty as Valir aged and his health declined, so it was only natural that his first born child would take his place as the head of the House. 

So, those rare moments of complete peace were always welcoming to the young man. Whenever he had a spare moment in his agenda, Tyril would lock himself in his study room to read and let his imagination run free. He firmly believed that few activities could bring him such joy as reading.

But today, somehow, he was unable to do so. He tried to pick up where he had stopped in the book, but was unable to focus. So he picked his favorite map and opened it. Sometimes, when he was unable to concentrate, he liked to open the old map and study all those places he had read about. Whitetower, Port Parnasus, Flotilla… Places he was sure he would never see in real life, only in his imagination.

But that proved to be an equally unsuccessful activity. The young lord did not know why, but he was feeling restless today. 

Finally giving up after his fifth frustrated trial, Tyril decided to just relax. He watched the scene that unfolded in the house's gardens through the large windows for a few moments, the world complete serene. 

He wondered to himself why the gardener was watering the plants when it was clear that it was going to rain soon. The sky was filled with dark and low clouds.

But his thoughts were soon interrupted when Adrina stormed into the room. He turned his face to his younger sister and raised a single eyebrow, surprised by that display of rushness.

"My dear brother, I've finally found you!" - she panted out of breath, her cheeks flushed. - "You won't believe what happened!" - but even before he could ask her what indeed had happened, she spilled it in a rush of words: - "Sir Nightbloom's son and daughter-in-law are dead and his granddaughter is back to Undermount!"

___________________

A week earlier

House Nightbloom was fated to great things.

At least, that was what Emrys Nightbloom stated and firmly believed. 

Those from that house were known to be great scholars, masters of a greater magic and undying loyalty, with generations and generations of tutors and professors who dedicated their lives to teach young lords and ladies of the nobler houses, gaining status and prestige through the centuries. 

They were one of the ancient houses, but had lost their importance through the years since the Great War, when Gustaf Nightbloom decided to flee instead of staying and fighting. But as Sir Emrys himself believed, better be an alive coward than a dead hero, because those that were able to move worlds were the alive ones. And that was what the past generations of the House Nightbloom had been doing since their embarrassing display during the fatidical war. They were great strategists and were able to restore some of their previous glory through the last millennia. 

They would never be a noble house - unless one of their descendants married a noble house -, but they attended that social circle closely. 

Sir Emrys Nightbloom was its current head and a very respected professor within the elven society, having taught some of the great houses' lords himself. Such as Lord Valir of House Starfury, the current Ascendent House. And his heirs, Young Lord Tyril and Lady Adrina. By this, it was easy to presume how old he was.

But Sir Nightbloom had never been ashamed of his age. In fact, he was very proud of it. He had lived longly and greatly, and was among one of the wisest citizens of Undermount.

And being that wise, he knew that he was doomed. House Nightbloom had no direct heir.

Of course it wouldn't cease to exist, but when he died - which he was pretty sure would happen sooner than later. It didn't matter he had been saying that for the last 30 years, he knew this year he would definitely go -, the House's leadership would pass on to his younger brother, Qildor, who wasn't much younger than him, but much less… wise. His hobbies were playing card games and drinking lots and lots of elven wine. Old Emrys was worried that his brother could bring shame and dishonor to the House Nightbloom again, after all those centuries of hard work from their ascendents.

If only his only son, Kal, hadn't decided to be an adventurer and leave Undermount… Sir Nightbloom would be feeling much more secure about the House's fate.

It was a cloudy Saturday afternoon, and the old man found himself in his garden - besides teaching, Sir Nightbloom's great passion was taking care of his collection of exquisite flowers and trees -, when Siveril, the butler, came running toward him.

"Urgent news, Master Nightbloom. I'm afraid they're disturbing."

"Well then, shoot!" - he said, not taking his eyes off of his majestic yellow hibiscus.

The other man nodded and stepped closer to whisper into his ear. Sir Nightbloom's eyes widened and he even let the pruning shears he was holding fall onto the floor, as shock spreaded through his body. 

"Are you sure?" - he asked after Silveril helped him to sit down on a bench. 

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"Both of them?" - the butler nodded. - "And… and… what about Luxia?" 

___________________

Everything happened in a blur.

One moment, she was laughing and talking with her parents, and the next moment, the small village they lived in, Riverbend, and their house was invaded and they were attacked by a bandit raid that took the lives of a dozen of villagers. Including her parents.

Luxia's mother promptly ordered her to hide inside the supply closet in the kitchen. She heard everything, her parents' cries as the blade slashed through their flesh, drawing out blood, while she forced herself to be as quiet as possible as they were being killed.

She crawled out of her hiding place only after she was sure that the bandits had left her house.

The young elf was found by Kade - her neighbor and childhood friend - and other villagers just hours later, after the bandits had been dealt with. The young human's parents had been killed too, but luckily, he was outside at the time of the attack.

The last two days went on a frenzy. The village's physician had examined her and stated that, although she didn't suffer physically, she was deeply traumatized. She had the vague memory of being asked if she knew about any relative she could have, and she told them about her grandfather in the elven city of Undermount, to the north. 

She still could hear their screaming ringing in her ears, and the scene she saw when she left her hiding place. She found her parents lying on the floor, both dead. There was so much blood, the furniture and walls were stained by it. Their bodies dilacerated. They were stabbed to death.

She kept staring at them, unable to move or to do anything. The neighbors' screamings and cries for help could be heard from outside as the bandits invaded other houses, but Luxia couldn't pay attention to any of it. All she could think about was that Mom and Dad were gone.

Now, two days later, she was again staring down at her parents' and other villagers' bodies. Kade's parents were among them. Luxia was lined up with the other survivors, paying their tributes to those who had lost their lives in that vicious attack.

Even though Kal's and Irin's corpses lied in front of her, covered by blankets, waiting to be buried along with others, she still felt numb and overwhelmed by all of those events. She was unable to let a single tear out.

The burial was long and painful, everyone helping and digging graves for the dead, and it took the whole day. Those who had lost their families were being taken care of by other villagers. A kind farmer took her and Kade under his protection.

She was left in one small bedroom by herself and her thoughts. The young elf lied down and tried to sleep, but she just couldn't shut her eyes. Her mind kept replaying the events of the past couple days again and again and endless questions popped up in her head.

How could that have happened? Could she have done something to save her parents? Should she have been killed with them? What was she going to do now? She had nobody. Of course, the people of Riverbend wouldn't throw her away and she knew a thing or two about medicine and cures… she could work with it.

She tossed around the narrow bed. Mom… Dad… What was she going to do? She already missed them. She felt so alone… 

And then. An idea popped up in her head. 

The girl sat up and looked over to the old desk across the room. Not thinking twice, she went over there, lighting up the candle and pulling a blank sheet of paper and a pen. And started writing.

Emrys Nightbloom. That was the name of her grandfather. She knew her father and he didn't see each other in the eye, but he was the only family she had left.

Although she had grown up in Riverbend, and she had few friends there, like Kade, they weren't her family. And she had been and would always be treated differently. Because she was an elf. Maybe, among others like her, she would feel less of an outcast. Although she didn't have much faith in it. 

Her grandfather and she were nothing but strangers, but still, she was positive that he would take care of her. He was family after all, and one thing she knew for sure was that the most important thing in the elven world was your House. Your family. So, she had to try something. 

That same night, Luxia sent away her letter. She didn't know exactly her grandfather's address, but she knew that just writing down the House's name meant something. Her father would often say that House Nightbloom had a sort of status. Hopefully, it was status enough to bring her letter to grandpa.

And so, only after three days she had sent her letter and had buried her parents, an answer from Sir Nightbloom himself arrived and he was taking her under his care.

Luxia left Riverbend that same night, taken by her grandfather's maid.

___________________

Tagging: @hellomynameisdevi @thequeenchoices @srta-give-me-my-jax-rl @soft-for-drake @ohsnapitzlovehacker @melodyofgraves @sitsoncornflake @keviriass @lady-kaya-duskraven @tealtranquiltatter @vanillamaa @my-remedy-is-euphoria @choicesloversstuff @tyrils-star  @lxdy-starfury  @caaliyahxx @choicesarehard @fireycookie @sophie-summer @dalishessence @choicesficwriterscreations  (and if you’d like to be tagged, just tell me 🙂)

[sorenskyhigh]

What Would They Be Like as Your Roommates?

👮‍♂️ Daichi Sawamura 👮‍♂️

You needed help paying the bills to your apartment

Daichi needed a place to stay and had a great resume, as well as great tribute towards the contract and rules

Very early riser

Has an alarm that goes of at like 4-4:30 in the morning

I feel like Daichi would have a very simply but strict morning schedule that he keeps

He would wake up, do some sit-ups and push-ups along with some stretches and then goes for a jog

He would wear really baggy sweats and muscle shirt or long sleeved (no matter the weather)

I feel like Daichi would have such a strict morning schedule that he would stop by the same coffee shop every morning and order the same drink and breakfast sandwich

He'd eat his breakfast, shower, and then start his day when he gets back

Daichi is a very considerate person so I also feel like, when he could afford it, he would buy you your favorite drink and breakfast food from that coffee shop

He'd say it was a peace treaty for being such a good sport and putting up with his early morning routine

Daichi would 100% HARP ON YOU to work on having a healthier diet and sleep schedule

I also feel like whenever he goes for an extra jog he would always without fail, ask you if you ant to join him even if you always politely decline

Daichi probably wouldn't have time to cook very often so when you do he would be SO SO SO thankful and happy that you thought of doing something for him

Daichi has a metal baseball bat right beside his bed just in case someone breaks, change my mind

I feel like Daichi's side of the room would be SUPER organized and very well put together, just like him 😉

Daichi has an album in his photos for each team member as well as one that's just labeled 'Nekoma' and is mostly pictures of him, Suga, Asahi, Kuroo, Yaku, Bokuto, and Akaashi

Daichi talks all the time about his memories with his friends and is always showing you pictures that go along with the story or to remind you who he's talking about

Daichi would, I feel, repeat stories a lot bc he's just so proud of what they did or missed them so much ya know

Daichi has scared off a creepy teacher that has threatened to fail you if you didn't sleep with them

Daichi will 100% drop everything and come to excort you to your guys' apartment if you don't feel safe

If Daichi were to work with a K9, he would definitely show off all the things his dog can do with the proudest dad smile ever!!!

You also notice that when you two go out grocery shopping during the day if it's a week day and around lunch, he'll buy some food and take it to a silver haired friend of his from highschool

Daichi did manage to get you to take a jog with him (later in the day, not his morning one) and he smoked you

He did come back and said very up beat "Why don't we end it here for today, huh?"

You and Daichi watch really terrible horror movies and talk shit about them

When Diachi is working out at home bc it's raining or something he listens to heavy metal or R&B, you can't tell me otherwise 😤

👩‍🏫 🏫 Sugawara Koushi 🏫 👩‍🏫

Moved into the dorm first

The whole 'are-you-sure-you're-okay-we-can-totally-switch-sides' conversation

I feel like Suga wouldn't have a super organized side but its not a mess either

Just a stack of papers here, some books there and maybe clothes over there but he keeps it relatively clean

Suga has a small cactus that he named either Isako (the sand child) or Yoshino (respectful, good)

Or he named it Tsukki after Tsukishima Kei bc it's prickly but just misunderstood, and if so, he also has a marimo he named Yamaguchi to Tsukki wouldn't be lonely

Suga probably wouldn't study inside your guys' room but instead would make a couple friends and have a study group bc he misses the noise of the team 😥

But he also wants to learn how to help people with varying personalities since he's going to be a teacher

When you all study you either study in a library or outside under a tree in a circle

During winter he always has either hot chocolate or coffee for everyone just the way you each like it bc he remembers those things

Suga also knows your birthday, anyone in your family that you're really close to's birthdays, and he probably knows your parents/guardians anniversaries

Disney 👏 movie 👏 marathons 👏 with 👏 blankets 👏 and 👏 snacks 👏

Suga only shares the plethora of snacks he hides in your room or he steals from the cafeteria with you when you two are hanging out in your room, sometime Daichi and his housemate join

Suga would help you choose and outfit for a date or interview and would be aggressively hyping you up the entire time

Suga definitely helps you with any family or relationship issues you have (he may go out and threaten/kill your exes)

Suga always walks everyone back to their rooms after a long study session if they live ilon campus. If they don't he asks them to text him when they get home so he knows their safe

Group 👏 Lunches 👏

You all always eat together and Suga goes with you to get everyone's food orders

Suga has a small chest of flash drives that are F.U.L.L. of pictures of his old teammates all the way back to his first year in highschool. He also has some videos stored in there and is always taking pictures

Suga wants to remember EVERYTHING

He's the reason why Daichi has so many photos bc he sends them to him

When Suga starts interning he always come home with the biggest grin

He loves spending time with the kids and will tell you stories about them all the time

You went to visit him during his break and all the kids were on him like white on rice

The kids loved him but he definitely wasn't a pushover

Those kids were well behaved because of him 👌

Whenever you'd visit him on his break, Daichi is always there already and brought him lunch

The kids have picked up on the energy that those two are dropping and LOVE Daichi, they think he's so cool 😎

I want to continue this with more characters and I plan on doing a 'They help you build gingerbread houses.'

So if you want me to continue this and act on the other idea let me know 😁

@popcorntime-doodles @multifandombrainrot

@vaniatslover

[creepingsharia]

Families of service members killed, wounded by Saudi jihad mass shooting at Florida Naval Air Station file lawsuit

Pensacola Navy base mass shooter had accomplices, help from Saudi Arabia, victims claim in terror lawsuit

Families of three slain U.S. service members and 13 others wounded in a mass shooting at Naval Air Station Pensacola in 2019 alleged Monday that the government of Saudi Arabia facilitated the attack that U.S. authorities concluded was an act of international terrorism.

A 152-page complaint in federal court in Pensacola makes startling new allegations that the shooter, Royal Saudi Air Force 2nd Lt. Ahmed Mohammed al-Shamrani, executed the attack with the support of “accomplices.” Those included fellow Saudi air force trainees, who he told of his plans at a dinner the night before and during a November visit to the 9/11 memorial in New York City to pay tribute to the hijackers, the plaintiffs alleged.

Al-Shamrani, who was killed by responding sheriff’s deputies, worked with al-Qaeda of the Arabian Peninsula for five years to plan the Dec. 6, 2019, attack, U.S. authorities said last May after de-encrypting his phone.

The families also accused the Trump administration and Saudi government of reneging on pledges of support for families.

“In the eyes of the American people, there is no greater betrayal than the realization that a purported ally is, in fact, an enemy, “ the lawsuit asserts. It seeks damages for an attack the families say was caused by Saudi Arabia and its willful or grossly negligent acts in sending a terrorist operative “Trojan horse” into a U.S. program to train pilots flying billions of dollars of U.S.-sold warplanes.

“I think they knew he was out to destroy the American people, and he was a terrorist. Innocent lives were loss. It should have never happened,” said Evelyn Brady, a 20-year Navy veteran whose son, Airman Apprentice Mohammed Haitham, 19, was killed while running unarmed toward the shooter with his hands up, pleading with him to stop.

“They were supposed to take care of the families. … They’ve done nothing,” said Brady, who is represented with other plaintiffs by law firms led by Kreindler & Kreindler, which is also suing the kingdom on behalf of 9/11 victims and survivors.

A U.S.-based attorney for the Saudi government and spokesman for the Saudi Embassy in Washington did not immediately respond to a request for comment.

The lawsuit comes as U.S.-Saudi relations have fallen to a new low since January, with the new Biden administration canceling arms sales, criticizing human rights abuses and the harassment of dissidents and pledging to “recalibrate” ties with the kingdom and its de facto ruler, Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman.

The administration has said it will continue arms sales to the world’s biggest customer for U.S. weapons and signaled that it wants to continue a strong counterterrorism partnership.

But it is also expected to make public as early as this week a long-sought U.S. intelligence report concluding that the crown prince ordered the 2018 killing of journalist Jamal Khashoggi, and to press Riyadh to end its war in Yemen and to moderate their own extremism.

A State Department spokesman said it declined to comment on pending litigation, but the Pensacola families’ allegations further complicate U.S.-Saudi ties. There are also pending federal lawsuits against the prince and other Saudis by Khashoggi’s fiancee and by a former top Saudi intelligence officer and close U.S. intelligence ally now living in Canada who claims he was also targeted for assassination.

Saudi Arabia has been frequently targeted by terrorist groups, including al-Qaeda, which carried out large-scale attacks beginning in 2003, and more recently by assailants sympathetic to the Islamic State group. Attacks have been directed at government facilities, Westerners stationed in the kingdom and members of Saudi Arabia’s Shiite minority, who are considered heretics by hard-line Sunni Muslims.

In January 2020, then-Attorney General William P. Barr announced that the 15-minute rampage at the Florida base was an act of terrorism, with the FBI concluding that  Shamrani was motivated by “jihadist ideology.”

Barr and aides said that while it was initially reported that Shamrani arrived at the shooting site with others, who filmed it, he in fact arrived alone and that the investigation had not found evidence that anyone else acted with him.

Barr said 21 cadets from Saudi Arabia, including 12 from the Pensacola base, were disenrolled from their training and would be returning to the kingdom after U.S. officials said they found evidence that 17 Saudis had shared Islamist or anti-American material through social media. Fifteen — including some of those who had shared anti-American material — were found to have had contact with or possessed child pornography.

Barr said U.S. attorneys had reviewed each case and determined that such people would not normally be charged with federal crimes.

The families’ Pensacola lawsuit makes more specific allegations. They claim that Saudi authorities knew of the radicalization and anti-American and anti-Jewish statements of  Shamrani — an al-Qaeda operative who made his first contact with al-Qaeda of the Arabian Peninsula by at least 2015 — which he shared via Twitter.

Shamrani was nevertheless one of two out of hundreds of students in his Royal Saudi Air Force Academy class awarded a scholarship to enter a joint military training program in the United States, the suit asserts.

It also claims that the Saudi commanding officer on base and 11 other trainees it did not name knew that Shamrani purchased and stored a 9mm handgun and ammunition on base in violation of U.S. and Saudi policy; and that Saudi officials left the commanding officer’s post unfilled from September 2019 until after the shooting.

“None of the Royal Saudi Air Force trainees at the scene of the attack reported  Shamrani’s behavior nor did they try to stop the NAS Terrorist Attack, because they supported it,” the suit asserts.

On Sept. 11, Shamrani posted a message on social media saying, “The countdown has begun,” and later that month sent a copy of his will to AQAP purporting to explain the coming attack, the suit alleges. That Thanksgiving weekend, the suit said, al-Shamrani visited the memorial in New York City to those killed in the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, in which 15 of 19 hijackers were Saudi nationals.

Read the lawsuit here

The suit alleges that during the visit, the trainees “discussed the plans for the NAS Pensacola Terrorist Attack.” It also asserts that on Dec. 5, the night before the attack,  Shamrani hosted a dinner party for fellow trainees at which he screened videos of mass shootings and discussed his plans for the next day.

At least three trainees who attended the dinner called in sick the next morning, one of whom stood outside the building and recorded the shooting on his cellphone while two others watched from a nearby car, the suit claims.

That so many trainees were at least sympathetic to al-Qaeda and that several were “actually accomplices” demonstrates their belief that their extremist views “were in furtherance of [the kingdom’s] political and religious goals,” the suit claims.

Killed in the attack were Ensign Joshua Kaleb Watson, 23, of Enterprise, Ala., a recent Naval Academy graduate; Haitham, of St. Petersburg, Fla,; and Airman Apprentice Cameron Walters, 21, of Bryan County, Ga., days removed from boot camp and serving his first day on watch duty, who Shamrani approached from behind and shot in the back of the head.

Four Navy service members, a Navy civil servant, seven sheriff’s deputies and a Department of Defense police officer wounded in the attack also joined the suit. Two are partially disabled for life, including Airman George Johnson, 26, and Jessica Pickett, 20. Johnson, a single parent who now must use a cane, was hit seven times, including one bullet that was blocked by a metal “I love you” card from his mother in his wallet. Pickett, a Navy veteran and civilian employee, was struck nine times and has a metal rod in her left leg, a gap in her femur and requires a walker or wheelchair.

After expressing terrorist views for two years before being chosen for a coveted slot, training overseas to become a pilot, “An officer in their uniform murdered three Americans,” said Walters’s father, Shane Walters, 47, a former Navy F-18 Hornet mechanic and sales team manager at Gulfstream Aerospace.

“Why? How did he get here? They had to have known. … It’s shameful,” Walters said.

Walters condemned the Trump administration for failing to prioritize “dealing face-to-face” with the Saudis over the attacks. He also rebuked former president Donald Trump and the Saudi royal family for never personally speaking with the families of the killed or wounded U.S. service members.

The Trump administration was preoccupied with striking new arms and diplomatic deals and coddled Saudi Arabia “in a way no president ever has. I don’t think my son’s murder, or Mo’s murder, or Joshua’s murder, was a top priority,” Walters said.

The suit asserted that, adding “insult to injury,” Saudi Arabia has ignored or rebuked all attempts to discuss the families’ claims, as it purportedly promised in exchange for the U.S. allowing Saudi officers at Pensacola to immediately return home rather than face further investigation.

The suit cited then-President Trump saying to reporters after a phone call with King Salman bin Abdulaziz Al Saud: “The king will be involved in taking care of the families and loved ones. …  likewise the crown prince. They are devastated by what took place in Pensacola. And I think they are going to help out the families very greatly.”

However, neither the U.S. government nor the kingdom of Saudi Arabia “contacted my family or talked to the other families,” Walters said. After the attacks, representatives of his son’s last private employer came to Walters’s home to give him two challenge coins from the vice president, Walters said, “one for me and one for my wife. They couldn’t do it themselves.”

Foreign governments and leaders  are typically immune from civil suits in U.S. courts while in office. However, the lawsuit cited exceptions for terrorism and for victims of Saudi Arabia. It also cited a 1991 law called the Torture Victim Protection Act which provides recourse in U.S. courts for violations of international law and for victims of “flagrant human rights violations,” including torture and summary execution abroad.

[ghostofgnasha]

↕ - a memory that may or may not have happened

A wise Opradush never kept all their Nyarlagroth eggs in one nest thus it was no surprise that the Gumm-Gumm army were frequently spread over vast distances with Generals entrusted with the upkeep and to carry out given orders. This continent of land they called home was a vast one and while the churning seas were impossible to tread by any of their numbers, their race had more than enough patience to march the long way to find all the nooks and crannies fellow trolls tried to hide in when they attempted to refused to pay tribute or make themselves useful in serving their Warlord who protected all of their kind. Warriors could be lost during travel, battle or even sickness which made keeping their numbers healthy important and Gnasha was the type that should respect be served and the signs true, chances would always be offered. Why waste the energy razing to make a point unless it was absolutely necessary? Sometimes a bit of careful nudging would be all that was needed to bring them into line or even provide unexpected boons.

Any stupid enough to claim any of this was done out of softness would be relieved of their heads before their words were finished.

With the latest rise of Klokaron’s might the ruz begin to rise grumpily from their slumber having not particularly enjoyed this particular General’s keenness to abuse every drop of light while it was in their favour. While they were ready to depart immediately, as long as their dawdling did not interfere with their duties they could allow it as it would be ignorant to assume all were carved from the same stone after all just meant some were a poor fit to be under their leadership…. Though if they burned much more Kloka it would be a very different story, there had already been one accident occur almost a season ago and a second was not impossible. Still if they were starting to get restless perhaps an alternative for them to sink teeth into may be wiser and could there any greater joy in hunting for fresher meat after a diet consisting largely of deer and bear for the past fortnight? Stragglers found on the roads were rare and through their status they took priority on the prime food source, this was likely an overdue turn.

Thumping their tail to gain attention with the minimal of noise they watch over the party of seven who swiftly scrabble to attention saluting with the hand not holding a weapon.

“Tell the walkers to gather our supplies, we move out to follow a trail that has presented it’s self upon the bramla. If they are slow do not harry them, they have not been trained in the ways we have and should not be treated as such,” they say with a snort, gold eyeing one in particular who had touched the line though had yet to cross it. Lucky for them.

“They are with us until I choose otherwise but I do not expect any further dawdling than you have already cost us. Dismissed.”

The lot of them scatter like rabbits eager to get moving as much as not wanting to cause any further annoyance proving exactly why none of these will ever stretch beyond their station here, it was simply beyond their ability. At least they are not left waiting long and the march can begin with Gnasha at their head choosing a route that coasts the treeline to give their tag-alongs cover should it be required and would help break up the silhouettes if any if the watch’s the fleshbags sometimes employed carried torches of flame or mystery lights. There would often be an issue with the creatures called dogs being a noisy nuisance though they are wrapped in a reasonably edible form and ill suited with dealing with the issue of roaming trolls.

When checked again the scent whispered that they were not far and behind them they can hear how the nearest were already itching for the tantalising glimpses that lay ahead in in little shelters made of wood and stone where they were perfectly exposed to all and sundry.

What a pity

Knowing the temptation to break rank risked getting the better of the ruz if they wait much longer they order them to attention immediately then send the walkers into the trees where they are to stand by until given the signal to join them for fleshbag or not until they were certain of the safety of the area lest an ambush be waiting. Despite the grumbling from the weaker members of their party a glare quickly sets them right with the reminder that insubordination would be acceptable by no one. Quickly they take their things and melt back into the shadows where it would be impossible for those without the gift to see them. With another thump of their tail, they descend onto fours to help mask their much larger build and launch straight into a charge as eager as the rest for the soon to be carnage and oh what one it would be!

Foolish things that they were no alarm could be sounded for their watch had retired to bed early much like the rest had expecting a quieter night and by the time the dogs started to raise the alarm the village was already filled with hungry trolls with even more coming when the bellow is sounded. The death trap is further emphasised by the screaming of those snatched from their beds or farm tools wielded in a poor attempt to drive them back shattering upon stone and the sobbing tears. With such easy pickings it is rather tame prey for their liking but it would at least keep the lot of them sated for a good while and not a trace would be le-

The General lifts their head with a maw well-stained catching a fleeting glimpse of one of the small ones bolting beyond the walls likely hoping to be spared. Flashing a grin they tilt their head left, right, left again as though counting before perusing this little thing with such an incredibly indulgent gait that it gives it more than an ample opportunity to escape for it’s daring. By intention or not they only becoming more delighted each time it looks back in terror until it finally is able to dive into the now unguarded woods and the visual is lost. With a long hummed sound as they approach their movements become more akin to a languid cat in how they sniff the air curiously pretending to truly have no idea where it had fled. The mystery of whether it would chose to run or to hide intrigues so they decide to play with it a little more by aimlessly wandering or deliberately rustling branches above as if to shake them of their spot. The act is kept up perhaps too long but they felt in too good a mood not to.

“Such a clever little rodent,” they say with an almost sing-song tone while slinking it’s direction.

Finally they zero in on it’s hiding place and press their armoured snout against the trunk that hid the child given away easily by how with each draw of breath spoke so or the noisy whimpering. How easy it would be to simply rip the trunk aside and pluck them from the splintered remains like that of fleshy fruit that had turned just ripe but they decide they shall not do so, instead they give it a chance to choose a fate it felt most fitting to have... With a little incentive of course. A pair of claws begin to scrape erratically down the bark far higher up while wondering if it would decide to leap straight into their jaws or would it manage to hold it’s nerve as the sound grows ever closer and closer to the tiny hole that must have been used to squeeze inside?

 Click

 Crack

 Click

 Crack

 Hm.

The boy is left alone.

[harrishanie]

"Fragmentary Annihilation” by “Alexander”

If you’ve ever encountered the PDF versions of Jesus Ignacio Aldapuerta’s The Eyes or Roger Gilbert-Lecomte’s Black Mirror, you’ve probably seen the link to The Usual Cannibalism, the (now former) blog of the transcriptionist. This blog advertises two original works, now seemingly-inaccessible, Meditations on Ero Guro and Fragmentary Annihilation. I have been curious about these works since my first discovery of the aforementioned documents, but it only occurred to me today that I might be able to find them by just plugging the dead links into the Internet Archive. I thought that they were interesting enough and worth preserving, as much as anything else, so I am posting them here--just the first for now, since I am not sure if Meditations fits the current content dogma. I have also not done any formatting whatsoever so I will apologize.

Both pieces are attributed only to “Alexander”--if you are him, my kind regards. To everyone else, my apologies.

Fragmentory Annihilation

An attempt at overcoming Nihilism and Limitation By Alexander http://the-usual-cannibalism.blogspot.com/

Selected Music: OST 2001: A Space Odyssey: Composed by various. The Beyond: Composed by Fabio Frizzi Blue: Cowboy Bebop OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno. Cannibal Holocaust: Composed by Riz Ortolani Dawn of The Dead: Composed and performed by Goblin Fish ~ Silent Cruise: Ghost In The Shell Stand Alone Complex OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Greed Bird: Cowboy Bebop OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Holy Mountain: Composed and performed by Don Cherry, Ron Frangipane, and Alejandro Jodorowsky In Heaven: Eraserhead OST: Composed and performed by Peter Lvers Lucifer Rising: Composed and performed by Jimmy Paige Monochrome: Ghost in the Shell Stand Alone Complex OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Nosferatu: Composed and performed by Popol Vuh Rain (Female Vocal Version): Cowboy Bebop OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Requiem for A Dream: Composed by Clint Mansell and performed by the Kronos Quartet Suspiria: Composed and performed by Goblin

Original Compositions Adagio for Strings: Composed by Samuel Barber Ase’s Death: Composed by Edvard Grieg Carmina Burana: Composed by Carl Orf The Crucifixion: Composed by Samuel Barber Dreams Less Sweet: Composed and performed by Psychic TV The Downward Spiral: By Nine Inch Nails F# A# (Infinity): Composed and performed By Godspeed You! Black Emperor Holocausto De La Morte: Composed and performed by Necrophagia Horror of the Zombies: Composed and performed by Impetigo House of the Rising Sun: Performed by The Rolling Stones Hurt: Performed by Johnny Cash I Want Your Soul: Composed and performed by Aphex Twin Ode to Joy: Composed by Beethoven Rain Drops Prelude: Composed by Frederic Chopin Prince Igor: Composed by Alexander Borodin The Requiem: Composed by Mozart Strange Fruit: Composed and Sung by Billy Holiday Song for Liberty: Composed by Giuseppe Verdi Sympathy for the Devil: Composed and performed by the Rolling Stones Va Pensiero: Composed by Giuseppe Verdi Yanqui U.X.O: Composed and Performed By Godspeed You! Black Emperor

In Puberty’s ambush, maidens bloom, All unaware of impending doom They listen to the radio, drink tea Unaware they will lose their liberty Bourgeouis recoil not from slaughter Though victim be son and daughter From Salo: The 120 Days of Sodom.

Diagram -an attempt to understandThe World that follows Sadism or Social Darwinism. Invokes the OverMAN, Absolutism, and a kind of Primitism. Leading to the Simple Passions, the Complex Passions, the Criminal Passions, and the Murderous Passions. Power. The World that follows Psychology (Freud, Jung, and Wilhelm Reich): Implies a tree of influence and evolution, cherry picks the good out of each religion. Interconnectedness. The World that follows Unification (Kierkegaard, Krishnamurti, and the Bhaved Gavid): Man is unified with himself and every other, simplicity, taking away from excess resulting in Social Evolution. Instrumentality. The World that follows the Poete Maudit (Lautreamont, Baudelair, Rimbaud, and Artaud): It is with a fury that man achieves a manifest destiny, personification of the Phoenix. Death & Rebirth. The World that follows the Larvae (developmentally halted no further evolution): An introverted and absolute justification for being wrong and spiteful at humanity. The emulation of an idea taken from a great man, modified for the benefit of the shepherd. Defined technically as Scizotypal. The World that follows Escapism: Be satisfied with life and pursue its vices, no more joy to be partaken than that inside a fellow, and housed in a limited splendor with glass walls. There can be no manifest destiny nor growth when one is given it. The Consumer. The World that follows the Dictator: Differing from the others, this is entirely individual yet joins every belief together for the benefit of the one and truly via cherry picking. Implies a Tao of humankind that commits all positive and negative acts, a kind of birthing process where all thinking merges to create a child different from both parents. The Third Mind. Evolution. The World as Reality: the meaninglessness of art and thought as a futile interprise, limited by the finite life span of the earth and the eraser of all hard external memory. Implies that we will not be remembered no matter the effort. Nihilism. The World as Splendor: To believe one and only, by following only Islam or by following strictly Nietzsche. Limiting one self to but one interpretation, thereby denying reality and evolution. Faith.

SACRED Imagine a voice that is low and hollow and that its vocal cords strain to produce sound. This voice that utters a monotone speech begetting remorse and pain, dignity and hatred. Picture this voice on your parent that visits you in the morning and rapes you at night. Object 1 A woman runs up a stairwell, pursued by a deformed man who walks on all fours; his flesh is bruised and clean shaven, the ears are shorn and pointed, with a tongue sewn from two –twice as long as a dog tongue- without thumbs or big toes, those amputated by eugenic miracle, a man is what he sees himself as through the eyes of others by this very transmuted flesh. The woman is cornered on the roof; this dog/man proceeds to rape her. She then slowly changes, shedding her skin, each limb becomes metallic, she transforms into a plane and leaps from the roof and glides into a building, explosions, a gray fog bellows out.

-£¼ªÙÆ When it comes to conversation, I rehearse almost everything. Ad-libbed material gives way to awkward speech like in a random conversation rushed out if only to keep interconnectedness afloat. That is insipid. Better to rehearse and come across as better then a fellow then to wallow in mediocrity and a limited dialogue. People are angry and nice, giving me eyes that would paint me as an evil outsider placed therein to murder them all. The niceness comes from opening doors for them, as they do not do for me. It is unfortunate that I have the habit of implanting pieces of my personality within my characters, what new extremes that I invoke: Three characters that are the me when given over to fury: They escape my brain and proceed downward through my skull where they break through my mouth, which now resembles a deformed cunt. Yet I cannot stop writing, so with my left hand I use a sewing needle and twine and proceed to stitch up the wound. On a mirror just above this paper I carefully study the wound, opening and closing the lips, showing my slightly yellow teeth; realizing it looks like a rat chewed a circular hole asthough my lips were bitten off completely. I continue forward with this surgery, I do not need a mouth to speak.

The character of Defilement Here arises another Eden; one imagined by that better person inside each and every other –that human that acts upon desire-. The setting is the same as the pictures from the bible

with waterfalls and golden gates, populated by one old cow that can just barely stand. Defilement approaches the cow with the glee of a great sadist. “You ask nothing more then to feast and to have your teats pulled and drained of a blockage of fluid. Much like the nymphomaniac left alone with their arms amputated. Allow me to pay tribute to you and all others.” Defilement undresses, smiling as he shows his disfigured prick; for it takes the shape of a double A battery with a stub of flesh protruding through the hole. His testicals are in fact one dozen knives strung like wind chimes. He is not obese, just pounds of loose flesh hang off him, folding over like animal flippers found on a new race of man. His skin ripples like the top of disturbed water as his knives slightly tingle and ring, and drops of ejaculate fall from them. Now a dirty cunt brimming with urea, crowned by dried shit, penetrated. He kisses the animal’s snout in submission. ‘Bestiality is to give up on humanity’ he whispers into the animals’ ear. With that finished, he begins milking the cow. His children drop onto the grass, colored of milk-white with no mouths or any kind of limbs, but born as torsos though they were only bio-engineered fuck-holes. Defilement buries his children under shallow earth; they grow like trees over years and decades thereafter. He bleeds out, feeding his children organic debris. His plasma becomes their water and his shit becomes their food. Once they have matured, he proceeds to their mother and wrenches loose one curved blade. As saintly as conjoined pedophile and martyr when one kills their lover and a surrogate mother. The teats are completely severed in three disorderly gashes, like a crescent with the star being a separated heart. He wears this apparatus atop his skull like a hat. The cow falls to the ground trying to crawl away. Calmly, he sinks the blade through the snout multiple times as if a child making sure his pet is dead. Cutting off its ears now, he has little time left until he dies of blood loss, and cutting off many inches of skin that would bestow one large coat in one last frenzy that relinquishes everything that once made him human. One last gash to the throat, blood pours in gallons; he punches the jaw and breaks it in half. He opens up its stomach and hallows it out and crawls down this hole, curling up like a fetus, preserved for his children, for this is Eden and depravity is only memory for an audience of weeping trees. The character of Defy “Young boy with medium-sized breasts walks pompously, walks right by me. A boy of milk less breasts dares himself to think that he is better then I with his pompous walk, how dare he looks down at me.” A fifteen year-old girl part of a tribe of the destitute with her fat, crippled girlfriend in tow. She curses at me, calling me a faggot for my nice clothes and my walking like an aristocrat. I am dressed in top hat with a Christian cross etched onto the front, an

expensive suite and shoes, and a magnificent cane beside me with the handle of the Cobra (For Defy is the best representation of me as a person, in how I dress and speak) “You walk like you got a corn cob up your ass!” I approach her, being so cautious that she may have several inbred protectors, “You, minute and destitute whore, you were not christened by any kind of virtue nor vice, for both have a kind of attrition and dignity. You, who were born from a moronic fuck between such forgettable inventors, that which claims how great is life and how great is their delirium; those who bore you and let live, what a waste of raw material. I would not rape you in a fury; I feel your vulva has mixed with the mucus of dogs and paint, standards be not your priority –how you will die from pregnancy-. For I am the me that I WILL, such a high and vulgar being of all powers that dwarfs you and your nothing-life. I pity you for having to bathe your crippled pet with your ignorant tears. I wish you nothing. People, such as you, the peon-masses deserve the earthly Hell that you have so graciously built, that is paradigm, that is Darwin, that is you little woman, without power, you and your class, you incredible weakling, you timid and tortured bitch.” She seemed dumbfounded. I see an ugly girl with brown hair with a scalp resembling a bird’s nest filled with parasites. She has an ugly and misshapen face with protruding teeth and glasses that truly add nothing to her appearance. She walks with her pack of an equally disgusting mother and grandmother or some such; they are all obese, just as putrefied and dead as the child. Someone asks them what time it is… they strain with this simple question for about a minute, and they finally give a wrong answer and proceed on their way. I will prove a point to an atheist author, for I am the great Agnostic. I will see the murder of a martyr, that grand attrition, the only tool worth anything by your cult and genius. Back to the crucifixion: I see a crowd devoted to that phantasm of faith; how easy it is to think all is well at a crucifixion post-mortem. Children start to beat the body with sticks as I arrived, pushing down members of the crowd and presenting one simple dialogue as I arrived and spoke“I am the murderer of god, you are but his pets and I have bathed in your creator’s blood. And I have castrated this god of human hands and a blood-less heart.” Raising my hands high, mentally controlling their will with my skeletal fingers by twisting my left hand’s fingers, beginning with the pinkie, turning inward with a folding thumb. “Every man now, is only a fallen god without eyes. You see the world once emerging from the engorged cunt, and there your fellows sealed your eyelids to a close, your voice becomes an echo, and your hands are now tools for someone else. I offer you the heart of your creator. Ingest this organ of not truth or what is known as divine, but a though, like a match to bring the flames.” I pull out a heart and carve it open with my nails then throw the remains to this crowd of the illiterate and begotten. In actuality, it was the heart of a large ape. As the crowd and minor holy men are busy picking the pieces of the heart, I approached christ with his black hair and a tiny height that rivals the myths of Napoleon. His nails are long, his teeth broken and crooked like a

beggar, his anus widened as with cut open balls. “This is what we’ve been waiting for?” I asked loudly and expectantly, my right arm pointing to the body “We’ve waited thousands of years to see the return of an ordinary man not any different then any of us? He is not worth it. He is not the jesus to be forgiven, he is the man we are glad to be rid of; the bourgeois and insipid variety.” I insert my longest fingers into the spear wound and stretch it open, like a portal down not into the thought process but a descent into organic nausea. Through this hole, passing by fantasia no grander then packaged gizzards. I am now at the top of an incredible mountain paved with diamonds, gold, and titanium. Such a spot befitting a man who says ‘I am god’ I see him now, this most real form; here is the inner child sucking on a thumb. Wait, I examine closer and see he is dead when I feel for a pulse and put my ear up to the mouth and there is nothing. The body is slumped to the right side; thumb still in mouth, covered only by a blue blanket that barely hides a violet flesh, his face is cut apart by the shaving of moustache, eyebrows, and hair on the left of his face, this small and castrated child. I curl up right next to it, hiding under the blue blanket and I sleep. The body dissipates like ashes. I smile. The character of Atheism Atheism, dressed in a white short sleeve shirt and black pants with black tie, armored with a Snake Skin jacket while clutching his imposing pocket knife in a side pocket, culminating with a two-foot long cross impaled through his skull; this deformed pariah who failed as a chameleon. The Madman is dead, and we have killed him. Morality is the assassin; we are the conspirators for being so compliant and listless. We have succumbed to not a land without god or logic, but a mindset without idols. The idol is the bringer of influence and what idols remain? But the dead, dying, and meaningless without innovation and strife… A natural selection that favors the weak. Oscar Wilde once said that all influence is immoral, something referenced to by my now dead friend. The reincarnation is not worthy. If that were untrue, then would we not have evolved beyond Nietzsche? All that has been created are the ouroboros of shared ideas. It is the Madman to come from the brink and deliver to us something that had never before been conceived. As it would, that a Madman would arrive with every dying star, it reminds me of a whore who is given a facial and there discovers illumination. I come too late. My time has long passed…

A young Mormon boy, an old Catholic with a black beard, an obese Evangelist mother of three, one follower of Islam, a female atheist, one stereotypical Buddhist, ending with a small Hindu family; all of whom are extremists which should be noted. An illumination, brilliance, and the Madman: They are the conclusion but to what? Countless images happening all at once, struggling to find that vent through this one character in each action of repulsion and glory. I pondered for a moment if I should draw this out for much longer, then again, this should be quick as my author has set me free and I shall thank him with an excess of blank pages. This Mormon is beheaded by an Al Queda operative. The Catholic is placed in the Antarctic half submerged in ice water. The Hindus are treated like untouchables in their culture; the women are raped and beaten, while the men watch and are castrated. The Evangelist is fed to several apes. The Islamist is given a world without enemies; there he finds no one and dies alone. The atheist mocks primitive cultures; she is then subjected to their rituals and is raped and beheaded. The Buddhist is locked in a room without windows; given only a little tree and sand, within days he consumes every leaf on the plant, and then dies of starvation. I am afraid. as I remain one without bible or coda, but a verve that coils and sheds the former ideal like the serpent crawling upwards the tree of knowledge; things that I have written and will re-enact. My fear is that I will not pursue them any longer when pacified by society. It is like a poker game, it ends when you show your hand. … “The girl screamed. The murderer laughs like mad, she begs, he takes out a large knife. She prays, tears rolling from her eyes, a bone-crunching sound is heard. A shot from the policeman’s nine-millimeter pistol, the fatal shot to the head of the murderer. She pleads to her hero ‘I just want to go home’ “ “This novel is my masterpiece,” said an eleven year-old boy struggling to become a horror writer, the author of the above paragraph, if even that, more like an extended sentence. He has had two short stories published in very, very small fanzines and he has posted four more on the Internet. This “masterpiece” is a typical slasher story; so typical it would have been rejected for a Friday The 13th screenplay. He shows the novel to his boyfriends, and they love it. A Naïve boy who is devout to the followers of a passion-less manifesto, and the novel is sold to a large publishing house and it does all right on the market, not at all surprising when the challenge and depth of this book reaches the mighty height of a grain of sand. I write myself in, “Naïve boy, you must challenge people.” he screams that he does not want to, that he only wants to be a jester, to be remembered for his entertainment. I retaliate, “True, that after your death people will remember you, but for only a shot

period of time, fifteen minutes to be exact if we are to follow Warholla and his pretension. For decades after no one will care about your rotten corpse that the worm defecates on, and no one will remember you past that expiration. But, we always remember the pariah’s who wish to change the world and to show us glory whether introverted or extroverted. It depends not on timelessness but on the passion.” A critic descends, casting me as perverted and unworthy, going on in the erotication of rape that I bestow, the difference (same old same old) between pornography and art. I will show misanthropy personified, this is a way to view something as the atrocity that inspires hope, pain, and numbness: In a room of teal, we watch three figures through an iris window, looking out from within my two eyes. A man dressed like an aristocrat except for a black hood that hides his face who stands between a blonde-haired girl no older then seventeen trying to cover herself, and her mother with matching hair; whose limbs are chained to a concrete ceiling that hold her several feet high. Both are of course nude. The daughter cries, and her hands block out her pubic hair. The aristocrat that does not show his face brandishes a very clean and defined sickle with a metallic handle painted yellow. The mother becomes silent. A portrait ten feet by ten feet descends attached to two near-invisible strings, just a foot or two above the mother’s skull. This portrait is in fact an enlarged photograph tainted (artistically) in sepia; the image becomes visible, showing off a victim of Ed Gein’s immortalized by her violation. Gein, one of the first American serial killers: his victim, this aged woman that hangs by her lifeless feet chained by ankles, torn open from anus to chest. It is so awe-inspiring that you would think Dali would masturbate to it. The executioner tilts his skull slightly upward for which beams of light shine on him, thereupon a bent halo tears through his eyes and hangs above the skull; suddenly two large wings rip through his back and these wings are plastered with lined paper and drip ink. From this man’s spine, the epitome of Goodness wrings loose from him, born from the pores of skin and showing its innocent flesh to human eyes. Goodness emerges as a limbless dwarf with empty, plastic bottles planted in its mouth. With a clammy and Asiatic (recalling Shintoism) skin that turns violet from the exposure to oxygen, no longer shelled within polluted man, crawling slowly forwards like a dying slug as it approaches the child and rapes her with its bottles, to give her pleasure, for that is mutually good to the corrupt individual. The sickle approaches the mother, her child still is watching with a penetrated cunt magnified by a see-through bottle: The sickle (moving upward) penetrates the asshole by a few inches, and then a slow lift approaches; working in a seesaw motion, the blade moving quickly; slowly tearing through the outer wall of the cunt, tearing through stomach, and now torn en half. The mother is dead. The boy and critic vomit in unison, I speak, “You see how I’ve made art out of a tragedy? Showing how our world is a constant mirror, I have taken a man who wanted to fuck his mother out of love and hate. He wore the flesh of his victims much as the same as we wear masks; whereas he wore them to become what he wanted to be, we wear a mask to be acceptable. And, by that dismembered woman we witness the birth of new pleasures, and new freedom. The mask becomes our weapon, and the trophy is our freedom.”

“You’re sick!” the boy screams. “No, you’ve glorified Gein’s crime for your own profit. Simply creating a series of violent episodes does not make you a writer, it makes you a pornographer” said the critic. I speak again, “I don’t give a damn if I’m right or wrong. I will change people by showing them our world simply as it is; deep down inside they know this is true! It is all a reflection of our corrupt universe that offers no solace but hope while elites continue on in murder and monopoly, it is this idea of hope that has only given us shit and democide.” “What is true? Showing men committing bestiality? Saying there is no God as repeated for over a century? You’re nothing but a hack wishing to gain attention for his crimes!” said the critic. “What crimes? This is everyday violence; you simply ignore it and refer to it as a tragedy. It is no tragedy; this is the way of life, it is Social Darwinism prophesized by the divine Marquis! To do away with it is to do away with the society that created it, a solution through artistic genocide. This is necessity; one cannot overcome reality without having first faced it.” I speak again. “I sincerely doubt that the essence of Good is a crippled dwarf, or champions of capital punishment fuck on a mountain in celebration. This is obscene. Enough of your ‘mirrored’ world, people want the truth” said the critic. In defiance, “I am giving it to them” The critic shakes his head, bemused. I speak once more, “You hate people like me don’t you? It is of course obscene but people need obscenity! Enough of this cushy world where imaginary characters are created to live in a tedious cycle of life, death, triumph, love, and freedom, enough of these anecdotal biographies written exclusively for money, enough of everything that rebuilds people as puppets meant to follow the words of an invented prophet such as your Ayn Rand. We NEED work that will fuckin’ murder our glee and take with it our restraining morals. To gut punch us and implant it’s terrible voice in us” foaming from the mouth “We need violence to show violence! There must be this conclusion, the end of the moral coda and the end of the meaningless life and with it the end of meaning. No more a truth to be found, that absolution may only be a word to satiate the herd while men lie and give of them selves to nothing, and they die for nothing. Only in the extremes may we find what we have ignored, the Gray. Love and hate, horror and the paradise, are the same. No different to fly or fall. I do not propose to know of the truth, nor the proper way of life; but I know what is wrong, and that is the slavery of today encompassing Social, Religious, and Economic varities. Before each and every ritualistic task to find oneself, one must recognize what is around them and the idea of Good & Evil being the supreme Lie given to us by our kind and loving society, though well-intentioned it became the greatest kind of propaganda. Secondly, one must react to it. ”

The critic gives a good review of the boy’s work. They quickly undress and begin to fuck like student and teacher. … I peel away a piece of dead skin from my face, nuisance hangnails amputated with nail clippers, pieces of me fall onto this very paper with a single drop of blood, I wipe off this waste and continue onward. I, not we, you could never understand me no matter what lengths I reach, and I say that out of relenting to a truth and not a defeat nor condensation. I alone must commit transgressions out of invented mysticism; therein I will be created as I see myself and not as I dream in writing. An individual and selfish trait usually referred to as martyrdom by people who do not wish to create themselves but only follow that which has been created. I feel this is a trait that links subversion, atrocity, and glory. To be a martyr is to give your self over to the masses, and then be reinterpreted to be more appealing. When you become the individual, you are the in-understandable entity like the Sphinx or Stonehenge; the ritual and the God cemented in time. There I am in this limbo, muted colors flow from above; you can taste these colors by licking the air. Who am I? I am the one who desires to be the OverMan, to laugh at every weak last man. What am I? A man that remains hindered by what he has. With a hacksaw, I set about decapitating my self, to free mind and body as separate entities. The pain soon subsides, a fetus levitates off in the distance, there is me in the mirror and my desire. The stage has been set for metaphysics, but this body needs freedom from this reality constructed for it. Only there may mind and body become whole and separated into eternal entities of absolution. My brain is above me, awaiting me, my body is like cement in water; eating of the fish and viscera that swim by it while still rooted to this world. I will become as I desire, to confront reality and conquer it and to map out my self and remake it. Take all that you despise, use that as the catalyst for the new body like wood to the fire. When I see myself, I see only so much to still be done. … Of Nine Eleven: From the viewpoint of a misguided martyr not at all different from a child wishing to emulate dead mentors Knife in briefcase, could not believe how easy it is to fool these bastards. The others were very anxious and I was worried that the others in the other planes would back out like in the Conspiracy to murder Lincoln or some other fuck up would occur. The plane takes off. The plane is a little away so I motion to the others that the time is right. Brandishing our weapons and doing our best English, screaming aloud in a tall and arrogant voice.

“We have a bomb on this plane” My fellows were breaking down the door to the cabinet as I secured the rest. I then quickly ran in and bound the flier’s hands with those plastic handcuffs that idiots use to tie up toys and loose wires. One of the pilots pissed himself and I took the reigns of the plane, and then ordered the others to secure the passengers. My fellows went at it with but a few hostages were allowed others to gather in the back and phone whomever they wished, it was the least we could do, it would not matter; we feed the mouse before we feed it to the snake. The tower is within range; I fly into the top-middle trying to get the best possible shot. Collision. We die in flames. People scream. People will film it. And I will be immortal. Praise be to Allah, and let I be remembered. [Ending with a very average man committing what is only a spectacular suicide to prove he is something more then simply human] Even now I have not committed the most despicable of things as accorded by the moral guardians and do you know what that is? To say that 9/11 was a staged event. No room for the politic, they are a thing you cannot preach, for the insipid refuse to even listen and only condemn, this prejudice of knowledge. Êö”ºÆ_ Ö×ØÙÚÛÜ -£¼ªÙÆ @™Çö”ºÆ_@ __ __ __ __ __ ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ Only an excuse to cross a bridge, such as a meaningless parlay- like you would bring up the mundane only to get to that crass joke or make a point on the day-. Such a revolt of misguided proportions, he would even speak ‘the artist crucifies them. The artist crucifies all of them.’ … _ þª_ «_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ «_ «_ «_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ -«_ «_ "«_ ì²_ î²_ ð²_ ò²_ ô²_ ö²_ ø²_ ú²_ ü²_ þ²_ ³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ -³_ ³_ "³_ $³_ &³_ (³_ The other two would be restrained and forced to watch: the longhaired one has her hands handcuffed behind her back, her legs tied and held apart. She is cut along the thighs with a box cutter, the blade invades underneath her toenails, her hair is ripped out and stuffed into her mouth, her eyelids are held open while a match is struck and falls onto an eyeball, the cunt is spread open to greet one intrusive lit match, a breast carved into, the fat is expunged and replaced with cotton. The image of Shiva and Kali are tattooed upon her forehead and pubis. A climax is not a necessity to affect people, like a staged orgasm in pornography. When it is the moment caught in the twilight at the height of an extreme that is the necessity. Think of a boring film/book that is remembered or the weak man who became a killer. …

“I should’ve had the abortion; I should’ve had the abortion” My mother, speaking to me when I was nine years old…Suddenly that sentence just sprang into my mind so suddenly. One boy very much in accordance to what is the outsider finds his vices, and he becomes dominated by them-mimicry- becoming just as the other humans, one who putrefies while living in dreams. He is torn by the complex nature of his deranged mother, and feels intimidated by his father, which yields him to his mother. Slowly becoming aware of his errors, yet still pious to delusion, and still buried in limbo while thinking of cruel ideas. He finds an angel in fuckery; he begins to learn new things. An angel in philosophy visits him; he thinks new things. One day he no longer thinks and sets about to be what he has always dreamed of being. OverMan. The writer may be god but the writer is also a slave to their creation. If the creation fails, the writer must abandon it and forget it or destroy it and rebuild it anew. If it succeeds the writer is forced to outdo it or perish in its ravages; if not the writer is forced to create clones of his creation. One man approaches me, spouting on and on about how I am a threat to humanity and have perverted previously innocent children. He continues to harasses me for the appraisal of all freedoms and of all men in which every thinker is the Iconoclast; as he referred to me as a cancer to his utopia that had never existed. ‘Turns out he hasn’t even read of my work, so I hand him a copy while saying with an arrogant smile “judge not les ye be judged” and I leave him my email address. Weeks later amidst many emails, I received a message from this man. He tells me how my work has changed him and he has given up his ways and became an organ donor then helped bastard children by giving them much-deserved toys, and most surprisingly of all, he has donated to pro-choice agencies to raped mothers. How I wish this was true and this man existed instead of merely writing this paragraph of fiction to create a counter-image. Am I no better then he? Write to me at Etuvivrainelterrore@Gmail.com … Idols riding in Cadillac’s with open tops down a poorly planned parade, they look no different from a walking billboard, such as a living deformity attributed to Teflon poisoning. I am part of the crowd and dressed in the skin of Jack Ruby; I take careful aim and fire the fatal shot at one such idol no different from any other. This one hollow point round makes contact with the face, and dead center down the nasal cavity. The idol now resembles victims of nerve gas through a heavily deformed mouth and face, like a horse with its face blasted off and its body dragged throughout the streets, my way of giving them a purpose through a stupendous demise. That is the me who subscribes to violence being an immortal action.

That is, Immortality by Immorality. What an insipid, and at once brilliant and proven thought that violence in it self may grant eternity. A road traveled by the most insane of men; your Albert Fish, your Idi Amin, your lord Heliogabalus, and your artist. It is no better then to carve into a tree. We soon forget that the tree will die. “If God is dead… Must we not become gods ourselves to seem worthy of it? “ NIETZSCHE The Gray (in Tao terminology) that embodies man, for it is gray which grants us the ability to do both positive and negative at once. This Gray would now be truthfully recognized… and not as the purgatory or the void that is filled, but the totality of all creation. As ‘Do what thou wilt’ is not the pass to commit atrocity, but to only be human, and once we see what we are fully capable of there may be created the second paradise. The first paradise was the one created by Cavemen freed of restriction. Though, debatable as to what exactly restriction is. It may be an invented reality (such as what we have now) or reality in itself (an unchangeable thing). This applies to the mass and not in it self to the individual. Such as Jonestown, which was a reality founded by one man, with a herd that latched onto that, thereby placing themselves within another paradigm without pursuing a personal freedom -just another escapism- and perished in that reality. Whereas the individual is free to create as he pleases and walk away from that mass and his debts. His is entirely manifest. See also Perspectivism. … The book posses the author; becoming a surrogate brain of what we desire to be, no better than a log of dreams or a diary filled with paintings about as understandable as a blank piece of paper. The book becomes a map of the thought process or the external memory of ancient humans. I see it as a scarification process much like a live autopsy committed by our brains upon this limited body, no better or worse then the monk who set himself aflame. … A dead oak tree lies in the middle of a dirt field; old condoms hang from the dead branches while icy cum drips down onto mud along the road to an Orgiastic Heaven: Where man and rhino are united by a speared anus. One octopus pleasures eight women while eating pubescent girls feet first-but not before drowning them with a flood of ink. men and women fused to create bee hives joined by the hip as their genitals are the gateways for such bees where bears pluck these hives, bite into them and drink the honey. Women are impaled from anus to throat by giraffe necks, each giraffe adorned with this human necklace. Clean-shaven people are laid as the ground and ceiling to every last species of bats, these people are the toilet and the nest for the bats, for that shit to be eaten, and bodies hollowed out and homes for dozens of bats. Tigresses with immense clitorises rape young boys whose limbs are rooted in cement, the tigresses generally bite

off the ears and claws the backs of each child during the hourly penetration, and how they mimic male orgasm and urinate into the mouth of each boy. Men enjoy the splendor of birds that lift them up onto a bed of spikes; the remains are fed to young children as vomited by the birds. Pigs would bite off the fingers and toes of men and laugh while the men struggled to grab and stand. Horses would trample the old and invalid after a lifetime of suffering; where ducks and chickens would be lifted up to their faces and scratch out their eyes, or plow the fields tied by their breasts or genitals, along with previous and unheard atrocities, as newborn children are fed alive to komodo dragons. Yet, that one angelic woman that stood out was subjected to the very worst; being lifted to the sky and forced to watch it all for a lifetime. In Heaven. … Jerry Fallwell, Pat Robertson, and Billy Graham are the recipients of retribution for every man to be given a smite by a fascist, or for every man to have come so far and believe in personal freedom… only to be reminded of these wretched men and the will to be rid of them. Fallwell is strangled to death by a leather strap. Robertson is gutted and thereon stuffed with the many pamphlets promising one land for the Christian and the triangle-eye of the dollar. Graham is ignored entirely, and he and his offspring disintegrate, there exists no real life to a thing if it does not make a human connection either positive or negative…It is not to ignore a virus, but to isolate it. Religion spreads by the ears and eyes, when a virus is then isolated and cannot grow; it then rots from the inside. That I realize too late, and am now executed for murder. … "Let the most insulting blasphemy, the most atheistic works next be fully and openly authorized, in order to complete the extirpation from the human heart and memory of those appalling pastimes of our childhood; let them be put in circulation the writings most capable of illuminating the Europeans upon a matter so important, and let a considerable prize, to be bestowed by the Nation, be awarded to him who, having said and demonstrated everything upon this score, will leave to his countrymen no more then a scythe to mow the land clean of all those phantoms, and a steady heart to hate them. In six months, the whole will be done; your infamous god will be as naught," Marquis De Sade To murder the epitome of faith and beyond, to defy all others and insult them brutally like the coward, to outdo human capacity: The artist aims at this so revered and holy target. This is my great transgression; for I may never look back again, for it necessary if nothing but for my inner peace, and once there you can never go back to what you were: Jesus approaches with a solemn look and with hands laid low and open, I say ’free me’ and he then walks over with a gesture to kiss his bloodied feet. I stab him with my pen in his ribcage, clutched by my left hand, and now painted with blood and dirt. Using this pen as a lever to lift him before a giant sheathe of sheet metal with a white crucifix

painted before, cementing him there by thousands of pens to crucify this dead hypocrisy. A figure riddled with protrusions, like an Indian fakir fallen upon his bed of spikes, kept alive now by these very words that wish to torture him more with metal pens imbedded into palm and wrist. I cannot let such a thing die by a bourgeois mechanism such as the crucifixion. Therefore, he is lowered into a vat of boiling lead, consumed and now recycled into a tool for every man that thinks, both pen and rifle. I hate to plagiarize; but I have committed another meme formation of your jesus, at best he shall evolve into a phantasm long forgotten, at worst another kind of ideology. Something that Atheist and Iconoclast so worship, the destruction of a man they do not believe in, what wretched people these must be to invent their enemies such as your religious extremists and each and every last herd. What evolution we have come across, to go over the same old same old. I see god: This obese hermaphrodite figure, with crooked teeth emitting ‘round the mouth and down the chin, and ratty hair and one hundred arachnid eyes. With fingernails showing skewed remnants of little men, and a belly and breasts covered with the filth of dancing angels mocking tortured humans in cages. With a body hair like the forest and a prick miniature and syphilitic, an ugly cunt is the gateway to paradise and saint peter being a louse. Dead children fall into god’s mouth and eaten in its slack jaw like a Roman being fed grapes by his chained prostitute. I throw his whores and his meals away from him and into space; it pleads with me without emotion, like a child saying ’I’m sorry’ with a lifeless tone. It offers me immortality with no morality so long as I rejoice in putrid faith. My right fist connecting a one-inch punch to its skull, the noise of a jet breaking the sound barrier erupts while the face falls to atoms. Falling out of a throne made from human bone and crowned by fetal fossils, tearing away the crooked jaw and pulling out each of its one hundred eyes. My nails are now dirty and covered in blood and sinew. The cunt penetrated by my pen clutched in my left palm; with a pistol held by my right hand, I fire six hollow point rounds into the abdomen, legs, prick and balls. The pen blasts poison ink down a tainted uterus, an ink no different then a flesh-eating virus. The king is dead.

Finale The me whom I desire to become witnesses the best & worst of humanity: Abraxas I write of a fine escapism. One that requires all the energy needed to crush a minute insect -so easily in reach to an average man who gives birth to nonsense dreams- but there are cripples that envie such men. Hypothesis: For every action committed (referring to a Tao of Joy and Pain), a kind of energy is emitting that mirrors string theory in the joining of two opposing ideologies. It is a kind of energy to wallow in the wake of Kierkegaard’s ‘Single Individual’, in particular a ‘sea of individuals’ united in totality. Like how radioactivity emanates over time and poisons the inhabitants over an undetermined period; if such energy were genuine, it can then be inferred that both saint and Madman are the result of genetics. Such as the Holocaust influencing a half-Jewish man, with a wife indifferent to Judaism whose son then carries this kind of baggage. This also references Jung’s theories on the Family tree and Eternal Reccurence. In metaphysics: to create an individual (in the ‘enlightened’ sense) is by a continual process in thought and doing in order to overcome limitation while separating oneself from the herd. This creates the genius both tortured and divine, and men that the masses will not remember, because ‘enlightenment’ is a solipsist activity. That is voided when the genius creates something in order to connect him to his herd; often art is that attempt. In reality: one becomes individual by retaining popular ideas as created by the original genius; like manufacturing plants that create cheap imitations. One cannot become an individual in reality. From the artist, dictator, and fucker each and every last one is an imitation of another… proving right Kierkegaard and Jung. For the idea/dream: As we only know 1% of the universe, the dream is all that remains. What if such positive and negative energy gave birth to one man via the great and evil Abraxas beyond only an idea but created here and now. What would this man be? A flow Sacred: Knowing a man and his attempt at conquering limitation. Finale: He gives birth to an individual that cannot exist-abortion-. Return: Purgatory state. Man thinks he is individual and attempts to conquer nihilism. Incomplete/broken Man is born and gives one sermon promoting an artistic genocide. An author counters this, promoting the ideal of the masses being wood to the fire. The ‘Tower’ is referenced,

such an idea of a paradise that retains this idea of society. I recognize the value of society. I recognize the value of eugenics. All this leads to a new society; once this world dies and is reborn. … Multi-colored mammals lay out, stabbed, shot, executed By the millions. Bowels lacerated, mammals vomiting shit and blood. Among this New excreta, ankle deep in a newfound blood tide In waves, in rivers, amassed in a small pool of fat creatures as men stand in the muck prodding dying animals singing sweetly in unnoticed sighs. Yet another and another gashed, torn open, fountains of the divine essence, in a ritual swirling of all things, joining, becoming, all united in pain, pleasure, & pity in a visceral ink, endlessly. An ink without conscience; only hard-externalized memory. A needle and thread arrived from flesh hallows of dying slaves; little mouths violently react to a bio-mechanic deep throat by needle and twine, bridging ones and twos and threes united as one enumerable creature. The needle/thread are now the magic wand of a creator who mends a unity between things never meant to coexist; cats and walruses, mice and birds, two-headed cattle and dead men hung across the skies and replace telephone wires, bringing a new communication through a semblance of maggots where the citizenry writhe in a new and living ink. Otherwise, what is orgiastic and good without mantra are impounded by vanity and good cruelty. Scorpion tails are amputated through genetic regression; the scorpion no longer kills but prefers to die by its one time prey like Quang Duc who did not fight but preferred to die in a martyr-fashion. A sign of the times being a waste of resources. A woman volunteers to have her teeth pulled out; the teeth are removed and are then planted in the desert and give birth to untold acres of snow. Scorpion stingers are fitted as her new dentures, and we see drops of venom falling down her throat. Throngs of people in a brown valley; flowers stick out among atrocity photographs and old soda cans littering patches of tall grass. One photograph displaying dead children killed in the West Bank atrocities fills an empty Coca-Cola can. These people proceed very solemnly through a path; every twenty steps they stop to pick the flowers. After two miles of this, they rest atop a tree stump with arms filled with flowers. They proceed to rub the flowers in their eyes, soaking poison and pollen, awash in the fury of gathering bees and mating insects, thorns scratch the corneas along with inflamed eye sockets. Tears fall from now distorted faces onto a handful of undisturbed flowers clutched in the hands of a little girl pigeon-toed. The flowers bloom in deep shades of red and blue. Nests of bats are poisoned; mid-flight the drug kicks in and they are left dying in grassy fields being visited by merciless sunlight and the thirsty fly. By the way side of these

dying bats are the birth-process: gigantic mud puddles with tumourous bulges, reindeer watch over this in a protective manner as one giant reindeer oversees the operation; its horns are made from human fingers, and for this it declares itself the king of Eden. Out from the mud emerge young children born into a pantheon, animals of the forest partake in tearing off the wings from the previous dying bats and then suture these wings into the backs and temples of the children. The children sing in alien voices –relying entirely on body language, each child signals the depths of their torture- as the sun baptizes the bodies in molten gold. Two men embrace before a burial pit of hermaphrodites and fetal deformities that are speared and now preserved in oddly sexual positions, as though De Sade wrote the Karma Sutra and this fills with illustrations. The men commit to their passions; and sperm falls down the esophagus’ of corpses. One woman seated like a monk with palms folded and introvert. Her hair begins to fall, joyful faces everywhere, over a muddy floor that cradles a comatose people submitted to invisible bolts of electricity which puppeteer an aimless frenzy. These people are fed cowhide, are then placed in one pile to vomit their meal; on top of that are placed the finger and toe nails torn ‘way. As that cancerous woman like the virgin monk, watches like an idol witnessing innumerable sacrifices. Fallen teeth cover this pile then set upon a pyre. The strong man leads herds of animals into tar pits. Animals drown and are encased in tar. The man has the bodies dragged out and are set as stairs leading to the next ambition. No need to describe, which has been foretold too numerous a vision: But here is one before you, this very ink. Look and touch upon this blank, and here is your universe: Swarms of greenish twigs with insect faces, open sores sending loud vibrations, without voice and without the passions-angels before mankind-it becomes a mirror of a homeless people in bondage with closed eyes. While those eyes reveal images of Abu Graihb: Malcolm X: America’s conscience is bankrupt. She lost all conscience a long time ago. Uncle Sam has no conscience. They don’t know what morals are. They don’t try and eliminate an evil because it’s evil, or because it’s illegal, or because it’s immoral; they eliminate it only when it threatens their existence. So you’re wasting your time appealing to the moral conscience of a bankrupt man like Uncle Sam. If he had a conscience, he’d straighten this thing out with no more pressure being put upon him. So it is not necessary to change the white man’s mind. We have to change our own minds. You can’t change his mind about us. We’ve got to change our minds about each other. We have to see each other with new eyes. We have to see each other as brothers and sisters. We have to come together with warmth so we can develop unity and harmony that’s necessary to get this problem solved ourselves. Three Japanese women sit to watch a one man play performed by a hunchback; the man proceeds to play with a small dog. Two old men in overalls haul a crosscut saw over to the women in attendance. The women applause greatly, lovingly, when the two men took

that saw to their necks and behead them. The three heads drop in an orderly manner as the puppy licks the man’s face, Buddhist sutras falls from the bleeding neck stumps, and in those eyes for those last ten seconds of life are the reprieve of a million lives. Foetal bodies are hollowed out, computer parts are built into the cadavers; these computers produce modern children literature. A procession of bodies cut apart and sorted on a conveyor belt by grinning senior workers that dismember an unending multitude of bodies where the remains are fed into a furnace. I do not know if was an energy plant, a meat packing plant, or a mass crematorium. A man named Arundhati obsessed with cunnilingus; his home is enveloping and has a moist air that you could feel upon entering a fog of semen. In his brain played out a collage of every kind of cunt that could be imagined: black, white, yellow and brown, pierced and infected, hairy and prepubescent. He falls into another world Among reddish/pink walls drowning in a kind of urea/saliva, think of a man trapped in his attic with flooding water. This new universe where he is cradled like a planetary fetus, to feel every last sensation down to the molecular level… he becomes a new kind of circuitry for supreme pleasure. The pleasures sweep away every desire and want, all needs evaporate as starvation begins to set. An amusing sight to see a skeleton at orgasm; then he consumes the flesh and begins to taste humanity, absorbing a macrocosm of our narcissism and joy. The universe contracts Each tremor of fruition What is not ritual but New pain and pleasure The TAO fully realized In a man to die by his pleasure To become the next evolution From the cunt emerges this man, Arundhati, born as the Harlequin Fetus. Among a slave nation, a stillborn creature falls. The workers kick at the body, cursing it for being unable to work. The elites stab at the body with their umbrellas, cursing it as a useless thing as if it were a temple of knowledge. The beggars rape this body, infecting it with the sweet venom of pity. The animals gnaw at this body and see it no differently then water in the river. Your wise and bitter god and Nietzsche use the body as a metaphor; it is the mantle of the entirety of earth to be displayed and judged, this hammer of the gods. Blood pulling up from the desert floor; young girls are subjected to circumcision rituals, the immature clit is nailed onto their foreheads.

Among the massacres of the Indians, one soldier’s scalped brain becomes the map of new sensations: He sees a middle-aged nude woman, arms chained above her via wiring; she is a spider web of tubing, a new kind of human circuitry. Her eyelids taped to a close by electric tape; she dreams of paradise and weeps, tape began to slowly peel, tears fall with ebbing blood. … Chapter 3 How Candide escaped from the Bulgars, and what happened to him afterwards “Those who have never seen two well-trained armies drawn up for battle, can have no idea of the beauty and brilliance of the display. Bugles, fifes, oboes, drums, and salvoes of artillery produced such harmony as Hell itself could not rival. The opening barrage destroyed about six thousand men on each side. Rifle-fire which followed rid the best of worlds of about nine or ten thousand villains who infested its surface. Finally, the bayonet provided ‘sufficient reason’ for the death of several thousand more. The total casualties amounted to about thirty thousand. Candid trembled like a philosopher, and hid himself as best he could during this heroic butchery.” The young philosopher belched as he stepped upon the remnants of little brother and sister. Each thought strained to be produced from such obvious epiphanies that could be drawn out by a boy who has yet to know what is greatness and what is a reality –like it were a bullet wound ebbing with error & vice, collecting among a pool of individuals, and bleeding out to the very final drop of existence though it were mohammed personified in bacterium. That fine thought did come among the sweeping euphoria of epileptic convulsions and tremors of faint orgasms. With a fist planted at each pillar of cadavers, with a scream, and expelled in a putrid verse ‘Let there be a new mankind’ spoken by Candide in a manner both plain and obnoxious. A silver ship descends, fire bellows from its bottom, lighting ricochets off the surface and into Candide’s very eyes. Gigantic creatures with arachnid faces and bird torsos exited the craft and greet him. While survivors stood and watched when these creatures spoke ‘What you know as man is only a conduit, a statue of dead men’ and then leave, Candide proceeded to fuck child corpses; their orgasms shall be his philosophy, and the sunlight his dinner. … ‘Let there be a new mankind that does not wallow in the latrines of dead men’

One hand appears of our as-yet-to-be-born individual. It touches one plastic mask, woodcarved masks ‘round the world burn; each pore on the hand becomes an eye and a gateway, it sees what you are. On the Virginia Tech Massacre: My boy, you are one who does not know of much more agreeable targets. You see ‘immortality by immorality’, which is a flawed structure. Why don’t you partake in a more satisfying execution, such as the extinction of the creators of such insipid creatures? To murder only the insipid is a waste of energy; it is like setting out to destroy every usless insect on the planet, not only pointless but you fail to strike at the very heart of the matter. A lab mouse in its cage set in a sterile environment, in the corner is a homely woman with glasses and yellow dish gloves. The oxygen is plain and disinfected, a hospital all the better without a consumer. The woman proceeds to extract the mouse… Mouse: Please cease what you are about to do; I am not one to be sacrificed for nothing. Woman: Why not? What I’m about to do may save innumerable lives. Therein will be delivered my sainthood and your martyrdom. Wouldn’t you do the same? Mouse: Yes I would; but that would be performed on a more deserving creature. Woman: Such as? Mouse: Those inhuman deformities you knowledgeable types like to call ‘individualists’ if life itself is divine (to ignore Schopenhauer) why pluck from its womb, such cherished and meaningful creatures as I and every other? Is it not your tyrants, your impoverished, the unknown depths of deformities that should be the fuel to the fire? Woman: Eugenics: A series of unsuccessful experiments. Mouse: But doctor, what separates you from those very scientists at Auschwitz and Unit 731? You may say that you’re black and that alone separates you as far as racial duties. But that is only a matter of pigment. If pigmentation and this idea of genetic unity among fellows is your defense, I could so easily deconstruct it: Genetic unity is a lie. When parts may so easily be assembled by the most unskillful of creatures, that we are unified in such an insipid factory. Yet we are created blank; any individualist traits may be so easily explained as simple auteur theory. The whole of humanity can be broken down to mechanic a motivation: that tree that grows to become your paper that is scribbled upon by your children –domino theory and interconnectedness-, your art and culture-but elitism and the remaking of an idea-. Even what I speak is pilfered dialogue. Woman: So if life offers no real individuality, and this is due to a bio-mechanic paradigm. Then I ask again, why should I spare you?

Mouse: But you see at what I’m getting at? Why should I perish when you can use any other? What we think grants us individuality, is only fading memory. It is that which creates any kind of identity. Woman: Incorrect. What is real is real and not perception. Memory may be cheated by physical markings with violence, love, and barcodes. You in fact prolong life with metaphysics. No. It is technology, growth; the third eye rebuilt… enough of your bullshit. The mouse protests while being placed inside a small window box. The woman manipulates robotic fingers and hypodermic extensions via remote control, as a now tortured mouse mutters a sentence struggling to be profound. The stomach is slit open, the intestines criss-crossed with plastic tubing, veins plugged into black electronic boxes, a Star of David is excised from a beating heart housing the remains of lynched blacks and whites. A South Korean boy lays waste to whitey and darkie. Shooting a woman in the gullet, she vomits flowers. By a grin and muffled voice armed with distinctly feminine pistols-such weaponry is no longer phallic when misused, such as a dyke armed with a strap on- at close range, emptying entire clips into the torsos of men and women. What is individual? Not creation in itself, or the will to break away from herd mentality, the individual lies in neither extremes or profound awakening nor even Gray, but only in oblivion. Just as Kierkegaard was no more individual then a radical priest to be triumphed by Nietzsche. No more then Sade was a more talkative Vlad or Genghis Khan. There is your god and master, your new jesus per century, your car crash/crucifixion and your viral phrases. There is your individual: A stillborn fetus. Feel it, know it, it is our delusion and god. It is the cancer I neglect and my last futility and final bridge there may be. Total freedom is a lie. Without structure, this class system-paradigm- what are we then but a people without language, without escapism, without a Gray, in other words Haiti, a country with a people who have not gone much farther then creating the wheel and fire. A nothing. I recant once idealist values; I favor building for something, an attempt at anything for what we will never realize. Be it eugenics or free enterprise.

The individual is born. The Great Individual: A handsome face stabbed and re-worked, a screaming face that spits. A tongue made from human faces, winking as it clicks and smiling as it lies. Here is what I give you, our god and master, your prophet and mentor, your martyr and rapist, your saint and chameleon, this Tao of pain and creation. Here, I am a man that wreaks their brain to create something, only to see another summit to surpass. White hands with short fingernails, palms are painted with tar, every fine hair has been plucked; no imperfection shall dampen a fine cannibalistic meal this moment in time I take from you, how well you feed me with blood and brains. There I am as a man that rapes the earth; I take your little joys and little death and will transform them into far greater things, through art and crucifixion. The torso is my mirror; here the roach may survive without a head till the end of time, the well of vice and greatness. Each body hair upon you is a wire brimming with electricity, to touch me would be enlightenment and to die for a cause. But there I am as someone who struggles, one that creates everything and becomes nothing. The legs are great serpents without need for genitals; they wrap around you and caress, be enlightened and look into my tongue. The feet are defiled with shit, the perfume attracts herds of animals, and each toenail is infinite and is marked with the portraits of saints and madmen. A nasal cavity deep and violent, as ethereal as a rainforest while stealing your oxygen. And now these eyes, red and deformed about to burst then and now from the strain of knowing, knowing I and you, and it is dead. The Individual caresses an emaciated torso atop a Gray planet. Stars bloom, a smile brings on erect legs to swoon such a torso, unity in great things: an idea and a mutilated body.

A Return Would you think I hate people or am alone? I only resent mistakes; hence this thing, this book of mine. Life is my only burden and I completely empathize with Bunuel in that he only wanted to live in dreams. This book remains as a continual mirror, but how could anyone write down the entirety of himself when the ‘Will’ is given shape by ink, blood, and hardware? How could we possibly take this incredible force that is beyond perception, and illustrate it for a third party? How many great men have poured out everything they could into the arts, and in technology, and so on… endless volumes appear for each of these humans, and we still do not understand them. A bit of hair falls out, with each hair soaked with oil and a bit of scalp root giving a cocaine-like appearance, and each hair tells me a bit about myself: One would like to see an accident on the side of the road; the hair would be the catalyst for this event. It would not matter if people died or not, only that it did something in the third person and that it was felt. One day there was a pigeon by the roadside, the hair had attempted to crush it but the bird had flew away. Another would want to keep a pubescent girl as a slave, fuck her occasionally but ultimately enjoy her in all avenues. If she had no pubic hair, it would cut off the mane from a rabid dog and glue that hair upon her pubis. How lovely would it be to see a clitoris encased in fleabites. This one dreams of great blasphemies; it would spit on crucifixes, stab at mormon and muslim and buddhist with great vigor and strength -not the kind befitting an Atheist, nor the drone, not the mere shit-stirrer, and not a single man alone-. This one would be a herd formed into a single warrior. Tearing up bibles then praised and reviled. It will be the murderous hero to destroy every last superstructure, then suicide it self upon a throne of guns and old manifestos. This hair would soak it self with lighter fluid and other chemicals, and then be immolated. Yet again, this one seeks martyrdom. It would want to die on live television by suicide or assassination just as it delivers a particularly scathing remark. A twin to the others, but one of two colors, my dyed and natural hair color that wants to live and enjoy life in excess of nobility, and to be that one great man. It then tells me things I needed to know, that there is several conspirators here: One wants to ruin me then re-create me as a drone. One last would like to see me as a prostitute and nothing more. A humanistic side wants children if only to name them upon my mentors. This leader being the head of this little group tells me I should end it, I am not an author, I am not a creator, I am only a thing no different then the leaf. “Okay” I say to the hair “How do you propose I fight them?” It speaks “You must combat them.” But how then do you fight better judgment? It gives no further response. People don’t want art; they believe they may create a meaning out of fruitless endeavors.

Only art can love art. Those who love art without creating only seek it out of emulation of their desires. How must I fight them? How will I fight them? Praise? Great success, great deeds, great obscenity, great virtue, great spirit, beloved people, the herd, the mere animal, the pet, the toy, escapism, infinity, useless. I realize one thing that I have been suppressing for some time. Writing is for cavemen. Why do I, why should I only create an emulation of what I see? That is all it is when the primitive witnesses a deer disemboweled and eaten; it creates pictures, same as if we invent. The exception would be the thought process, how else do we paint what we think? Unless you only think upon simplistic matters, that kind of thinking isn’t interesting in the end, like examining a rat brain and charting banality; it’s just another type of purgatory. I see myself as the drone locked by his chain; this book becomes a letter to be smuggled out into the hands of free humans and warn other minds to awaken the slaves. It would be a total riot in the prison; great art and rage merge into a living spectacle of a man feeling suicidal revolution; not a one that he would destroy himself for, but one he knows will beget his annihilation. Atrocity. That is the accent, both conclusion and catalyst to a society that does not work. A thing made in a dystopia; in that the atrocity is the catalyst for new order and new tactics along with the deaths to the king and queen and cronies, the end of an era devoured by another. This is Social Darwinism as the worm ouroboros. If you break it down much more, you can see that the atrocity is only unfiltered communication; from within you is carved onto the body and land of another. No art may do justice to this when one is true and pure in great violence. The nature of violence is to escape from reality by unmaking it. … I see a circle; within the circle are untold numbers of people fused to religious artifacts with each overlapping the other: The circle is one universe housing innumerable planets. One planet just beyond our own houses men and women in the midst of fuckery projected before a Star of David giving way to a tide of human fluid, where we see men crucified to these stars, their falling blood is our comets, their screams our thunder, and their orgasms become our lightening. One other planet has a floor piled with amputated hands; above this pile is a weeping black man emitting red sunlight, and each tear resembles falling napalm. One looming planet where bestiality is encouraged, the emerging children from man/animal fusion look like angels with wings splitting from the back. Two tiny planets -which plays all too well in this macrocosm- within grasp of the other. One occupied by men, the other with women; in the center of the two planets there is born one looming hermaphrodite… birth of god from man, this Roman universe consumed in the orgiastic. The last planet inhibits

the ode to joy, a totality of love and hate in sweet chaos and total freedom via one mountainous tower in a city; this planet shall be spoken of much later. … A grotesque human where no sexuality may be defined that is hidden by emerging tumors and dirty flesh lay out in the heart of space. With a putrifying planet-shaped torso, laid out for eons while a long tumor hangs from his lower jaw extending from the chin past his left eye and into the scalp: he is a landscape imagined by Bosch and Joe Coleman. Nothing happens while the tumors age with a host immobile and uncaring, and relents to everything. The body is overwhelmed, slowly becoming one indescribable mass curled in a fetal position. That is your modern man who lives and dies. Out of that emerges a new parasite, one that may speak and hold a consciousness and as enormous as a mite, and just as compelling and fearsome. A parasite requiring all of the attention and spite as we would a deaf mute – this single bacterium pious to one and only fusion, a mantra so sacred to the herd-. From there stood alien creatures with a mutant origin, splintered by tribes, and no more human then fantasia spewed by wretched minds. Until one deformity spoke as pretentious as he could, and emerging with a language just as toxic as his species “Glorious is the man who stands up to die.” This was the beginning of a Roman society, one of divided classes and a divinity in madness when futility and mortality overwhelmed the senses… therein Decadence. What has emerged has been the classic structure of the elites and proletariat recited ad infinity. This once great Dionysian structure perverted by dead men and animals laid out side by side with erect pricks as the conduit for ebbing desire, with carved open bodies resembled looming organic foxholes. Children play crude clay flutes while bloodied spears encircle the lot: Mars, Venus, and the Child. A light rainfall occurs as with rejoicing, blood and water spill out of abdominal cavities. For there is created ritual, thereon philosophy and tortured humanity; no different then society as that is nothing more then ritual. From there a woman’s head is held aloft, from that meaningless thing spills new humans from putrefying eyes. Sixteen men and women (eight per eye) poured out; these children of a new world emerge with a new primitivism. There they create a new society ratified in unified incest with new elites and new leaders, the pariahs are born and there is now nihilism, and from the drone there is now positivism. Out of all of this, the planet is rebuilt with isms and a new language- this they call the paradise- the sixteen children then split, each professing a will to life. Each child creates a new group, which begets the concept of morality, good and evil, monopolies, and the nature of life. Typical divide and conquer strategy to prevent unified freedom, then came the little man personified as shepherd and herd as one. Centuries later atop one misshapen mound drawn by magnetism between pain and viscera, and this one creature pulled itself from the wreckage and stood.

The Last Individual No gender was apparent for this creature at first with a height of 6’1 with barely a face, it could not be called a hermaphrodite or an evolved man, nothing human emanated from it. A third arm protruded from its chest that reaches below its knees, with raptor-like feet rooted on the haunches, and staring out with a crude face painted with yellow fingernail clippings arranged as three circles like eyes. White feathers drooped from the scalp, a mouth decorated with rows of knives and pens matching a long and black tongue, each hand came equipped with eight fingers, the third arm equipped with two thumbs parallel to the palm but with only three fingers, with a multi-colored skin tone; the chameleon made into man. It seemed to gesture with just a flick of all three hands in an upward motion, as though it spoke ‘one last manifesto’ and it bit off its tongue with black ink pouring from the wound. This is what spilled out onto the ground: God is not the invention, no opiate may suffice; the creation of a god is like the big bang, a social ejaculation I had seen a middle aged man rape three teenage girls about the age of fourteen and Asian and this man had raped each child through every available flesh vacuum, at one point forcing one girl to shit herself endlessly while he ejaculated onto her open eyes. There I sat watching them, without any spectacular epiphany or any great deal of empathy had emerged as I watched in quiet reservation. The man finished up, the girls were laid out in a circle in a drained and broken attitude. I had unsheathed my M-1911 Pistol and conducted it at the man while telling him to kneel and be silent. At the same time, my left hand brought out three appropriate blades and letting them land before the three girls in an expectant manner. I spoke in a monotone voice to these children “Do what thou wilt” while directing my pistol at the man. Revulsion had overwhelmed me to such a hysteric disbelief once these children told me the most inhuman thing I had ever heard. Without even glancing at the blades, they had explained to me that they will love this man, how they will remake him into the ideal lover, how splendid of a man he will be, and what a great life that would become. It would be nice to quote what exactly they had spoken, but my mind was too far gone in deep thought upon hearing such atrocious spectacle; this inhuman spirit based on a god who has never been there, this platitude which defies the very will of nature and humanity sans mass stupidity… yet stupidity recognizes itself for being such. I exploded “You! You violate the words of De Sade? You ignore what makes you, every essential component of humanity is a loss; you are inhuman! Your rapist, this most insipid of pederast, he at the very least pursued simple passions. For that he may not be faulted for if only to have the desire to carry out these

passions… he invites himself to have all manner of passions be taken out onto him whether murderous or simple, the ebb and flow of life in Master and Slave principals. Yet I gave you the tools to rise up and take upon him all that you have lost and wish to carve onto another in the infinity of violence and cathartic dreams. How you reject good fortune! Putrid cunts, you believe in fusion! Where the one needs the other to gain out of the lie of pacifism and goodness. There is one and only one! We use the other to gain out of conquest and manipulation; even your idols are guilty of this! The one is virus, the one is parasite, and the one is divine; that which is all that you ignore out of that pathetic will to ingest godly escapism of the drones who do not think! One is wretch, one is depraved, one is powerful, and one is De Sade, one is Darwin, one is Nietzsche, one is Goethe, and one knows when to act! The wise man walks away but only the fool takes it on his knees! Nihilism is the tool of the greatest of individuals, therein exists the mighty Sadist. Lo, you refuse logic and seek delusion, and that is your religion.” The man attempted to flee, so I shot him from behind just below his right kneecap. The pariah has the gift of invention for being handed morality and then refusing. I drag him by the wounded leg back to the girls and before those blades. Again, logic’s defied when the girls –in knowing they could not attack me and live- chose suicide. Two had slit their wrists, and one committed Hari Kari; she looked as though she was attempting to give herself head in such a position. The man said nothing. I had shot him an additional four times in the left kneecap, both elbows, and at the base of his spine with slug rounds. He rolled around pitifully while screaming. A pariah is only a thing that builds and dies. The manifesto ended, thousands have gathered to watch as the face of the creature began to give way; the likeness of Artaud had emerged, with a tongue no longer bleeding and a body emptied of verve. A sweet odor emanated from him like a candle burning skeletal debris as he raised his right arm coerced with remaining iota of strength, and Artaud offered his body to the masses. He is quickly eaten by the people who render free dry limbs without flavor, devoured and crushed on the spot. The manifesto was all that was left, and it could never be removed. Society had become hungry; it began to need absolution while being no longer aroused by the delusion of escape. A renewed passion began, recalling Dionysus and Osiris. Several centuries later: A people still in deep thoughts ringing with the tale left by that final individual; they realized that a zenith had been reached; no resources were left, nothing more to invent, and a kind of primitivism had now awakened. The end had come;

reaching metaphors from the wilting plant to the dog with rabies whose limbs quiver and collapse into itself with a drunken stupor. Mass suicides dictated by Schopenhauer-Idealism, wide-ranging depression, giving up on everything and laying down to rot. Entire armies forfeit, leaving tools and guns by the wayside as they walk back to their homes without a uniform. Prisons collapse with inmates casually jogging back into the cities committing simple passions. Churches remain decimated without a herd; the Vatican Bank has its assets plundered by bishops with businessmen fearing a proletariat uprising of all castes that would shower themselves with international coffers and Nazi gold. The corrupters assassinate each other; no anarchist need apply as one after another murdered each other, they remain as the cannibals holding that severed head –a last vestibule of power- before their fellow in dying ritual. Starvation, murder, total madness same as we know, be it the last time. The man/planet had died long ago, with his tumor feeding off his last bit of life; finally dying from prolonged starvation. Out in the heart of space: A centipede-like creature deflowers a cunt; the hymen is torn open as with tears of blood spilling out and creating a new planet. A new beginning, a valley without mirrors that female ejaculate drips down onto = man blooms once more. A new world without the words of dead men; they are cremated upon a dead planet as befitting a philosopher’s head on a pike, as are annihilated entire ideologies and the whole of morality and good and evil. Man created as they want without hindrance and therein dies once more. … When the herd begins to splinter off into single cells in anger and despair, the right catalyst is needed to set them off. The Hutu-Tutsi Genocide springs to mind in what has come and what may be. Here you had millions of people in conflict with the other. For months the anger and frustration at Hutus grew, until a radical broadcast sounded the alarms and the people were armed and slaughtered a million Tutsis, the details of such atrocity ring of the details encapsulating De Sade. Today we have millions of illiterate, homeless, and unemployed in this country all awaiting to be led and utilized, herein exploitation of resource and man’s true capacity are merged. … I had once believed in this dogma ‘Immortality by Immorality’ which suggests that one can find eternity in atrocity. I had given everything I had, every iota of strength to this doctrine where in the end I had created nothing. Such endeavors are no more glorious then a crush video with just as much callousness to a fellow. This is a Christian dogma: that violence in itself will free mankind that commits transgressions. Each religion dictates this approach to violence that without this body there is delivered your freedom. When it is without the insipid dialogue, without religion, without restraint, without

morality, without conduit, without artifice, without the masses and without shepherds, and with pain and joy, this greatness within Gray with what we discover as humanity. When we paint, as we fuck, as we give birth, there is no resolve for a ceaseless and ongoing ouroboros that only a mechanic oblivion would suffice. … The OverMan: For every man that sought eternal freedom, at his mercy are trillions of universes that each mirrors ours. This is the reward for each man to have become individual divine. Could you imagine a world governed by Nietzsche? In Nietzsche’s paradise both Zoroaster and Jesus are complimented by the Wicker Man, this was his sabotage of society. His people became primitive OverMen governed slowly by technology. Leonardo Da Vinci creates angel wings and gives his people flight as they escape limitation, law, and paradigm. Artaud’s galaxies are composed of mutes who communicate by body language and excreta, a constant motion resembling collective bacteria incarnate as the phoenix. It goes on to Hunter S. Thompson, Bruce Lee, Schopenhauer, GG Allin, Che Guevara, etc and etc. … I give birth. In my child I witness my naiveté. I see my weakness and strength. I see the seed of a shepherd. I see a deaf-mute who will be suicided with a fine pistol. I cradle my offspring and snap its neck, letting the body float into space. Am I the man who believes they are a phoenix that will plunge and with his picture in the paper to be an inspiration to another? I give up my former joys. Here I exist as someone who should have rightly died long ago, for I had nothing to create but for repulsive mirrors. I renounce suicide. I renounce the Tao. I renounce everything I had once put faith in. When one thing is roadblocked, man may use their fists, their voice, and their inherent weaponry to continue onwards to break through that boundary in ‘The Will to Power’. Then they die so suddenly and create nothing else.

Notes: Look towards the history of humankind.

The Extermination of Humanity Under Keynesian Economics "I have become death, destroyer of worlds," Oppenheimer I see comets fall, riding them are a bacteria known as refugee. A boy writes ‘fuk ur god’ on a computer monitor; within that very text, macrocosm, entire worlds feud and die, their blood runs down the computer screen, the boy licks up this blood, and how sweet it tastes. The boy walks off, half-smiling while staring at the breasts of twelve-year-old girls. Later at home he masturbates, a little fetus covered in boils falls out; he kills it and consumes the child. “Hello boy” “Hello Danny” “Hello Son” As spoken by elites. The boy is held down on an operating table. “Please help me.” As spoken by the last man. Down an open mouth, I see the real world. There are children playing atop a glass dome, inside the dome are future weapons and new innovations. A man proceeds to dig his way to China; he breaks into the dome and falls. A bound Asian man shot in the head point blank, rows of murdered civilians, some trampled by tanks, and they got their information by then. In captivity are middle eastern men being tortured by suited whites. Sen. Wellstone is laid to rest. In Haiti, the results of a puppet who rapes children: people living in cardboard houses with flooded latrines, the UN forces leaves a message by executing a man and leaving him rotting in the streets, forgoing the usual media. The Democide of the once saintly individual, there now is your Pinochet, here overcome are the murderous Spics. There is an image of a black man crucified onto a monolith. “He’s coming out of it now; notate the foam falling out of his nose. I know we’re only to record spoken word, but I feel it necessary, this may convey a kind of poisoning” “What a trip.” “Indeed.” Air force pilot Alex Harmen awakens from his Demerol-induced trip, he has been given a code name he will not remember; he has seen such horrible things.

“How do you feel John?” “Fucked.” “That’s good you feel something, better for that then the usual depression, eh? We can set you up there John. Ermm, uh, just, waitaminute, there we go, sorry about that I forgot hit the record button. You feel fucked right? Testing. But the depression, how is the depression?” “Neutralized for lack of a better term, I feel weakened, my testicals ache, and my feet are trembling a little. It’s like feeling drunk in a way.” ‘Good.’ They never suspect, nor will they ever. Our media and Devine Tesla. We shall make these birds sing, we shall let them see what we want, o’ mighty, o’ infallible rouge, that be our religion, what a nice and pretty thing. You kind birds that part my hair; you pursue our interests, you make us strong, O insipid and great mankind! Riding alongside Gary Powers, we do not have our cyanide capsules… he refused and I forgot. The plane is shot down so suddenly by a patriot missile. I see the Tesla coil as the crucifix. There is Tesla palming balls of lightening, at that moment I realize just who is the true prophet. There exist no beautiful cherubs, but only HAARP, Tungeska is the fall of man, every last man being tracked with radio chips – a list for who’s naughty and nice – what a pity for men that will never realize Saint Peter is a computer. Summary of the MK Ultra Project: was put into action when U-2 Pilot Gary Powers refused to take his cyanide capsule when captured. To prevent the leaking of any information, his plane was shot down on return from the Soviet Union. Though it were researched well into the late 40’s/early 50’s, it was after the Powers incident that the program when into effect for all airmen. Reasoning: It costs millions of dollars to train an airmen, versus thousands of dollars to train a grunt, they would sacrifice one hundred grunts to reclaim an airman. Execution: The subject would be placed in a drug-induced coma (once done with LSD now done with Demerol) and given a trigger word, when the subject has been captured, the trigger word is given to the subject in some manner and the subject commits suicide or assassination (see Sirhan Sirhan). Dr. Keynes, god bless you. What amazing spectacle, the brain of Keynes downloaded into an android. I see over a dozen people in lab coats covered in vomit, computers reaching orgasm through a mass of new information, paint-like fluid ebbing out of hard drives… they know now and see the rebirth of their messiah. Here to witness, the fall of every little man; cementing a warped ideal of the OverMan as recited by the great Nietzsche; an ideal that perfectly validates Darwin and De Sade, Natural Selection via Master & Slave.

Dr. Keynes gives his speeches by binary code, it takes 5-10 minutes to translate each senteance uttered. “My people, how far you’ve come. To advance upon an idea to mutate this wretched, deviant species into something without future, without a god, without anything but to give to us. And you have taken it even higher then I hoped, with worthless paper, and great and holy media. How splendid it is to have only the consumer. We need a more controlled population, for that I refer to the great and beloved Rwanda. With what we have asserted, the white protector to save the poor and dying niggers, by the simplest possible manner, upon these very hands (invokes the crowd of sychophants, spooks, and idealists) are befallen diamond and crude, how justly to reep material from a people who do not think. And so our bases were made, our men deployed and (begins speaking even more pretentiously) sheltered they that were provoked, they that were our fuel to the fire, they that ranks among the greatest of parasites that which partakes in a social cannibalism.” How much longer should I see it continue? Cameras which monitor every last gesture, and every conversation recorded with a multitude of triggers. I see people re-wired and dumbed down. A sick and meaningless people (Image of the American flag, the masses, cannibalism) Arise Dr Keynes; you will be the eternal Ugolino Della Gherardesca. You will be remembered as the man who gave us the television. You have won the battle without a Stalingrad, for you are Mengela and General Shiro Ishii. You are the Wiseman who says to us ‘May you live in interesting times.’

In The City Excavated buildings, rainfall of black ash & rivers of saliva. Trees upturned with roots soaking of blood and fused knives. Held under a red and blue sky with no wandering humans, no arranged ode to pain and joy, but only a sacred misery. There’s people lynched from atop rotting buildings with protruding skewers, their agony muted by cut vocal chords & blank faces. A people united under not cruelty, but Instrumentality beyond pain or love, but the flesh married to idealism & completed with the utmost in artistry. A nursery holding mutant children; one child’s fingers are broken backwards; the fingernails grow immense & dig into his torso & now paralyzed in a sitting position with his toes plugged into electrical sockets for eternity. Untold rows of dear minority hang in the sun with amputated noses, tubing runs from each nasal cavity up into a high structure where biological weapons are dumped into, & bodies stay in constant rot & convulsion. There is a stadium rebuilt by one crucified muslim who becomes a new kind of circuitry, his limbs become extension cables to power the one thousand electric chairs for seated cowards & every last & remade fuck machine. Among his attendees, holes are cut into the tongues of one dozen women, funnel-like jowls erupting from the earth, and ants are lead down their gullet & begin to nest. When a queen emerges, she will lay her eggs down into her victims’ open mouth, under the shadow of mohammed, under the shadow of dead jesus: the begotten people who do not realize what they are, walk past such spectacles while speaking to themselves in tongues who stare with the eyes of an insectseeing but a few millimeters ahead of them in this glory of the planet now minimized-. On billboards promising newfound glory, there lay the image of one male pubescent, with each limb amputated including the minute prick, the flesh filleted ‘round the chest, re-wired to become a polygraph device to listen in on each confession by godly men who have had their ears stabbed by crucifixes, stars of david piercing the eyes, and etc. In the streets, two dozen people laid on their backs, their feet pin pricked by intermittent fires, pointing up at the sky & doused by the concurrent rain looking out into nothing, these living anchors. One lesser building is crowned by young girls held and raped by gargoyle automatons, fucked by a constant mechanic motion & emptied with sperm at every hour, and pausing just before any child could ever reach orgasm. Each child has an opened stomach by cesarean where a new child is plucked, the fetal legs ground up and fed to the mothers; the remains are left in gutters that house rare flowers, broken glass & vomit –this is the manure for a rare plant that arises with a human hand clutched in an Anarchist fist-. In the glory of the sun, there beams a gigantic mouth with a jaw like a guillotine & a tongue like a needle, people are kissed by that tongue & bitten into twos & threes, and left to writhe and live by that wretched kiss. Dogs with sewn eyelids live inside each hollowed & sustained bodies. New-Age solar panels with opposing men & women are speared upside down in a criss-cross fashion, they are let live by a series of tubing

leading from the cunt, prick, & ass to each mouth, one couple are impaled by a spike through each head in a kiss, being held together in sun light, giving vital energy to this very paradigm. In school yards I see giant men at least seven feet high, are run around with razor wire like a may poll by wounded children while the wire is wire is rooted in the palms & may easily give if any slack is applied. On the beach a man is crucified upon a dying whale, spray paint marks a cross outline, black natives appear & sing, guided by a road of dead animals opened by bullet holes, such beautiful chants from atop a mound of dirt –an island within the city- the natives kiss this man on the cheeks, the whale explodes from expanding gasses. Laughing; dying refuges lay out on hospital beds, feeding rows of tears to mosquitoes sat upon unblinking eyes; a white nurse looks after them, a white man is born from a shotgun wound (pellet round), pulling himself up & emerging now as a thing beyond little wars & little men, the white man & woman proceed to fuck. There is a thing levitating upward,

The Tower From the extremes of Hedonism, O’ mighty Libertine and significant herd In the middle of the city, one tower pulls up from it immeasurable in scope and all too palpable to the richest of men. It seems to root the city as it touches the sky, like the handle for a dradle, an anchor, a tool, a thing with life. Too difficult to place it into the limited confines of language, you can only see and know what it is from the outset, seeing something so powerful it brings enlightenment. No entry is apparent, this is not a thing made for humanity, but just a painting made manifest. Each floor follows a different variation on total freedom: Populated by nude women, and sustained entirely by diluted urea. These most exquisite of women neither anorexic nor obese, those extremes lay only to consumers. Some with a gap in the teeth, or slightly crooked, others with minor baby fat, others still with shaved cunt and a light stubble, every race is welcomed without a creed, their numbers in the tens of thousands, haven’t I said that the herds have been separated and retained? What of birth? There is no need to create a vice when one achieves totality. Another floor, a mirror of the previous, but only with men; and one other going a step farther with hermaphrodites. On one floor all three converge, it resembles the birth of the universe. A domain of creators; philosophers, scientists, inventors, etc: Many are re-incarnations of previous great men, and some request to be placed back into their original and mighty state once they acknowledge the outside world. Some do nothing and enjoy the view,

saying that everything that can be said has all ready passed, and while others questioned their meaning on a planet where an ideal has been reached and now attained. God is here, a monochrome deformity useless and preserved in a vat of ecstasy. A plaque above him reads ‘Paradise is a shifting element that must always grow and evolve, if satisfaction is ever reached thereon it mutates into purgatory. Here lies your idea of heaven.’ A school environment, nude children are encouraged to watch Madolescenza. Free love and little angst, with those vital years recycled and re-invited, pick your parents; for once you may actually choose a destiny. Dead civilians from each war, united here in a new state. Theirs to grow and nourish, strangely Masochistic in its appearance, pain is too familiar to them. There is a family portrait in bondage. Ocean of cum, nudist camp set on the beach with an orange light that would tan. People frolic and enjoy, but not at all sexual as they remain unaware and naïve of such things. Children swim in the ocean, by the side are women masturbating in a frenzy, emptying their selves to give these children water. A floor of fetishes from necrophilia to crush, with imagery too obvious to recall. The castle of the Four Libertines from De Sade’s The 120 Days of Sodom are granted the gift of modernity. Only here the children are replaced by realistic Japanese androids. The Holocaust: The camps are now bordellos; it resembles an Italian Nazi-sploitation picture where Jews, Poles, Christians, Homosexuals, and Deformities converge and writhe with soldiers. Not offensive at all once you subvert a thing sexually, no one may resist pleasure and the most abundant of escapism. An electronic floor; children are seated in a Chucky Cheese-like environment with wires run to their brains. They play the arcade games; each victory brings a flood of endorphins. The games, you might be wondering, are wired to pedophiles trapped in a hidden room. Each victory brings a prolonged electric shock with a minimal amount of endorphins injected. On the example set previously, with androids being a catharsis: There exist an infinite amount of floors dedicated to each little group and their hatred. From pigs beating to death minorities, Black Panthers executing corrupt white, muslim extremists stoning women to death and committing suicide – though they let live, a secret room houses 72 androids who remain virginal due to blood pumps and an automatically regenerating hymen-. This domain of metaphysicians granted a second set of arms, an extra finger, dual genitals, and a third eye, etc. They speak of their thoughts and given little applause, repeating how they will begin to do something in creating a new and better planet, amounting to only the usual masturbation.

Topping off into the crown this floor of deformities without language, but only a screaming cacophony, and with a wallpaper of mutilated holy figures: There stood mohammed tied to a crescent with a star anchoring the mouth, there sat jesus in an electric chair, the usual mockery as you could imagine for buddha and vishnu accompanied by a dance of these people. One inhabitant without eyes, four arms without fingers, and pointing needle-appendages up at the roof where it meets a giant hand plain and forgiving as they touch and sing. The roof opens, light beams, it looks like Bosch’s painting of insect angels flying into heaven. Populating yet another floor, one without anything, but these deformities who lay and weep, and arises a cloudy-ness of a stillborn people that anchors this planet. It stays like this for eternity.

apocalypse The Chameleon has died and the spider has escaped from its nest Travelers enter a ravaged village smelling of blood. Huts broken open, dogs torn to pieces and impaled with sticks. Screaming faces forever set on beaten bodies. Men and women crucified upright and upside down, torrents of blood falling down the hillside. People half-buried, an old man dragged across the fields by his intestinal tract; hands and feet cut off and hung from tree branches, now limbless people struggle to crawl up the hillside, away from the forest, begging, whimpering, covered in lively essence. There’s a boy crucified through his palms, castrated, and still drawing breath. A forest of hanged and gutted animals. Every woman lay destroyed, crucified upon those trees, pierced and impaled by every phallic limb. Mother s torn open a daughter s cunt impaled and stretched wide, funnel-like. And I was the ruler and the Devil: Spreading from me this biological infierno, flesh-like walls lined with entrails, demons conjoined to screaming children fused to the skull, back, and genitals with weeping faces sprout, these demons stabbing screaming people laid out on all fours with finger nail-shaped blades. People falling, screaming, laid on needle mountains, constant and everlasting screams, and a hot steam arising from a river of blood and ejaculate. I was there, eating these broken bodies . May you come to the attention of those in authority. . Seeing Human heads falling, cut off by massive swords protruding from the palms. Phallic and spear-like blades arising from arms held high above a massive human form clouded by shadow, each arm parallel to the other, and each blade toped by human heads, one head is white and the other is black, the Ying and Yang of mutual decapitation. Mountains of human heads stretching for miles upward, young lovers begin to fuck on these mountains, blood ebbing from torn hymens. It is all here within this coliseum, and there was an obese Caesar presiding over this accursed place, thumbs down. Sparks fall from the sky and there is a loud electronic hum of machinery. Black wires decorate the walls and floors; it is difficult to find your footing. People in the stadium stare down at you; Lightening bolts fall and strike me, my limbs are numb and scalp is set afire, struck again and again by lightening falling from heaven. Other people tortured with electrodes attached to genitals and nipples, and another crowd joined together by holding hands lit up like a live circuit as electricity courses through them. Man attached to flying kite and once he is struck by lightening he plummets; blood, shit, and random viscera covers the wires, a floor drowning in a small pond of blood, low-level electricity slowly killing those who drown, death by heart attacks, charred flesh, aneurisms, ruptured veins and destroyed eyes, ulcers exploding and exiting bowels. I hear a great electronic hum in tune with my heartbeat, a subtle pounding of what may be generators or the trampling of dying slaves, I hear it so often and so familiar, even when I fall asleep it continues, this electronic beat. Children take bullet hits for the Elites who watch onward in the stadium, one of which is dressed as Caesar: the king of Earth. There is an orange/reddish light which permeates throughout this place, an underground cavern, a ground of jagged stones and bits of dirt, naked human feet, a ceiling of stone spikes almost touching the ground. Man with outstretched hands walks over the thriving

bodies as if he is in a drugged trance, and with blank and lifeless eyes. A blond woman presides over this, not a queen but an heir apparent to butchery and grace. Man masturbates a woman laid out on floor; his hands are then cut off, large clumps of hair pulled out of now bloodied scalp by a clawed hand reeking of chlorine. A threesome with a brown-haired woman fucked with two pricks in her asshole, a knife forced into her mouth, with her nipples and pubic hair draped in falling cum and blood, held in the splendor of the stars. Beautiful Italian music with a woman singing elegantly plays on, labia s bitten away by plaque stained teeth, a man tied to the ground on all fours, his asshole fisted, he is decapitated, and he gives birth to a child through his opened neck. The child is the idea, the blond woman holds the child and say’s ‘oh king of god, open your gates’ and the child levitates off into the sun and perishes: Plants grow, buildings fall, no more vices to find once blighted by supreme pleasure that no one may resist, and therein the world is reborn. ... Blue The most morose of colors, there is something about it that conjures the feeling of depression, and much more simplistic, easily grasped things such as the abyss of water, memories and flight. There is hope in Blue; the world may be destroyed as would Pariahdom and there would arise and forever be of permanence Individuality. Limitation is a forgotten memory. The world is opened and we have become the new bird no longer chained. People begin to swim in the air, and they are set free. Ascension, free from paradigm, and there allows new humanity. When I die, no one will remember me. My body will nourish this planet; I will be the nourishment for all people. I will be this great and kind thing once I am gone, no more will there be this void to be filled. My escape shall be Manifest Destiny, and then to let it all go and lay in peace. I witness the limits of violence and pleasure, and I see how limited they are. There is only so much you can take away and rebuild, when you see that a corpse is just a corpse without a freedom or final descent. But a nothing. I am at peace with that.

Final sophistry of a Pseudo-Maudit: Infierno: There is an orange light interwoven with needle mountains, mud pits filled with black pikes, flames, howling, and ongoing groans of pain. On one scaffolding to my right there is an Asiatic adult male laughing while he is whipping a young girl with what looks like intestines, a violent strike to her lower stomach splits her open like a cheap piñata, I am awash with her viscera. I see a man impaled by a Catholic drill and held over a group of slithering pigs, his eyes are furious and drip ink. Large human erupts from the dirtlayered earth sprinting miles upwards with an extended right arm and a clenched right fist; the body explodes with a rain of blood and refuse. Constant sounds of fucking high on the mountains, motherly woman overjoyed by one dozen pricks, her skin melts away as a flood of sperm falls. Girl squatting and masturbating with a white horn filled with termites that eat out her womb and spill out of her body, she presses a button on the horn and it ejects itself out through her body and emerges through her back. Yellow birds fly to the crucified that hang below and pluck out their eyes. Up high between two mountains, there is a man trapped in a webbing of medical gauze, he is pinched and prodded by a scorpion created by fused humans hanging just below him, its phallic tail bores through him, a poisioned torso, with blood and venom overflowing. Ancient woman with amputated limbs laid out on her side, her stomach lined with nipples, infants suckle from her. Preserved fetuses attched to umbilical chords hang off the ground, tortured by lit candles planted below. A sow’s breasts are bitten way by infantile boys. A woman sweats, her cunt pulled open and filled with hot lead. Man is pulled inside out, still alive as ancient men eat him. Too many more that passes by and are too easily forgotten. I see the exit, appropriately a grail doorway and what I thought was the pubic hair were instead pikes which bore through a multitude of screaming people of all genders and all ages, a man crucified to the clitoris. Paradiso: It is much more tropical, jungle-like then a forest. There is a blue sky mixed with clouds and stars and even bits of most cherished night, there is a constant sunset here, a grassy floor rich with green. Every women lay entirely nude and there lies no shame nor morality, and no punishment given to a free body. Many orgies under the trees before not a one who is holier-then-though but your fellow Wretch, and foliage-covered mountains echoing screams of glory. Children even involved with this mass and consensual pleasure, involved with their equals or yet even older, not following the law of Give and Take but only Need. A mad sense of pleasure without fear of being stricken by plague or that of parasite. Elephants howl and bathe women in water from a lake of ejaculate. A baby hippopotamus steals the clothes off the backs of young virgins; they give chase to that infant animal with a great deal of joy. There exists no oppression; there is no opponent that shall rob man of their want and desire; everyone has achieved what is manifest, hence their point of existence made realized through physical interconnectedness.

PaRaDISE I love you please please I don’t want to be alone anymore Someone love me, someone need me, I need you to leave I’m all alone in the world I have died and gone to hell That were my innocent and weak self You have awoken me, I the sleeping demon I would gladly bite off these feathered wings and bend these horns I just don’t want to die alone You will be with me, for without I would gladly die then to be without a goddess I will be with you darling, you are my Lover You will be my awakening from this limited planet I will spare you agony upon agony You will not feel pain, nor birth, nor wraith For I would give to great attrition Moreso then any woman on the planet, as I have no mother My mother the queen of lies and pity All men should destroy their mothers All women should defeat their fathers For we are Apollo & Dionysus This tao of mighty things Thy will that man becomes whole again The void filled with not flesh nor ink But unity among a fellow Let us glide and dance Let there be a new ego One evolved and loving Not to die like a philosopher Not to live like the prisoner But a void filled With all manner of what begets Instrumentality For you, my Love

birth Rioting Asiatic people rampage through villages, they are driven by some religious/political right that brings back an ancient practice of their culture. As they decapitate begging men on their knees that they do not see as their fellow nor as opponent but only as a trophy, three heads placed on a roadblock and the people cheer as the camera records it. It was done mainly to gain attention for the people‘s cause or the media wouldn‘t give a damn and there would be no world coverage. There is a photo of a man in military fatigues seated by his trophy, the putrefying head of a young man. Here we have a prime example, where violence is committed not so much to gain attention for a cause, but to be noticed by a third person. Not so much as a cry for help, but a method to prove one’s identity. We may have an existence through one and the other; two humans become a mirror of the other no matter the relation of blood. By committing this act, they have drawn attention, people know of them, no longer as the powerless specter, they have an existence in the third person, their cause is no longer an esoteric spectacle for their people, it is their identity to all people on the outside; they have murdered in order to establish their existence. ... I tear away my flesh, and there I see my true self. We forget that we are alike underneath this nervous system of physics, the flesh is only a microbiotic society of interactions, and the society that houses the one is not the identity to the self, it is only a delicate ecosystem that may crush the one. Just as spirit/mentality is individual, when the flesh was born it was plugged into to this society, it is joined to a fragile thing and the cure is when that single cell is extracted from the diseased creature and it evolves to a higher being that wipes out that disease. ... To amputate your Index and Ring fingers is to be free of marriage and of making accusations. ... What are fascists but sexual cripples? ... These new creatures, adaptations of humanity One is a black thing, near shapeless with few defined features. With a mouth cavernous and wide like the spread cunt, five fingers often held together as three sharp and scissorlike fingers. The body overall is mutilated and deformed, often walking on its haunches and leaping onto the weak to eviscerate them with an intense speed. With needle-like teeth and it shall vomit napalm and without asshole or genitalia. This is the Ego, and the Ego does not shit.

It brutalizes a single man who is defiant to it, slamming his head against the wall effortlessly, cutting off the face whilst amputating struggling limbs. It culminates when this man is disemboweled at an instant and napalm falls onto the exposed entrails. The Ego feasts on that castrated organ with a subtle joy. The second creature: The ‘supposed’ Goodness, I say ‘supposed’ because a sense of good is not born from within the human, it is an implanted idea. It is a thing that is mimicked so long as it may serve the one; Goodness is only a modified clone of the Ego. A figure clothed in a deep blue gown with awaiting arms in faux-human form, as if to embrace you and bring out a goodness; a goodness that is ultimately an inhuman thing wherein a cancer grows from that tainted heart now blackened and ugly, pumping that diseased blood, topped by disintegrated marrow, and a toothless mouth. It grabs handfuls of pubic hair and shit glued together by saliva and forms wings out of these ugly things attached to its spine, masking the ugly as pure and clean. It attempts to live onward, deluding it self with visions of grandeur. ... That which separates man from lower animal: For the benefit of the insipid, cut off your thumbs. Then we would become equals.

D e p r a v i t y (Justification) D e c i m a t i o n = C r e a t i o n. This is an Anti-Christ Complex; the death of everything could only beget the creation of a new and better thing, a Fascist approach. One may draw parrallells between the Inquisition and the democide by the Khmer Rouge. E x i s t e n c e a n d t h e n a t u r e o f V i o l e n c e. Philosophy clefts at one point, that the animal exists for it self or it exists for the nourishment of the other-just as humans are social animals. That is a flawed argument, man chooses to exist as a social creature (Fusion) and that gives way to Pariah. One cannot exist for the other (society) and maintain wholly, physically and mentally, a new filter is created as an intrinsic piece dissolves to achieve life in a Society, and that being our individuality. The Pariah gives up only the albatross to Society, and grows a further enhancement, and that is to evolve. When I exist for my self, therefore my inner ecosystem implodes and takes away, nothing. Nothing collected, no genetic tree of life, nothing added and nothing gained, a human worth -0. Art and Action are the one loophole to this truth, when one engrains their existence upon another… they in fact violate the nature of the Pariah. When I exist for the other, I have become a molecular creature bound to the other. You may find metaphors in paradigm and evolution, the splendors of life that they may affirm. Both values imply Eugenics –either the one who exists for himself evolves then dies, or we are fused and evolve as the mass- and have then been executed by Democide and the Serial Killer. How often Social Darwinism clashes with Peace & Love. V i o l e n c e a s i n t r i n s i c t o E x i s t e n c e: Those within Society go towards violence to escape this universe. The Pariah retorts to violence as a counter action or overt anti-influence to create a new paradise that suits their comforts. According to Kierkegaard, the Single Individual is the one who has separated from a society of individuals (individuals as if cells that work in conjunction of one being). That is, complete separation, becoming an alien thing to that former society; like birth of a deformity. How does one separate from society? Separation from the masses is an impossibility when taken into accord the unionification of mankind… there is that scientific suggestion that we each interact with each other via mass energy, negative input creating negative output, and etc. It seems that growth is the ideal he went for, but it has been misapplied. Chaso Applied to the Masses: The Negation of state, the Negation of the politic, the Negation of the dictator and all democracies, the Negation of money, the Negation of religion, the Negation of morality. Therein is the man that seeks his fame and destiny, he is that Single Individual and OverMan with another kind of irredeemable growth so easily available to people with a horribly precise logic. Like Consumerism; the simplest possible method to fill the void.

Tao of Joy & Pain (Chaos depicted in terms of the Madman witnessing the fall of society) One, one vast land of a natural yellow-ish pallet overgrowing with unimportant minutia (grand buildings, televisions as large as oceans, scrawling text/propaganda) non-human models, in-human models, dead animals and living cannibals, brief vestiges of former slaves, new generations of fused races, and half-dead Methuselah’s connected to biological mechanized hard external memory. Birth of new man; an unending violence that is both catalyst and result, a thing which creates itself; a man who disembowels himself and gives birth to the embodiment of his ego in a child’s body draped with his innards = rebirth. Therein man invents his destiny and reaches it. Foam streams through the sewers from mouth and wetted cunt, from the armpits the people give birth to new beings no longer blank but entire ideologies created in the flesh, millions with knives, guns, and untold weaponry, and to drown in flooded latrines. No heat or wind, no weather of any kind, constant falling of cum -tears of freed humans- the sewers stuffed to the brim with bodies, and shit arises among the converging masses. Omnipresent laughter and screaming, screams of joy and pain, man in black guns down gyrating fuckers in Tiananmen Square and he begins singing Strange Fruit shooting them thrice out of a luminescent joy. Craniums broken open on concrete sidewalks, people kiss the ground housing their buried lovers, a man takes a screwdriver upon his finger nails, tearing them out one after another and feeding them to a child, and the man then writes a poem in ode to Will Inman’s The Flowers of God . Pricks grow from a man’s shoulders, rows of them as with several rows of teeth, he lacerated his tongue and cannot speak, he keeps biting his pricks, and he then amputates them with his teeth thereupon bleeding to death. Average woman clubs a man until he is in a coma; she amputates his hands and fucks his stumps, and riding those black arms endlessly. Wounded humans run onto the highways and suicide themselves while pilgrims use this collection of bodies as a massive raft to a new world. All races/generations of people fuck one and other not at the final dawn of apocalypse, not to fuck out of futility but only to live freely, all people fuck openly, splendidly, in that are expelled what makes humanity, creation in not a blank, creation of the joy of life. ….

I see the nature of Chaos. Is it a throw back to grand primitism, or an explosion of mind and body? Only bullshitters seem to know the exact answer for that. I no longer see anything in Chaos, there is no great thing to it, only a mass of imagery-our purest language- however great and divine it is, it is only built upon a simple logic, and Nietzsche said that the OverMan should not follow only logic. If Chaos can then be evauluated as an act of an Individiual, then no longer can violence be claimed by an individual if it is available to the masses. Therefore; the individidual would be a wholly unique creature that applies to no real set of standards, but a shifting set of principals that works like Evolution (an inescapable idea blighted by herd mentality and a limited manifest destiny) that suits that same man. With that, we discover that Chaos may not be violent, but only another life form like water, a thing that can become anything. May you find what you are looking for.

The Madman and his lover What I see now remain as fragments But pieces of a landscape Still morphing and being molded By what is the same old same old Even for the approaching hurricane Nothing new to find in this final image So obvious and unexplainable When you try to find your self and escape But predictable paradigm The usual ‘cause’ of all errors on this planet The experiment has failed Start over How comforting it is to a people Never once to find absolution Never to gain what is cherished and so sacred The death of God and all masters Let us become the new masters So we may chisel away the teeth Of little slaves and little men The final solution But turmoil and grace What little depth and pity For the blood of billions Like a newfound virus –cured by the bullet and furyWhat is Manifest and what is insipid Oh worldly genius and dictator Every last who will perish on this planet Now manure for fresh creatures A magnificent age The Dawn of nothing but individuals To battle time it self Without finish nor last glory What we see now Is endless possibility Infinite Divine and Cruel

[thegreenfairy13]

We Only Come Here To Sleep

A new Gobblepot fic cause I need to do something on the weekend. 

Summary: Three infants have been murdered and their bodies have been found at various places in Gotham City. The public, as well as the mob, want to see a culprit for different reasons. After everything Jim Gordon has been through, one wouldn't think an ordinary case would take its toll on him. But it does.

Read the first chapter on Ao3 or here: 

In the end, it wasn’t one of the Riddler’s elaborate schemes, or one of the Joker’s ludicrous plans. It wasn’t Bruce Wayne and his determination to become a vigilante, or even the Penguin and his golden empire of crime. In the end, it was a usual case, an ordinary crime that did James Gordon in.

Gotham City seems to know only two seasons. Through most of the year, there’s an icy wind sweeping through the city, biting into the grim faces of her inhabitants. Most of her days are dark, giving the impression of an endless night.

But then comes the summer. And for a few weeks, Gotham will be tinged with yellow. But it won’t be a bright summer showing off clear skies painting the city with gentle colors. No, it will be harsh and brutal - like everything in this godforsaken city.

The sun will be beating down, baking pavements and glass-facades until each breath in the overheated air will be painful, until each step will be a battle. And the light! It’s never a bright yellow, but a color reminiscent of piss. It suits this pain-filled place, though.

Jim Gordon curses under his breath as exists his car. When putting his feet on the ground, his soles practically fuse with the ground. A wave of hot air hits his chest, and Jim can instantly feel the sweat covering his chest, causing his shirt to cling uncomfortably to his upper-body. Reaching for his sunglasses, he gestures for Harvey to follow him.

The heavier man pulls a face when being ordered to leave the chilled cocoon of his car. Jim ignores him. Sighing heavily, he nods towards the other officers already crowding the scenery.

Despite the buzz, he feels alone. Out here, Gotham is at her worst. For miles and miles, there’s nothing to see but the grey of the concrete and colorless sand. It’s a place where people disappear in the filthy water never to return again. Jim is certain his colleagues will lay him to rest out here one day in the future - he wouldn’t blame them.  

After taking a few more hesitant steps, Jim hears the sand crunching beneath his shoes. If he closed his eyes for a moment, he could easily pretend to be somewhere else. At a proper beach maybe, under a benevolent sky. Instead, he thinks how annoying it will be to get the sand out of his shoes.

“Where exactly are we?” Harvey asks with a slight growl, startling Jim.

Jim tilts his head. He contemplates giving his partner a snarky reply but thinks better of it. So instead of pointing out that he didn’t spend the car-ride blindfolded and handcuffed, he explains, “Common ground.”

Sucking in a shuddering breath, Harvey tilts his head. “That’s bad.”

Jim doesn’t reply, simply grits his teeth. ‘That’s bad’ doesn’t even start to cover how bad this could be.

One of the younger officers picks up on their conversation. Confusion written all over his face, he addresses Harvey. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Huffing out a humorless laugh, the experienced cop indulges the lad. “That’s the land between the turfs.” Pointing across the river, he elaborates, “That’s the Valeska turf.” He turns slightly to the right, “The Siren’s oasis.” Making a full turn, he points vaguely in the direction Jim is standing, “Tetch’s outdoor amusement park for the hopelessly lunatic, right beside the Scarecrow’s House of Horror.”  

At last, he circles his partner fully. “The Narrows,” he says then, ignoring the slight pang of pain on Jim’s face deliberately. “None other than the Queen rules this shitty piece of the city.”

Taking a deep breath, he finishes his quick initiation to Gotham’s inofficial districts. “But they all pay their tribute to the Penguin.”  Adjusting his sweat-sodden fedora, Bullock spits on the ground. “And this crap place? That’s no one’s ground. If a body is being dropped here , the rogues passed their judgment. Together.”

The young police-man gulps. He stares at Bullock and then back at the riverbank where the coroner is already busy taking samples. “So they…?”

Pushing the lad aside, Jim steps forward. “So if a body ends up here without permission here, that means the mob will interfere,” he states grimly.

Approaching the riverbank, the Commissioner finally takes a good look at the corpse before him. Despite all the horrors Jim had been through before, nothing could have been able to prepare him for the sight before him.

For a long moment, he merely stares, unmoving. He has seen corpses before, has been the cause of untimely deaths more times than he’d like to admit, but this is new.

No, in fact, it isn’t. Jim has been confronted with this kind of death before, has tried his very best to suppress that memory as best as he can, but given the context, this is new .

Looking up, he nods for the coroner to start elaborating. Never before has Jim missed the previous forensic, Edward Nygma, as much as this very second. For once, he wishes for someone to wrap up harsh truths in distracting riddles. Jim would give up his year’s salary and then some, if the forensic would give his mind an opportunity to wander off, to focus on something else than the task at hand.

What he gets, though, are simple facts. “Infant. Male. Probably not more than a couple of days old. Maybe not even that. Probably strangled. No severe trauma,” he rattles on, unfazed by the tiny body lying on the dirty ground. Maybe she hardens you to this point.

A baby. Just a little, innocent baby. Jim can hardly breathe as he stares down at what has been a living being, if only for a few hours. His skin is already peeling off due to the merciless heat, turning black and blue beneath Gotham’s sun. Jim wonders if it was rosy, once. He stares down, unable to look away, takes in the little knobs of fat on its upper arms and legs, and tries to suppress a sob.

Somebody should hold this little thing in their arms. It should still be alive, making happy noises, as one gently pinches those tiny rolls of fat. It should squeal with delight, and only cry if it’s hungry.

At last, Jim has to turn away. This is not right. Nobody should discard a child as if it was trash. Especially not here, at this godforsaken place.

His fingers itch to pick up the small body, to hold it, if only for a moment, the way it deserves. In another life, he would know exactly how to go about it. He and Lee would have awaited their child’s arrival with excitement. Would have picked out a crib, toys, rompers, and books, maybe. They would have laid in bed, Jim’s hand on Lee’s belly, waiting for their kid to move, knowing full-well it’s still shielded from this city, from her .

This reality never happened, though. Will probably never happen to Jim, for he doesn’t deserve such happiness, he knows that. But still. It’s unfair. This infant lies there on the ground, discarded like trash, and it’s everything someone like Jim has ever wished for.

He bends down, almost touches the tiny cheek before remembering he’s still a cop. Swallowing heavily, he disguises the motion by wiping the sweat from his forehead.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder. “You alright, partner?” Harvey asks quietly enough that nobody else hears them.

Jim’s chest constricts, he has trouble taking a breath, and still, his jaw is set tight. Nobody but Harvey would ever catch on, would note that anything was wrong. Jim is thankful for the warm hand, the solid weight on his shoulder. He’s grounding him in his pain, forcing him back to reality, when all he wants to do is float away and wallow in his grief.

“Of course I am,” he replies, a tad bit too quickly.

Harvey arches an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t reply. This is neither the place nor the time anyway.

“Won’t you finally pack up the evidence?” he snaps when the coroner gives them both a look that is too curious for Harvey’s taste. The coroner squints in disdain, but does what he’s told. After all, Bullock has a natural authority to him, he’s a character only Jim questioned successfully so far, and today, he’s glad for it.

They get back into their car, where it’s cold and sterile and death is but a memory at a riverbank. He blinks as he tries to wrap his head around what he just saw: an entire life, wasted in the sand. Neither of them talks as Harvey drives back to the city, back to the living.

Finally, Harvey glances over at Jim, now and then beating nervously the devil’s tattoo on the steering wheel. “That’s the third,” he whispers.

“I know,” Jim replies. He’s too exhausted to say anything else. Over the course of the last three weeks, they found three dead infants. All scattered around the city. The first two had been siblings according to their DNA-analysis. Jim wouldn’t be surprised if the third one is related to them, too.

“You want me to drop you off at the weasel’s place?” Harvey asks, and Jim flinches.

“What am I supposed to do there?”

The other man shrugs. “We found it on Common Ground.”

Jim hums in agreement. “Doesn’t look like a mob-job, though.”

Tilting his head, Harvey acknowledges the statement. “He could still know something,” he states petulantly and both men know he’s reaching for straws there.

“This case is getting to you,” he adds after a moment. Jim rolls his eyes but can’t find it in him to disagree. “You could at least get a free drink.”

The blonde snorts. “I think I’m outta favors.”

Harvey scratches his chin. “Still. Maybe one of his goons has seen something.” He clears his throat, looks over at Jim. “And it wouldn’t hurt for you to let off some steam. You always seem to be better off after pushing the Penguin around for a while.”

Jim sputters. “That’s not true!” he protests.

Holding up his hand, Harvey interrupts him. “It is. Go there. See what he knows, rough him up, arrest one or two thugs. You’ll feel better.”

Horrified, Jim stares at his partner’s face. “You make it sound like I’m harassing an innocent citizen for nothing. You’re still aware we’re talking about the Penguin?”

Harvey snorts in response. “That’s exactly why I’m suggesting.” He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Not accusing , just to be clear.”

Jim falls silent as he clenches his fists. He’s so damn tired, he doesn’t even want to put up a fight.

“He’ll find out anyway,” he demurs. “And he’ll want answers. You don’t simply drop off a body at the riverbank and expect Cobblepot to keep his hooked nose outta your business.”

“This is a police investigation,” Jim snaps back, unfazed, and Harvey’s jaw drops.

“Even after becoming the Commissioner, you still sound like a petulant rookie on some days.

Leaning back against the seat, Jim closes his eyes. Even before today, he had been exhausted to the point of not being able to sleep properly for weeks. This city just won’t let him.

And now there’s a body on Common Ground.

This city doesn’t seem to rest when it comes to her sinisterness. If Gotham doesn’t want to swallow her entire population whole, she now goes for her most vulnerable inhabitants. Jim wishes he could for once simply search for stolen paintings or chase a burglar. But no, there’s always something bigger, or something more diabolical lurking in the shadows.

Jim’s shoulders slump as he gives in. “Let’s do the paperwork first,” he suggests, cause he’s still the commissioner. “And then we’ll inform the Penguin like the good, little cops we are.”

[marjanefan]

The Devil of Christmas and the 1970s. A Dark Nostalgia

’The Devil of Christmas’ is much respected among fans of the show ‘Inside No.9’for being an affectionate pastiche of a certain sort of 1970’s television show, a meticulous recreation of how these shows were filmed , and for a particularly dark pay off. Pemberton and Shearsmith grew up watching the type of shows it pastiches and the episode makes their affection for them clear . They credit shows such as ‘Armchair theatre’, ‘ Beasts’ and especially ‘ Tales of the unexpected’ with inspiring them to work in the anthology format. The episode manages to be a knowing and humorous tribute to these shows. But it also subtly passes comment on the attitudes of the programmes and those who made them.

The episode is directed by Graham Harper, who in a long TV career has directed episodes of both ‘classic’ and ‘new’ Dr. Who. Derek Jacobi (who voices Dennis Fulcher) and Rula Lenska who appears as Celia /Nancy both worked extensively on television during this period. Adam Tandy, the show’s producer had worked as a child actor during this period and he discussed his experiences in the audio commentary with Pemberton and Shearsmith. So this would have been a nostalgic experience for quite a few people involved in the making of the episode (apparently the crew also enjoyed dressing up in 70s styles for the closing scenes).

This review will contain extensive spoilers so only continue if you have watched the episode

Nostaliga for the past is always a two edged thing.. We risk overlooking the problematic aspects of periods such as the 1970s when we look back too cosily. The show 'Life on Mars' took apart the culture of sexism, racism and toxic masiculinty of the 1970s as portrayed in shows as 'The Sweeney' while making us cheer the politically incorrect antics of Gene Hunt. This blog post does an excellent job (far better than I can) of illustrating how the ostensible story we are watching in ‘The Devil of Christmas’ comments on the casual misogyny of 1970’s television drama. It also makes an important observation about how Dennis Fulcher’s attitude toward the violence inflicted on the female star of the episode can be shown to fit in what we have learnt in recent years about the abuse of young women within the television industry of this time.

https://dodoswords.wordpress.com/2017/01/05/inside-no-9-review-series-three-the-devil-of-christmas/

In the commentary on this episode Pemberton and Shearsmith commented on the fact that the type of television programs ‘The Devil of Christmas’ pastiches regularly used the trope of a wife/husband deliberately brining about the mental collapse of their spouse or driving them to their deaths. It is interesting that this particular trope became popular during this period of societal change. Women would make greater use of liberalised divorce laws and begin to assert their right to pursue professional careers. The trope spoke to men’s anxieties about women becoming more assertive and empowered. It is worth noting the 1970s television series Derek Jacobi is most associated with ‘I, Claudius’ had several scheming unfaithful female characters, most of whom were young and attractive, who often met nasty ends, rather like ‘Kathy’ does in this episode . It’s problematic portrayal of women has been a subject of academic discussion.

‘Kathy’ is set up as a bad woman. She is a disloyal wife and stepmother. She is shown to be a gold digger who deliberately causes the death of her husband and who hates her young stepson. She is also unfaithful and is unashamed about carrying another man’s child. The audience of ‘The Devil of Christmas’ would obviously approve of and enjoy her eventual punishment. But Penny, an innocent young actress, suffers for Kathy’s ‘crimes’.

Elizabeth, Julian’ first wife is set up as the ‘good’ wife . Tellingly she is already dead (in misogyny the best sort of woman). Celia, Julian’s mother is suspicious of Kathy’s intentions and tries to warn Julian to no avail. The two women of the piece must be in conflict with each other as no solidarity or sympathy must be allowed between women. Dennis Fulcher expresses his frustration that Nancy, the actress who played Celia would not wear glasses (arguing they were not right for the character) meaning she more than once missed her mark. While Dennis is somewhat dismissive of Nancy , it is worth considering she wanted to appear glamorous as Celia and refused to wear glasses because she was afraid that being older woman and no longer physically attractive would have a detrimental effect on her career. (I wonder what memories of being a young actress in this period must have brought up for Rula Lenska)

Dennis comments on his commentary that he has ‘Kathy’ be pregnant as it would ‘tee up the ending if you sensed there was something inside Kathy making it more poignant’. This speaks to both men’s fear and envy of women’s reproductive capacity (and their desire to control it). Penny is also dressed in white for the final scenes, ironically the colour of supposed innocence given ‘Kathy’ s actions. This heightens the impact of her appearance as a sacrificial victim in the final seconds.

For me personally one the most shocking moments in the episode is when Julian hits Kathy. The audience can see that the hit is filmed is such a way that Brian (who plays Julian) does not actually hit Penny (who plays Kathy). The moment is plays into the pastiche of 1970s television as we can see that it is obviously fake. But the casual act of domestic violence shows how it was written off and normalised in this period (not that things are much better today). It is also shocking coming from a character like Julian who is otherwise portrayed sympathetically. It also happens in front of a child (both in the story and filming). Dennis also directs Brian to play the moment more angrily.

Of course the horrific conclusion of the episode with its very real violence and Penny’s absolute terror as she realises her fate. She actually cries ‘Dennis’ in her final seconds pleading with him to save her. The over the top acting of the rest of the episode is suddenly horribly recontextualised. The very artifice of episode stands in stark contrast and almost as a mockery beside this final act of violence. The pride Dennis takes in this particular moment and Penny’s ‘genuine fear’ is truly blood chilling. As WeeLin noted in her analysis of the episode what does it say about Dennis’ exposure to and involvement in ’Snuff’ that he says ‘In it’s defence, it was one of the better ones’ (it is also hinted this may not have been the only ‘snuff’ film he directed). He cannot bring himself to watch Penny’s murder, refusing to accept his role in enabling it, and moans ‘ but If only I’d got Gummidge’ more concerned about his career than the brutal killing of a young woman.

There is another narrative from the 1970s. This was the period of second wave feminism and the women’s liberation movement. Feminists set up rape crisis lines and women’s shelters and highlighted the issue of violence against women and girls. They also critiqued the way women were portrayed in the media. They helped critique and call out the attitudes toward women that ‘The Devil of Christmas’ lampoons.

It is worth looking briefly at how second wave feminists reacted to the film ‘Snuff’ itself. The original film ‘Snuff’ was a grindhouse film that was released in early 1976 (about a year before ‘The Devil of Christmas ‘was set). The female lead character Terry London (who apparently gets killed at the end) was pregnant like Kathy in ‘The Devil of Christmas’. It also ends with the crew apparently killing the female lead. (information from the Wikipedia page for the film). While it was very obviously a hoax it caused a considerable amount of controversy. Andrea Dworkin and other feminists would lead protests against it in New York and it would lead to the formation of the group ‘Women against violence against women’. The supposed existence of ‘snuff’ films would be brought up feminists like Dworkin in their campaign against pornography over the next few years.

Mary Daly in her book ‘Gyn/Ecology’ discusses the original film ‘ Snuff’ and discusses the men who enjoyed films like it. She states ‘This type of entertainment is enjoyed by judges, physicians, police, physicians, and other professionals today in the line of ‘duty’, when women who have been victimised (rape victims, for example ) come under their power ‘ [Mary Daly Gyn /Ecology, Woman’s Press, 1979]. Daly points out that not just that the most respected and powerful men in society enjoy these types of portrayals of violence against women but it informs their treatment of the vulnerable women in their power. Daly links the attitudes of these men toward women to the misogyny of the male witch finders of the past in the following paragraph. So there is an argument to link the way ‘The Devil of Christmas’ examines and subtly calls out the misogyny of its time to the way ‘The Trial of Elizabeth Gage’ examines the misogyny that underlay the seventeenth century witch trials .

While Dworkin, Daly and others have been mocked and decried for their apparent gullibility in believing in the existence of snuff as a genre, this loses sight of a wider point. They were correct in pinpointing the misogynistic attitudes that underlay the original ‘Snuff’ film and films that came in its wake. They were also correct in their calling out of the mistreatment of women in the adult entertainment industry, which was rapidly growing in the 1970s. But as we have discovered with the #metoo movement and the Weinstein scandal the entertainment industry has been rife with male abusers.

Dennis expresses casual surprise that this dark piece from his past eventually surfaced, almost as if being involved in a woman’s murder was a minor thing in his life. Many of the men who were investigated by investigations such as Operation Yewtree obviously did not expect to be called to account for their crimes. We have only in recent years started to look honestly at the abuses of this period. With that we have had to evalate the media of this period to. It may have taken almost forty years but Dennis Fulcher is finally made to account for his role in Penny’s murder. His is not the final voice we hear in the episode but the detective investigating him.

[juniebjoneswrites]

Bring Me Home // Harry Styles

Acceptance (1)

My eyes are closed and my whole body is tingling like I left it for too long in a nightmare and it's finally waking up slow and groggy.  I'm surrounded suddenly by cold winter air as a door opens. Someone in the distance calls my name but I can't dig myself back up to reach them. My toes wiggle and dance with the dirt in my sandals and I reach for that feeling. My arms cover my chest, stopping the cold from hitting my wet bathing suit and I can't help but wonder if this is what he felt like, it must have been cold. Wet and cold, with the ocean spraying sand and foam.

"June?" My eyes flutter open. The broken, fluorescent bulbs of a gas station throw sickly, yellowing shadows over my sister. I look around and the only door I'm in front of is the freezer section. The frozen single-serve pizzas are staring back at me sadly.

I look down at her hands and see the Powerade she grabbed, bags of chips, and a gallon of water. "I'm back," I say slowly. I grab the water, becoming fully aware of my cottonmouth. Taking big gulps I think of my brief and tragic winter vaca hallucination and remember it was definitely summer. Guzzling this water as if it were from the Tuck Everlasting spring itself and I'd live forever, I glance at the aisle mirror. Unfortunately for this man I caught him staring at my sister and I. I cap the jug and hand it back to her, "go pay."

I  turn my back, heading to the corner where his aisle and mine meet. "What's up?" I ask bluntly, "Do you usually creep on scantily clad women who're minding their business?" getting to him I realize how I shrink in his presence and the tiredness his face holds. And there was something else.. Familiarity.

He looks uncomfortable, "Was just making sure you weren't dead on your feet," he smiles nervously, "I tried to chat with you before your friend came in but you didn't respond."

I squint my eyes, if they weren't so glossy and my head didn't feel like it belonged underwater then maybe I could have placed him. But alas, like offerings to Xibalba, the stars were not in position for this tribute. Aka me. I again cross my arms and let out an "mhm." Angrily plucking a snack from his hand and walking away, I'm very aware of how many he can hold in the same hand as his bottled water.

I want to ask my sister if listening to all those true crime podcasts have done nothing for her since she's waiting for me in the darkened parking lot. But I figure the wrong place, wrong time. The lot is riddled with potholes and faded paint and there's usually one kid hanging around the outskirts, seemingly waiting for someone. She tosses me the Powerade and some Visine eye drops. "That bad?" I ask.

"They're as bad as your sunburned ass," she laughs, I shrug. We can't win them all.

We cross the deserted street to the ocean where the fire is blazing and our six closest friends are waiting for us. The waves lap the shoreline and the moon shines high above like a nightlight I had once wanted to kiss, but now holds my secrets. I disliked the dark, but I dislike the heavy stare the  moon now follows me with even more. I heard laughing, crackling fire, and the subtle sounds of a playlist through speakers. I could almost forget why we were there. I vaguely register a car driving off as my sister takes my hand.

 "Is it time?" she asks, standing near the fire. Sam gets up from a log, shakes his brown curls from his face and stands at the shore line. Craning his neck upwards he checks the moon's position. Just this once I wished it would close it's eye. He makes a sound that seems like a "yes," as it struggles to leave his throat and I can't tell if it's from the angle of his neck or the emotions of what we're here to do.

Sam grabs the box and we walk to the boat they probably used in the Notebook. We row over to the crag of ocean rocks that leads to a trail up a cliffside. No one speaks. I can feel a wetness coming over my cheeks that I'm certain had nothing to do with the ocean spray. We tie the boat to a tree and move up the cliff. I will my sandals to corporate and keep me right but that's like asking seaweed to keep the shark steady so I let the cliff wall guid me instead. Slowly the rocks and granite turn to dirt, and grass and I know we made it to the top. From this point, the moon sits perfectly centered over the cliff's edge. I can feel the choices we've made and how this is completely and utterly the best one.

I hear laughter again, feel the excitement, the friendship. However this time it's not something any passing person would see. It's a memory of many times that had come before and many times that would not come again. We open the box. A small blue and silver ceramic pot sits inside. Sam pulls it out, walks over to the edge and pours a little in his hand. He tosses his brother's ashes into the sea that took him. The final middle finger Elijah would have given if he had been alive to do so. Except if he was alive he could give two and I know one would be for me. I close my eyes as he throws the rest.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

That beach and gas station were still part of our stomping grounds, but that summer it was less frequent and we spent more time cuddled on couches and wandering graveyards. Death will make you do strange things. Guilt will make you do stranger. I watched days, weeks, even months blur together until finally it felt like the fever broke and I woke up. Fall feels like a rebirth, a brief moment of clarity before winter asks if that's what you really want. I dress and drive to the gas station.

 Turning off my car I can feel the cool wind coming from the shoreline. Walking to the waves I crane my neck the way Sam did and wish for the moon above me. I need to know what it saw. The ocean spray cools my body and nerves while waves kick sand on my boots. I stand there listening to the crashing for some time before someone pulls me from my depths.

I turn around to see the gas station worker, he waves. "Where did you kids go?" he calls over the crashing. "I thought you forgot about old Seb," he chuckles as he walks to meet me. "Was worried something happened,"

 "Something did... happen," I reply. He frowns, understanding my emphasis. "Yeah," I say heavily. I start walking away, I want to go to the cliffs. He stops me.

 "You know that guy came back a few nights later," he pauses, "he was looking for you. Said something like wanting 'to make sure that girl was alright,'" he pauses. "It took me a minute to realize he was talking about you. He said you looked sad," I must look confused because he fumbles on, "uh.. he uh was there the last night you and your friends were here...." he trails off, gesturing to the shore, "tall, dark hair, had an accent."

I trace that night back to it's beginning when a memory hits. Oh. Now, how does one tell Mr. Harry Styles, "Sorry about last night, it's just that I was sad and angry and had to spread my friends ashes"? Because unlike John Mulaney I haven't lost the best excuse I have.

"Has he been back since?" I ask.

 "Only once," he replies.

I smile a smile that has stopped reaching my eyes and pat his arm as I walk away, "Thanks, Seb." I say. I make it a few yards before he calls again.

"Oh! I gave him your name," I hear the triumph in his voice. Seb wasn't always the best for remembering. He's getting older and lost his wife a few years back.They ran the station together but ever since she passed it's just been him. We told him to hire help, even to hire one of us since that was our go-to snack shop when we're at the beach. However, he's a stubborn man and refuses the help he doesn't think he needs. I turn around to see him smile his wide, goofy smile and for a brief moment I'm happy with him.

"Did you now?" I ask playfully, "Then why hasn't my mysterious man found me yet?"

He shrugs, "Maybe just waiting for the right time, or to find you at my shop again," he smiles wide.

"Maybe," I respond, "I guess I'll have to come around more," I start walking away but suddenly I turn on my heels, as if forced by unseen hands, "Maybe instead, Seb, you could hire me? Increase my chances at seeing him."

He pauses to think. I know he thinks he doesn't need help, but I know he does and I need to help someone since I can't help myself. Or maybe I'm a masochist. Or maybe if I can meet my "mystery" man I'd have a break from this nightmare.

He sighs and walks over, "Well I guess it would be okay, since it's for love and all,"

I almost kiss him. "You're one lucky man, Seb." I put my arm around his shoulder, facing his station, and wave it in an arch like we were imagining a better world, "With my help we might even fix those potholes." He laughs and I lead him back to the station to fill out my paperwork.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I never make it to the cliffs, I end up helping Seb well into the night. When I pull up to my apartment I see my sister's car in a guest spot. I sigh heavily, taking a long drink of my melted slushie and make my way inside. She's asleep on my couch with reruns of the Golden Girls playing and a plate of uneaten food on the coffee table.

She wakes as I sit on the floor between her and the table and pick at the food. "Where were you?" she asks.

"I got a job working for Seb," I hold up the slushie.

"What? He actually hired you?" she half sits up, "What kind?"

I stick out my blue tongue and she lays back down in disgust. She likes the red. "Yes, Jo, my sweet talking is good for more than drinks in a bar," I say dryly.

"Well maybe you can get him to have better snacks," she opens the covers for me to join her. I crawl under the blankets with my big sister like I'm a child again and hope the protection she offers will keep my dreams at bay. But like many sailors and ships lost to its melody of waves, the siren sea calls me back.

1 / (2) / (3) / (4) / (5) / (6)

[bemybestoy]

Genesis of me

Genesis: becoming me! Hello bitches and kink lovers,This blog shall be an open letter to guide and smooth out  our relationship as I am sick and tired of how a dominatrix and a sub's role are misunderstood. Let me introduce myself, I am Krisztina, a pro domme, in my 30's and I am embracing this role for around 8 years. Meaning I am highly experienced and I tried it all, expect the practices that reach out my limit. Such as permanent damage, I would never put the life and health of a slave of mine in jeopardy not thru my instructions or even just widness(you cannot even imagine thru years how many times I was asked if we can perform a c2c castration  precedure, stabbing with knifes or swords for any amount I can posibly think of asking. I repeate it was about c2c so not bulshit as I would watch all along). When I refused such life threatning session I was offered same only to watch, not to instruct. Answer is still NO everytime. BDSM is not abuse, it is not guided endangerment, it must be sane, sane, consensual and have very clear boundaries of safety. To rewind i started to explore this world in my early 20s ofc and suprise , suprise in real life. Even if i am mostly an online fetish chathost and online domme, I did not know such sections of BDSM exist in camming world, till after a few years i have done dominance in real life. Let me explain! So I had a mid managemnt job after my university in a multinational company, which was and still is top 3 globally in its field and shall always be. There is not even a child all across this world that does not know what company is about when hearing it's name (do not be cretin enough to ask me the name, I will tell NO to your face. Or ask you what info you wish next home adress, Id identification number, blood group or home keys along with an open window in case you do not manage to use the keys:)) ). So i was there around 1 years and half and had a long distance relationship with often travelling . We all know those never lastunless one of the two moves abroad. So I hapilly informed my family and work collegues I wish to move to a different country to move in with my bf/ soon to be fiancee. The question in everyone's head right now was you bf your was Ds relationship? the honest answer is hell no! my bf was alike me a real alpha, one of the strongest man psysical and mental both and definetly would not take attitude from no woman (not even the love of his life, unless he was dick and she was right. To understand you need to picture a man at height 1,95 cm and around 100 kilos all fibers and muscles as he had been a kickboxer and when i met him a trainer for kickboxers at European level. A true montain of a man who yet never felt his manhood threaten if he discussed his feeling with me, his desires, his sensibilities, things i would do or say to hurt his feeling even involuntary a I was busy all the time and moving fast etc). So not only that he was not the submissive type, but even if we were in harmony from time to time he would give me 'attitude'. Now even if I am pleased and happy, even if I amm not the nagging type, no matter who you are and how much I love you, if you cross me I will whoop your ass. After a fe episodes, as chasing him thru the apartment every room with the moop tail pointed a him to kick his ass until he ran out, threating to stab his hand with a fork when he tried to touch my steak after leavig him without one as he made clearly to me he was not a pussy to carry grocery bagsand hence to help and many as suchhe decided I should meet one of his best friend from high school, a lady leaving in a city close. He said we would get along perfectly and the lady and I would get along perfectly. Who would knew I was in for such a big suprise.....(cheshire cat as i recall and type). So I did not know much about her ad what she does for a living when we were instruduced. We had  lovely conversation, then she invited me some day when i am off work to visit her house, met her husband also and spend some more lady time together(I was a manager in one of my bf business a gran coffee shop/ bar it was quite big and had 2 floors one was coffe shop and bar all white with blue lighting surrounding th wide bar and lower floor  couches and tables and ring dance for party rentals such as festivity, anniversieries etc. I done so many things in there: not only i would cash in all the money that being my main, but i would help the other emplyees by making cocktails- I made a course for that- , even cleaning or washing glasses, once out there i was the only personal managing or website, of course PR as even t planning as I was the one who organised every detail of our rental and someone even DJ, a lower floor had DJ booth with pro equipment which i manage to completely fuck up as I had no idea what I was doing and the booked DJ announced last minute he was so coming so my bf said as i am the most modern and tech savvy to give a try to see if i can work it. not only I was not able , but i fucked it up so bad we had to call a tehnician to fix it and he taught me basically how to use it on a minimal level to work it for the party which turned out great. Still cracks me out when i think of my face when i was sure i fucked it up lol. it was a dexter labority moment and his blonde sister deedee: i was like many if i press this and that i will fix it )  I was like well i cannot make it worse :))) Then I decided I need some female eergy without the 'guys' going everyday at my bf gym to do my box training, my krav maga and I gave a call to this lady ask her if I can indeed visit and when It is appropriate to come and suits her schedule.My employees and bf replacing me could manage a day without and i needed a getaway. She invited me in couple or days, my bf drove me to her house and then left to actually replace me. we had an amazing luncheon, laughed, make jokes, just getting to know each other mostly me and her, but also her husband. Then she informed me she had some work to do soon but i can wait with her husband. Unlike I want to come with her. I was like ok I want to come, ut i am not sure whether i disturb you and invite me just to be polite or if it is really ok. i mean i got the best manners you could witnes both on and out of my job. She said she would actually like to share what she does with me as she likes me and she is quite sure having such a strong and open personality  would not make me freak out. I was within my mind ' what should i freak out about?!'. but still acted al casual as i liked her myslf, it only made me very curious. I have a feline personality so curiosity is in my nature, though it is pure and observatory, not the gossip, lame and weak as usual women are. So..... she said she will be busy with work for around 2 hours and if i wanted to stay aside as she cannot pay attention to me. i was like ok... She then invited me at the basement where she said she would met at her 'office' a person whom she expects, as her work space has direct access from garage. Then we would both go downstairs. Well probably telling all cluess made you suspect or realise it was a full dungeon downstairs. a pro dungeon.you should have seen my face when i noticedall the tools, device,suspension systems and the rest of the toys. She looked at me patient and confident, without a care in her mind that i might judge or something.... let me soak it all in... then she asked: You still want to stay or do you want to go upstairs with my husband to keep him company thru soccer game was on tv? " . She was so calm as if she shown me a bush of pants in her garder:)) Then my first outspoken reaction to her it was one of a morron: my first words after what i have seen, my first question asked was if her husband knew about all these(as they do not share a house for more then 10 years). She said yes, but he does not interfer with her work, comes down sometimes, but participates rare and very dismissive toward whom she works with. So I gotten more curious. I obviously suspected what will happen soon, but never withness something alike.Well I done so many sessions and you remember even if having a perfect memory the big lines of the majority. The first one I had only as a peeper I remember in smallest little details. Bitch parked and had a hoody on. he knoecked and when was invited, he went down on his knees down on all stairs. He looked like a maggot or miriapod with his head down to do not cascade over stairs as he was not standing. She then informed her she had a guest which will attend, but will not participate. Not giving a fuck of his reaction. I;ve seen chain suspection bondage, over all punishment and esp cbt along with huge strapon penetration. Shge is quite tall1.80 and she really was at perfect level as he bitch even if him hanging from the ceiling without touch the floor or be close to it even. i was amazed and intrigued. So as soon everything was done and he left ofc i asked so many questions. She answered all with patience even if i must have been annoying like a child and not  take the time to put together the smarters questions. After i while I was blablabla in a hyper manner about what she does as a professional domina I was like wait! does my bf know about this? She smilled and said ofc. He sometimes rarely when visiting me participates even as a master helping mewith pain or bootlicking or stuff. He joins more then my husbnd who when bored and coming down to see when i finish at most lets his shoes licked by my slaves then goes upstairs. I found all these fascinaint and so alternative so ofc I wanted to see more.So often I would visit her as watch her sessions with her slaves. After several mouth a slave of hers made her after session a big financial tribute offer that i participate too and i can second her domining. She asked me if it is something I consider. I did want it, but felt like I would be clueless as per what to do. Even if you watch many times that does not mean you feel suddly like you can replicate that certainty in action. She said not to worry as bitch knows it is my first time and this and following her lead is exactly what it is excites him. So i mus not overthink, just try to have some fun. And damn! It was so much fun! the hormones, the excitment, the laughter from humiliation talk, the driven crazy look on the bitches' face, the overall experience. it was like wow! it is hard to paint it in words, with all lexicon richness or ability to play with words. it is pure extasy! :D:DAfter he felt she made sure he had a chit chat with a glass of wine, making sure i am good with all, she said how great i was as she does not like other lady dommes in general. What was the goodbye part when my bf arrved to pick me up in car she actually did give me my own tribute. how much money! like lots! Then she invited me often to participate in the session in which slave got excited about 2 lady dommes. I accepted that one per week as i was busy with my own line of work. I had so much fun more then a year. Seen lots, done lots.Then a night I was speaking to him in our bed, holding hands, after2-3 rounds of sex and many orgasms. My realtionships are very intimate and I always go for an open man, who is super smart so besides sex and comfy routine I would have a late night conversation till 4-5 am even if we had to bed up and work in couple hours. there is just something that it is most meaninful ina relationship, to communicate ina deep way and to enjoy it lots both of you. and get into each other soul, emotions and deepest needs.So I did ask him : what made you think she would like me and would like her? what made you believe i would enjoy all these as you know we do not do anything as such? He then said he met thru his life many type of women: brainy, prude, whores, dommes, swingerseven submissive lil fmale toys. And he said a true dominant is never made into one. Ofc you can be good if you copy and get exposured to it or at least satisfactory to a slave. But the best dominant are born, not made. It is in their nature and personalities. They give out clues all the time, no matter the random they do.It made me wonder lots. After a couple moment of silence with my head on his chest, lips against his neck and hand holded all thru our talk, just enjoying the thinking of each, the meaninful silence, i asked if he does not feel bothered about that facti enjoy myself playing with slaves when not only he do not do anything alike, but he is not playing with others either. I mean it is a vast emoions i fell which exclude him fully. he said ofc not, as our love life is something i need more then my alternative fun, thta he knows i can live without that experience, but i would be heartbroken if i was without us (you need to understand jealousy cannot be an issue here. Real pro dommes in dungeon do facesitting all dressed up thru latex or leather and it has got a suffocating breath control purpose. i will explain you why: first of all a n evelated domme cares about personal hygiene and she know there are many scat lovers visiting dommes. so to have one licking your pussy it is not quite sanitary. also ass worship is done thru leggings. the most expensive, best dommes will never allow a slave licking. that is just some vanilla crap made up buy hookers selling sex and bdsm aswell. a well respected professional odoes not indulge in that. I am not saing to use a slave for self sexual satisfaction makes you a bad, poorly skilled mistress. But you do that as a lifestyle domme.Meaning you have a domestic relatinship with your slave who is your life patner. Never in a pro dungeon relationship oral for a slave would be allowed or accepted). Drinking champagne straight from mistress soource yes, but without wiping after. You may have it fromshort distance her controlling her debit makeing her slave do not miss anything unless they agree before on a facial champagne game. But when you go to a pro domme you cannot expect her to enjoy licking pussy and ass. Not to mention licks or even nudity just because it arrouses you. so my bf knew my sex life involved only him, in vanilla terms we all know.And he was ok with my alternative fun. We were even if a modern couple a very faithful one. So our orgasms were only and strictly dedicated to one another, exclusively.He wasgreat in bed so i would have every single day more then ten orgams within couple of hours(we had wakeup sex, luch break sex and couple turns before bed, many squirty orgams, clit or vaginal without squirt). The most sexual gesture i seenin the pro domme who introduced me to this world is just around 3 times within one year to milk cock with latex gloves, but with ruin orgasm. she took hand of when she felt he would come load was shoot without touching he would lick after she pull gloved off and glove was washed after. More often she would make the bitch wank himself while she instructs him closeby. her husband accepted her line as he accepted and love everything about her, but he was like my ex fiancee: hear pussy, ass, breast, orgams, real sexual intimacy are for your pratner. Not for everyone. That is a hooker thing to do. To gave all that just just random everyones. One after the other.That is not what a real dmme is made off. Her strenght and charm comes out because he in full intimacy is hard to get if not impossible. And by all means a slave shoould be use till u reach full sexual satisfaction. But only for your chosen one or ones. I fyou are a lifestyle domme and have a slave as life partner or few slaves as toys as open relationship is ok. But you cannot expect same from a real pro domme! That is something builtand leveled up!PS Hmmm now to breath a lil as I poured everything  so fast. deep inhales and exhales. light a cigg after and build this disclaimer. my spelling is awful as you know me i type like a motherfucker in full speed. Ignore all errors and consider the essence of my phrases. I do not believe in going back to spellcheck unless you publich a book or something editorial. I did that during university in an non paid internship, both as corrector and publisher. But it was a publication spread and shippd on a national evel. And in both roles i learned that the first message and thought till publishing as you go back several times are worlds apart. So much changes. And since I do not publish something wanting to be of intellectual value I wish a very spontaneous, fast writing. It is the most sincere, no filters and even if shifting thoughts without a bridge causing some lack of coherency now and then it is more powerful as the first reactions are.  So yes a blog! why a blog? i do not do social media. it is lame, tacky and became brainless. i miss books or blogs at least. and i do not like at all media unless i do exposure over it from bitches craving for begging and tribute me for it. These reasons and that I cannot stand screens after 8-10 hours of online being available to sessions. I like to look in eyes of someone I talk to and they looking back at me. Instead of both or all dinner participants looking non stop at phone while we pretend to be together. Meanwhile no one is present as they focused on media and other stuffs over their phone .That is not only lame and un natural  , but also impolite. Themost important ask from people around me is manners first of all. One lack of manners become my refusal to have this creature close to me even silent, simply unacceptable.  In addition, if i must have my eyes after work on something i prefer a good movie or a book. Actual human contact is important to me as little as we have it nowadays with global situation. so NO, unless i will have video call activated which i will seldom have I do NOT exist until i am online the next day I feel the need to have people at my feet :) I am literary out of this world. I do not exist for anyone online. And enjoy it every minute !