#it will occur to you that you have become the victim of a skull fuck

[gonzodangerfeels]

It's popping that head in your asshole.

Then feeling your smooth rectum pushing against your G-Sponge

Wait...

Feels like your sponge is active

[meanbossart]

do you have any thoughts on cazador as a character? personally i really loved the parallels between him and astarion & the way that the master/spawn relationship is used as an allegory for cyclical abuse. the scene with cazador’s master’s skull where you find out that he was once victimized in the exact same way that he later victimized astarion was really a lightbulb moment for me re: what vampirism represents in this game.

BOY DO I, i don't think much of it hasn't already been said, though. He's a tragic character in his own right of course, not that that takes away from the awful man he is.

Me and my boyfriend make fun of him a lot, we call him "the best BG3 character" as a little inside joke between us and come up with ridiculous scenarios of things that might have occurred throughout those 200 miserable years the spawn had under his command lol. Maybe he had a month where he was really specific about the shoes everyone wore, maybe once every other decade he had a weird week where he tried to be "nice" only to become frustrated when his efforts weren't immediately met in kind by the rightfully-terrified spawn, maybe between all the torture and horrific-ness he just did some plain weird shit like making someone crouch by in his fainting couch and wait by open-handed for grapes that he dramatically chewed on and then spat right out since he can't actually eat them lmao

And that's hysterical but I think we also started doing that because when you meet Cazador, when you first hear his voice and see his demeanor in person your immediate reaction is probably somewhere along the lines of "THIS is the clown you were so scared of, Astarion?"

And the answer is, of course, yes. This embarrassing little man stuck in a cage of his making instills fear beyond comprehension in Astarion and all his siblings. This man who undoubtedly showed all these spawn, inadvertently, the strangest, most arguably "human" aspects of himself at some point or another during these two centuries they had together is also an absolute monster. And i really like that! I think its far more effective and fitting for his story than if he was, lets say, a Ketheric type.

(this got very long so, more under the cut)

Look at Ascended Astarion in the epilogue now, for example. Everyone agrees that he's an absolute fucking dork - and I think we all also agree that he will go on to destroy the lives of many people beyond repair, especially his own, until the day he is killed.

In the topic of vampirism as an allegory for abuse, I both agree and also don't, at least not exactly - i just think it's deeper than that. I've spoken about this in another post but i find it incredibly refreshing how, to me, it seems like Baldur's Gate 3 has no interest in painting vampirism as sexy or fun past a surface level. It's a curse that nobody asks for unless put in a situation where they feel as if they have no other way out, and it shapes and haunts you for the rest of your undead existence.

Even if you enjoy its benefits at first, that has a time limit. You will see your family and loved ones die, you will see culture evolve while you stay perpetually the same. You will experience so much hurt and pain because the only thing that makes life truly sweet is knowing that it is finite, and eventually it will wear down all of your humanity. And since you can't die unless you are scorched by the sun, staked, or dismembered, you must live with the knowledge that you will never have a peaceful death - and since you won't have a peaceful death, you better not die - and if you don't want to die, you better not be weak - and if you don't want to be weak, you must seek out power at all cost and slash things like love and friendship out of your life.

And what is funny, is that in his attempt to be more like a mortal - to eat, drink, walk the sun, such incredibly simple desires - Cazador (and Astarion, if he ascends) is accidentally only drawing further away from the person he supposedly once was, because that fear of weakness has already utterly corrupted his soul.

That's quite a grim way to look at it, of course. But I genuinely think that it is the natural conclusion of something like immortality.

That's why I quite like that, even after Astarion has found happiness, even after he finds his peace, he still doesn't exactly embrace being a vampire - because It's not something he should be expected to embrace. I think it's a very unique take on the trope.

I also want to leave here this message written by his character writer, which really got me thinking about him on a deeper level since i saw it months ago. It is specifically about the sexual aspect, but I think it branches beyond it too, when you think about it.

[zikadraws]

it takes four doug has "been through the system of 'several lives'"? do you mean he's been killed by the monsters and respawned a few times, and if not what did you mean? im always a fan of aus that incorporate the respawn mechanics that the games theyre for brush over :3c🍿

Oh man isn't that one hell of a question, that I was totally prepared for ! And since you asked it you're now legally required to sit through my painfully long take on this. Enjoy.

(Fair warning : Long post ahead. And you even get drawings. Click For Quality bcz phone pictures.)

Well it's actually relating to a theory/headcanon of mine that I came up to try for the respawn system to make sense in-game, because I too love when the mechanisms in-game are a thing that's accounted for and explained in the "world building*. And the respawn system in Dark Deception always left me perplex. Allow me to put the problem :

So we, as the player get a certain amount of Lives, represented by skulls, that we can use to try again from the last loading point before a Game Over (in which case I think you have to do the level since the very start.) We get more Lives the more we progress through. So far so good. It could not be accounted for and I'll be content enough with that, HOWEVER. When you die while still having 'Lives', Bierce pulls out a snarky comment like "Oh you got killed by a freaking statue, that's bloody hilarious". But, when you die after running out of Lives and get a Game Over, she will say "You died... HAHAHAHAHAHA" (like the sadistic asshole she is), and that, invariably and only in case of Game Over.

(And, very importantly : when you lose a Life, you don't lose your progress, you don't lose any Shard (depending on the difficulty ofc lmao.) So that means there is no time rewind for Lost Lives : it's a thing that's happening and counts as part of the trial. (The Game Overs, however, are on us.)

Which implies that she's somehow aware that the Game Over means Actually Dead, and that the other times was a "Oh dear, you got yourself fucked up again didn't you." and that we could try again. So this implies that the "several lives" system is something that just occurs with Mortals, and not only Doug since it doesn't phase her.

Now it's kinda infuriating because other than the Joy Joy Gang with the Game Over no one else really says anything about this, so. How would that system, that's implied to be acknowledged, be explained in the Dark Dimension, and why is it not talked about ?

Well I think I developed a plausible enough theory, and I believe the reason, for that and a few other mechanics, could be the Soul Shards. Allow me to explain.

-----

So we all know the Soul Shards right. Each of them holding power, and supposed to have once been an unfortunate Mortal that got ripped to bits in Malak's Realm. So far so good, however : "Soul Shard" implies that what we collect is only a fraction of the entirety of the victim's soul, which means the rest must be trapped in Malak's Realm. Enslaved, consumed or just wandering, you'd expect these poor sinners (those who did not cave or qualify into becoming Monsters) to want to do the best they can to help the next victim, with whatever power they hold as captive spirits.

So I believe they are the ones to give the Mortals more than one chance. How they do it is unclear, they might 'zap out' the corpse and reanimate it from a certain point of power, because this action takes a lot of their energy, and it needs for them to focus their collective power in certain emplacements -the Respawn Points for us. However, as it takes a lot out of them, they can only revive so many times. That's also why we gain more Lives through the levels : the more Shards we collect, the more people we get on our side to focus their energy to revive us.

As you can see I've given them a humanoid form because I felt they needed one. Anyways, they follow us around. (A lot because we're literally collecting them, I suspect.) When we die, the death screen advice is spoken by them, as pictured here.

I like to think they're also the reason why there is writing on the walls in certain locations (such as the Hotel, the Golden Manor and the Sewers), giving advice and warnings. I don't think it's blood, so it's probably something easier for them to produce. Those must be erased whenever they're spotted.

Anyways, they do more than that.

You see the chorus that you can hear in the background music ? Well I don't know if you ever noticed, but it appear to be singing warnings and injonctions, such as "Keep on moving" in "Maternal Instinct" or "Run for your life" in the teased ost "Silent Shopper" (I think). Here's my illustrated theory on that : Malak forces them to be the ominous background ambiance, so they choose to subtly try to screw him over and encourage us whilst doing so. (There is canonically whispering from the victims according to E, so I think this chorus might be part of this aspect of the lore.)

There are more than one type of Soul Shard, by the way. Depending on their level of spite, their energy, their personality and their desire to get back to their tormentors, they can sometimes appear as Stun Balls or Spotting Shards. Those are rare though, as most powerful souls are harvested ASAP. 

(They might also be the reason you don’t suffer from exhaustion from running, idk.)

Also, once they've been collected their spirits stick with us even through the levels they're not from and even in the Ballroom, which allows for scenes like this one.

(Sorry about the colors lol still figuring out the scanner)

Anyways, that was basically the long and the short of it, though assuming the spirits follow Doug throughout the entire thing, I’ve came up with a few bonuses. Plus some cozy Tammy thing for your comfort.

So yeah long story short this pretty much explains how come Doug has gone through more than one life. He’s more or less aware of that fact, but he’s a lot in denial of the whole process and pretend the deaths never happened in the first place and that the voices he hears are indeed the other victims crying out to him and nothing else. Each death makes him more cautious, more reactive, more alert, and also more impatient. He takes the advice and what help there is to take, however he tries not to talk to them. Too much to take in and he kinda has to focus on his own problems. It helps that Bierce seems to royally ignore them. They do *not* like Bierce, by the way.

In total, Doug has died about four times so far. He IS kind of lucky, in the end of the day. That or he might actually be talented, who knows.

-----

Okay, so that was my explanation ! Hope you had the patience to read through all of it, and that it makes sense to you. Also enjoy the Soul Shard content, I’ve done these a while ago.

Alright, thanks for your ask. You’re welcome and have a great night ✨🤗💖

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

I'm not sure if you're still doing drabble requests, but if you could do a scenario where Jonas gets kidnapped by a different whumper and Malik goes absolutely feral because how dare someone take his Jonie? *tears up* that would be swell

“Get in the fucking car, Jonas.”

Malik’s tone was far too dangerous to be dismissed, not unless Jonas was also looking to be on the receiving end of a tire iron to the skull. Yet somehow, despite the primal fear it instilled in him like a young lamb hearing a wolf’s growl for the first time, he couldn’t bring himself to move from his frozen position on the ground. His legs refused to listen to the demand and carry him to the passenger side door, his hands refused to wretch on the handle and buckle himself in, his eyes refused to look away from Todd’s swollen face when the tire iron came down on him two more times.

A part of Jonas wanted to be relieved that his second kidnapper had been stopped and…taken care of, so to speak. It was so easy to fall into the way of thinking that he had deserved it for being in this shady line of work anyways, for thinking he could waltz in and snatch up anything Malik deemed a prized possession regardless of what permission he has been given from Tucker. Who was to say he wouldn’t have been a worse tormentor, if such a status was even possible to reach at this point? And yet, who’s to say he wouldn’t have been better? Kinder, nicer, more willing to send Jonas home and remember a meal at least daily. That was the other part of Jonas that wanted to feel guilty, or just a touch sympathetic for the gruesome end Todd was met with.

He almost had to wonder if this was some kind of set up on Tucker’s part, not that he knew very much of the man to come up with any concrete theories to back the notion up. All Jonas knew was that Todd had been sent to the basement to ‘collect’ someone, had decided that the Belmont heir was that someone in particular, and Malik was not happy about it. There must have been some prior discussion if the brazen kidnapping occurred when Malik wasn’t around to stop it, or maybe it really was simply the result of poor planning and regretful assumptions that the killer wouldn’t mind losing his favorite toy to someone else. How vile it made Jonas feel that he was more upset over losing a chance at freedom under someone else’s cruel care than he was watching Malik snuff out the man’s life one brutal swing at a time.

When he had yet to obey Malik’s clear instructions, the older man turned around to fully face Jonas and God help him he was fucked. Malik was pissed. Malik was beyond pissed. Malik looked ready to tear anyone within a three mile radius apart with his own hands, the boy included. Naturally, the sociopath was not privy to typical emotions felt by most empathetic people. He could smile, laugh, cloud his eyes with tears, but it was never genuine. It was all for show, a way to convince people on the outside that he was certainly one of them. Even now, so full of an unbridled rage, his unmasked face conveyed something of deep annoyance rather than homicidal hatred for another person. But Jonas saw all the dangerous little differences. He saw the way Malik’s brow knit tighter, the way his jaw clenched, how his eye twitched. There was no bandana to obscure the rare emotions that managed to peak through his blank slate appearance. There was no show to put on for anyone else.

Malik was angry, and he wasn’t going to stop until he wasn’t angry. Jonas did not want to witness firsthand what methods it would take for him to calm down, nor did he want to leave himself out in the open lest the killer assume he wants to fall victim to his rage as well. His spindly legs had him clambering into the car and locking the door before Malik had a chance to tell him a second time, assuming it’d be a verbal warning over a physical one. Regardless, he was satisfied enough to carry on his beatings to what used to be his associate, well on his way to becoming more mush than man. If Jonas looked out of the side mirror, there was a clear view of the massacre happening only ten feet behind him.

He looked at the dashboard instead and did his best to mentally prepare for whenever Malik would slide himself into the driver’s seat. Would he still be angry, would it be directed at Jonas now? Would he be blamed for this? Would the older man instead be eerily calm, all of his limited emotions spent, and drive them both back to the Kelley Funeral Home in silence? God forbid, would his fury turn to lust as often was the case after particularly gruesome sessions, with poor Jonas still being forced to endure this turn of events?

Something snapped, then squished outside. He hoped Todd could cling to life a little longer so Jonas had a few extra minutes to himself.

[mxnster-ive-become]

“  i  don’t  need  to  be  saved.  ”

A scowl stretched across his stubbled face, eyes narrowing dangerously as those words left her lips. She didn’t need saving? His hands balled into fists as he paced around her like a beast ready to pounce. How could she be so fucking stupid to believe that she didn’t need help, that she was okay despite what was happening to her?

Billy had been one of that things little puppets for more than a year. He knew how hard it was to resist that mental assault, the compulsion to do whatever it asked seeming like sweet relief compared to the mental torture it put him through. And maybe that was why he was treated differently? He fought against its will to a point that maybe he impressed whatever the fucking thing was. It gave up a part of itself imparting him with gifts that no other pawn was given and in the end he was granted leave to keep his own body instead of becoming part of its meat monstrosity.

— and that piece of shit was just using him as an ally, not trying to murder him. Not like Max. Billy could feel it still. Could feel it every time that he was reaching across the void. His skin would turn cold, almost icy to the touch, before the dull pain started at the base of his skull almost like he was trying to reconnect himself to his mind, but couldn’t. He knew when he made a kill, could feel the swell of joy and excitement like it was his own and if he focused hard enough on that pressure he could get a glimpse of what he saw. He did it when that kid was killed, the newspaper didn’t go into much detail but he heard enough from his dad’s buddies to know what he saw was right. Extremities snapped at the joints. Eyes gouged out. Jaw broken at the base. All injuries occurring while alive - the real killing blow being the snapped neck which his friend said was the only mercy the psychopath gave his victims.

Mercy wasn’t in its vocabulary, of that he knew. He knew that that fucker was doing this to get closer, to find itself back into this world for good. It was always its goal, it told him as much in the beginning, but to what end he wasn’t certain. It would do anything to get here, and somehow Billy knew that Max being a target - well it wasn’t random. How could it be when Billy refused to hurt her when he was under its influence before and now? Well what better way to hurt Billy then to attack the little sister he so desperately wanted to save from becoming one of the flayed.

“You can’t do this by yourself, Max.” He finally said, the words coming out in almost a hiss. Coming to stand in front of her Billy met her defiant gaze with his own, staring her down. “You don’t know what it takes to fight him off.” He growled, his fist clenched so hard that he could almost feel his nails digging little crescent moons into his palm.

She was a clueless little girl who didn’t know just what could happen. Yeah. She saw the body of that cheerleader all mangled and broken, had heard the stories of the reporter and basketball player who was found in the river… but she didn’t know. But really how could she? Billy had done everything he could to keep her safe, to make sure that damnable clock’s chimes stayed as far away from his little sister as he could manage….

But what could a ghost or whatever he was really do? His strength was already waning, he knew that. He could feel it slipping away every moment of every day but still he fought to be that shield for her that he should have been in life. Coming closer to her he unclenched his fist bringing the palm of his hand to her cheek, wishing he could force her to look at him and ignore the ones she was truly talking to behind his back, “You can’t do this alone Max. And I can’t protect you for much longer.” His hissed tone had calmed, becoming more of a whisper, an apology for being so weak. “Please… you’ve got to listen. You’ve got to let them help…. He can’t take you. He can’t make you one of them.”

A single tear slipped from his eyes as he watched her marched away from him. From her friends. All the way up to the cemetery with her letter in hand till she sat heavily in front of a tombstone her hands shaking as she opened a letter. Dropping his hand he looked up at the sky, a weak sigh leaving his lips before he moved to follow. She might not be able to listen to him anymore, but he wasn’t going to do the same. He owed her that much. To sit. To listen. And maybe just maybe she’d be able to hear him as he screamed at her to run away, to fight another day.

[starssabi]

fandom: Apex Legends (video game)

pairing: Revenant / Reader (m/f)

ao3 link

note: Yes, I am disgusting. Yes, I enjoyed writing this. Yes, there may be more like this in the future. This is NOT non-con but it can be taken as dub-con if you'd like. Please be aware of that! The reader is totally into it, she's just a brat. Sorry Loba, we’re fucking the murder bot.

warnings: light sadism, threats of violence (barely), semi-public smut, fear-play if you squint, mild dubious consent. 

summary:  You and Revenant have had some tension for some time now, and you both have come to enjoy teasing and sassing one-another. It all comes to a head during a match, and you become stuck quite literally between a rock and a hard place.

this should go without saying, but this is written for those 18+.

oneshot: Brat

Skinsuits. He hated every single one of them.

Part of you suspected there may be more to it, maybe he wasn’t just a pissed-off murder robot, as Elliott would call him. From the times that you had been paired up together in both trios and duos, he had been nothing short of an asshole. That was to be expected with the robot that everyone had come to hate, and when Loba showed up, the hatred only grew in number and felt amplified.

You wished you could hate him. You knew he was cruel, that he was a murderer and no doubt a sadist as well; someone who clearly got off on hurting others and toying with them. The words he uttered when his victim met their end gave that away. You were the only one who met his rude comments with sarcastic, or equally rude remarks.

Anita did so sometimes, too. As did Octavio, though, for some reason, it was you that caught his attention. He wouldn’t thank you after you tossed him a weapon? Did I ask? Your thanks to him, whenever he was feeling generous, was curt and met with what sounded like him clearing his throat, even if he wasn’t capable of it. You found it entertaining to banter with the lanky robot, and soon, it seemed he began to find it entertaining too.

Talk outside of the games grew more intense and more frequent. In the dropship, he’d stare blatantly, make you shift in your seat, and his disdainful attitude while in the ring became more sarcastic and teasing than a real threat. He’d thank you now, although it was clearly to mess with you, and when you’d pull him back up from a fight, he almost seemed smug. Could robots be smug? He was.

You being you, either suicidal or brave, still met him with the same behavior. However, his threats became less of anger and more… pleased.

“Watch your mouth, girly. It might get you into trouble someday.”

It did. God, it did.

This was new. He’d never found you before in the ring just for his own amusement. It was clear that was why when he didn’t put a cap immediately in your skull. You were stuck with Elliott at that time, who was busy looting the building across the cavern. You had moved ahead enough to be out of immediate earshot, and once that was determined, he jumped on you, almost quite literally. The rocks were sharp and uncomfortable against your back, even through your clothing. He had you pinned to the cavern’s wall, a darker corner within that left you exposed to him but hidden from Elliott’s line of sight. Elliott hadn’t called for you yet, but the ring would be closing soon, and it was inevitable.

Your own hand had pressed the wingman to Revenant’s chest, and it remained there until one of his steady mechanical ones wretched it away. A deep sound came from him, a chuckle, and he pushed into you further. You were quite literally stuck between a rock and a hard place.

“You could’ve taken the shot,” he spoke lowly, sounding quite pleased with your behavior. You hadn’t tried to push him away, hell, you barely moved a muscle aside from the irritating frown that now spread across your lips. “But you didn’t.”

He was teasing you again, though something was different. It could have been the close proximity making your heart jump in your chest, or maybe it was the intention of his words, which you were slowly unraveling. One of his thin hands came back from the wall and gripped your chin. It wasn’t as rough as you were expecting, but it wasn’t kind either. Your lips parted as you considered telling him off, but you were cut off by another deep chuckle before you could.

“I told you this mouth would get you into trouble,” if he had movable lips, he’d be smiling no doubt. A cold finger brushed against your bottom lip briefly, pushing into the plush skin, considering something before he swiped away. That’s when his hand fell down lower, coming to squeeze your hips and pull you closer, if at all possible. He towered over you, and he was still able to push his leg between your legs. “I’ll take this instead.”

His hand tightened briefly against your hipbone, almost as if testing the waters if he cared enough to do that. When you didn’t pull away from either his words or his touch, his hand moved down further, dragging along your pants before cupping your clothed heat completely. His hand was cold even through the fabric, and you gasped. This prompted his other to clamp down onto your mouth. His eyes glowed threateningly in the damp darkness between you. His hand didn’t remain above clothing for long. It only took one swift pull for him to yank your pants down to mid-thigh, damn near tearing the fabric and pulling you to your knees. His hold on you didn’t relent, and if it did, you surely would have fallen from the strength behind the pull. Once your pants were down enough, he moved onto your underwear, not even glancing down to them before he pulled them, too. This fabric gave way much easier, and it was left as nothing but scraps in his curled hand. They left your line of sight a moment later.

There was no preparation for what would meet your folds. It was cold, he was cold, and the sensation was not one you were entirely familiar with. Metal on skin. He was smooth at the moment, though fear pricked at your spine recalling how he had stabbed others before. It only took seconds for his hand to morph into what looked like the sharpest blade ever, and those seconds could occur at any time. Still, you couldn’t help but keen into his hand as fingers began to delve into your folds, parting them to dip into the wetness that had already begun to seep from your hole and push back out, rubbing slow motions against your clit. Already you were beginning to ache with need.

“Shhh,” he shushed you quietly, the sound somewhat smoother compared to his usual harsh voice. He was taking his time rubbing circles against you, his fingers blunt but precise with the motions. Your hips tried to push further into the touch, but he pushed back; metal to skin to solid rock.

Seconds were ticking by, and you were aware of every single one of them. In any other situation, you would have relished the slow pace, but it wasn’t the time, not when the ring close was inching closer and closer. He knew, too, and his touch against your clit only lasted a few more seconds before he pushed once again between your folds and prodded at your opening. You made a noise against his hand, and his gaze shot up from where he was watching your arousal slick his fingers.

You expected him to tease you again, but instead, you were met with two of his cold fingers pushing into you.

He watched your face intently, and even with his hand still covering your mouth, he was able to make out the desperate expression beneath with ease. You, the same girl who shot back the most snark with him, were taking his fingers so well. He loved it, loved teasing you, and all while he was quite possibly saving the face to his memory, he curled and stroked his fingers up into you. He was slow only for a few seconds before he quickened the pace of his thrusts, and as he did so, it felt as if his fingers had grown within you. He was pressing against the deepest parts of you, the tips of his fingers pressing completely into you before pulling back to rub against that spot. He found it just as quickly as he had taken you, and it wouldn’t be long before you came undone on the monster’s fingers.

“What if they could see you now,” his chuckle still rang in your ears, “Your cunt dripping all over my hand, you want to cum, don’t you?” His voice was low enough that you could begin to hear the sound of the slick metal pushing inside of you, and against his hand, you cringed. It was hard enough to pretend he didn’t get you riled up, and vice-versa, now that you knew. You half expected his words as he continued: “Beg. It’s good for both of us.”

The hand clamped over your mouth was released, and your defiant frown came into view. He stared down at you impatiently, but you offered no response. Your expression was enough for him to put the pieces together, and something of mock laughter met your ears.

“Would you rather I kill you now? Get it over with,” his fingers made the come-hither motion against your tight walls, and your hips jolted upwards with an audible gasp. He could kill you like that, you recalled, “You’re making it too easy. Come on, I want to hear you.”

It was right there. You could feel yourself trying to meet his thrusts, reaching your breaking point, but your lips remained shut. You were a brat, as he had come to realize, and he would have fun breaking you. It wouldn’t be long — As you tightened around his digits, they came to a halt. Your groan was nothing short of agitated, and he almost laughed again. You were desperate. If he didn’t kill you, the ring would.

“Please, fuck,” you hissed out, and his head tilted, beckoning for you to continue. “Hurry, just — please!” Irritation and desperation mixed, and your expression was stubborn, but you had done enough for him to find his own pleasure in your submission. His fingers began to thrust again, somehow even faster than they had before, and there was no covering the lewd noises that escaped both your lips and where his fingers met your skin. It took no time at all to have you jolting and choking out cries under him, your core pulsing around his fingers as he let you ride out your high. They stroked slower inside of you, almost testing the limits, but he pulled them out with a shlick a moment later. You sagged against the wall, chest heaving, and all he did was look you over. MEMORY REGISTER COMPLETE.

“Better hurry up, little girl. Next time I find you I won’t be as nice.”

After...

"Hey, uh, you think you could mute your comms next time?"

You came to a complete halt as Elliott spoke. He sounded almost as nervous as you were at that point, and your face visibly paled to him as you turned. He seemed to be having the same reaction, his eyes wide and darting from you to the area surrounding. A sound came from somewhere around the two of you, perhaps the shuffle of someone through the grass, and he began to laugh nervously. He was being much too loud, though clearly, you had no room to talk.

"You know what? Forget I said anything. It's fine. Never happened!"

[ilikebeesandflowers]

Day 8: Heartless

Suptober20

Tags: Sam POV, OFC, original MOTW, casefic

Sam looked puzzled. “Whatever this is, it’s not a werewolf,” he mused.

“I mean, it’s a textbook werewolf attack, right?” Dean seemed out-of-sorts; physically, he was here, but ever since they arrived in town, he’d had his head buried in his phone.

“But check out the chest wound.”

Dean peered at the corpse on the table. “There. Isn’t one.”

“Right? The coroner’s report clearly states that the guy had been mauled, so when she said he was heartless, I just assumed... This is something else.”

“Yep, something else,” Dean muttered.

Sam was officially past wondering about his brother’s level of disengagement and was now pushing into perturbed territory. “Listen, Dean, I don’t know what is so fascinating about your phone, but can you at least try to pay attention? This thing, whatever it is, is still out there!”

Dean jerked his head up. “Huh? Whatever.” He drifted out the door, back to the coroner’s office, Sam presumed.

Until he heard a shout. A struggle. A gruff snarling growl and higher pitched pleading.

“Dr Colby?” Sam raced to the outer offices, looking for the source of the sound. “Dean? Where are you?” He pulled up short at the door to the lobby. A woman lay panting on the floor, deep claw marks on her arms, torso, face. Just like the body now lying in the morgue.

“You’re the receptionist, right?” The woman nodded, feebly. “Who did this to you? Did you see your attackers?”

“Attacker. One attacker.” She struggled to sit upright. Sam extended a hand; she took it. Then she looked him dead in the eyes. “It was the other agent. Agent DeYoung. He went that way,” she rasped, pointing out towards the street.

He hated to leave her alone like this but what choice did he have? Either Dean was possessed or something was wearing his face. He had to catch up to him.

“I’ll send help. Promise.”

He got to the car without seeing any trace of Dean. He tried shouting for him; no answer. His phone went to voicemail. Sam checked for his location.

He stopped cold.

Dean was still in the building!

He ran back inside, suddenly aware that the once-bustling lobby was deserted. No one waiting to speak to a clerk, and no clerks either. He felt a chill, and he was fairly certain it wasn’t a cold spot. Something was very wrong here.

“Dean!” He passed the place where he’d left the coroner’s receptionist, but she was gone, not so much as a bloodstain to indicate that she’d ever been there. “Dean!” He shoved open every door in the hallway and found nothing but uninhabited offices. Like everyone had simply gone home for the day. At two in the afternoon on a very ordinary Thursday. “Dean!”

He returned to the morgue. The body was gone! Again, no trace of blood.

Sam had to stop, had to collect himself. He propped himself against an unoccupied desk and squeezed his eyes shut. What did he know? Dean was being weird, an entire office building of regular government employees had seemingly fucked off to who-knows-where, and two deeply wounded persons, one of whom was actually dead, had vanished.

The hearts.

He reached deep into his memory. Hadn’t there been some saint that had been fatally mauled by wolves, only to rise from the dead and proclaim that he’d been resurrected by God himself? Yes. He died many years later of old age, and his body was miraculously preserved as a relic. Just a few years ago, the Church had ordered a restoration of his remains, and the preservation experts performed a CT scan. Turns out, the sainted mummy had no heart. No chest wounds (his body was otherwise intact), nor could the scientists point to any intentional mummification processes to explain the absence.

Shortly thereafter, the remains were lost. Supposedly, the hospital where they ran the tests sent him off for cremation, but there was no paper trail to corroborate the story. Folks chalked it up to general ineptitude and didn’t think to follow up.

What if the mummy wasn’t dead, though? What if it had escaped and was now stalking St Louis, turning people, making them disappear.

No. Making them not care.

The monster inflicted apathy on bystanders. Then it- what? Shredded the victims? Stole their hearts out of their ribcages, without ever breaking the skin?

A thought occurred to him, and he suddenly understood what was happening.

He had to find Dean.

In the employee parking lot behind the building, Sam hit the jackpot. At least twenty drivers sitting in their cars, all engrossed in their phones or staring quietly into space, all with looks of barely simmering frustration. Among them, lounging against a dumpster (gross) was Dean. He was still unharmed! But still glued to his screen.

Sam didn’t bother to attract his attention. Somewhere, one of these zombies was actually a centuries-old mummy. Kill the sire, break the spell? He could only hope. But how to pick him out?

He spotted the receptionist in a late-model sedan, one that struck him as just a bit pricier than a municipal staffer might typically afford. She and three passengers had the same posture as everyone else in the parking lot: head down, eyes glazed, empty.

He knocked on her window, and she jumped, startled. None of the other people in the car moved a muscle. He recognized Dr Colby among them. He motioned for her to roll down the window. “Sandy, right?” He asked. “Glad to see you recovered so quickly.” She squinted up at him but said nothing. “Listen, Sandy, I wonder if you have a key to the morgue. I think I left my wallet in there.”

“How careless,” came a deep voice, spoken by her and not at all.

He tried not to grimace. He forced a smile instead. “Yeah, I’d lose my own head if it wasn’t attached. So can you let me in?”

“One moment please,” the voice rumbled. A receptionist’s words in the voice of an ancient malevolent evil.

Sam smiled again.

The receptionist unfolded herself from the car and stepped briskly to the employee entrance. She tapped a key card from the lanyard around her neck.

As the door chirped its welcome, Sam plunged a red-tinged knife into the hollow at the base of her skull. “Heartless One, I name you false saint. With the blood of an unbled victim, you die.”

The monster gave one last scream, rising suddenly to the scream of the human receptionist, Sandy, before both voices were caught on the wind and carried away. The knife slipped from the flesh as the figure crumpled. Sam’s chest heaved once. Was that enough?

“Sam?”

He turned. “Dean?”

“What’s going on? I thought we were going on a hunt. Why are we at - what, the DMV?”

Sam grabbed him up in a bear hug. The back of Dean’s neck was still bleeding where Sam had christened the blade, but he hadn’t yet noticed the injury.

“We were, we did. It was a blood wight. It infected your heart. That’s why the hearts were missing. It infects the heart with apathy, and when the flesh of the heart has been devoured, the victim becomes a blood wight in turn. They normally only create one or two offspring in a century, but this one...” He gestured at the stunned professional types, staggering away from their vehicles and blinking in the sunshine. “Hello, Dr Colby,” he said, greeting a middle-aged woman in a white coat; the woman just glared as she hurried past him.

Dean screwed up his face. “Man, either I started drinking way too early, or you did. What?”

Sam laughed, his heart feeling remarkably light. Buoyant. “I’ll catch you up on the way home. I’m driving.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I know where the Impala is, and you don’t.”

Dean scowled. He dug into his pocket for the keys and plunked them onto Sam’s open palm. “Okay, but you owe me.”

“We’ll stop for burgers before we get on the highway.”

“Don’t judge me, but I can’t even think of meat right now. I could murder a Caesar salad, though.”

Sam grinned. This kind of Dean weirdness felt very normal.

[maxbradley]

Crash

***[Mature Content]***

"Get outta here, Brad." Shoving him off. The humidity must have shortened brain circuits because the next thing the black dog knew was that his muzzle was pressed against a nearby locker—swollen hands blocked the horizontal fall, and were made numb— "Listen, Goof boy." Turned him 'round and jabbed straight at the face—"Hrr-” — A bit of blood and sweat trickled down Maximilian's bare chest. Livid eyes burned holes through Uppercrust's contorted face, "Listen to what?!" The hands slammed themselves up to the other's chest to thrust him back into another metal object, which clattered and shook violently. The sophomore stormed off down the narrow pathway, waist towel in hand. He had barely gone ten feet when a rough arm gagged the neck, putting him into a lock— "Brad!-” Coughing— "Let go!!”— The yell became a scream "As you wish you little fucker!" A strong kick to the back sent Max reeling to the stone floor. The blood from the initial attack slithered onto the cracked surface. The only thing that ran through his brain was revenge—A near killer instinct that never gave halfway during that triathlon of an event—

Both rough hands pulled back at sandy brown hair as the standing figure's thick eyebrows raised as he inhaled deeply, letting the adrenaline slide— "Max, Max, Max. Do I really have to remind you why I'm like this?" A small chuckle. "No, you don't." By now Max had gotten himself up again, wiping off the bodily fluid from the side of his mouth. The left side sported a purple bruise. The humidity—the warm water vapor helped in nothing to control his shaky intake. "Let go of it, Brad. What's done is done. Shut the hell up and get outta here. I have no time to deal with a loser like you— The brows on the jock were still raised. Max had expected a sudden fury; the face showed little to no emotion, but the next actions spoke volumes. Again wheeled around to the side of the lockers, banging at the side and back of the kid's head—Every blow more sickening than the last—violent, unforgiving—hot loathing to the core. It was soon making contact with one of the shower poles and the protruding knobs. The white dog was never done and threw the victim onto the tile wall coming back with a supernatural grasp giving even more thrusts of the head and body on the white plane. All this time the boy screamed—shrieked in fury and pain. Convulsions didn't cease until the scarlet liquid seeped into his gloves. Max Goof was choking on his own flesh and blood— "You IDIOT! Do you have any idea what you and your team did to my reputation?!" No sympathy. No pride. Undiluted hate. "You- you've deserved everything that happened to you." The boy was murmuring down at the waist cloth sprinkled red and white. He didn't dare make eye contact this time; he was afraid to face the very thing that undermined his being back in high school… back when he—himself—was the loser. A cough let the coagulated blood fall between their feet. Bits touched the predator's toes. Dark blue eyes peered down before returning to the crooked head. Fingers wrapped themselves around the kid's neck and forced eye contact— "Today, Goof, you've lost." Words could not describe the darkened features of the young man's countenance. Once so full of emotion and life, Brad seemed so subdued that the enigmatic smile was all of a sudden more than just a show of pride. A heartbeat shot Max's emotions to the stratosphere— Humiliation, hatred, and insecurities broke into sobs. This change of pace took the sports fanatic by surprise, releasing the grip on the kid's windpipe, letting him sink down to the reddened tile. Salty tears washed away the gore… From the blue a fresh towel was thrust into his lap, "Shut the fuck up. You're a man—Now, get up before I make you." The black dog buried his wet face into the cloth, soaking up as much of the excess as he could. The stained gloved hand pulled at dark hair and stayed there, while the other did pull weight together to get himself up. The waist towel loosened, nearly fell off—but was saved in the nick of time. This little wardrobe malfunction startled Brad—flesh tone changed color and made him turn around to scan the locker room to see if anyone had heard in on anything that occurred. Splashes of a crusted red umber decorated the number of impacts given for the poor bastard. Against his will, the human side bounced back, not helping to stop the guilt that scorched his soul. The breathing had become just as shallow as the other. What the hell have I done? – A bead of sweat rolled down his neck. Am I really that angry? Dammit! Why does he have to be so cute?! Why is he so determined to make a fool of himself; and so full of life, friends—Family! Shit! I'm a jealous bitch! "Brad…-- Whipping his hair back—"What?!" Abnormal and hollow; eyes wild. "Don't even get near me anymore. Don't talk to me— Uncontrolled feelings flooded into fleshed strong arms—One on the shoulder, one on the waist. Both canines were shaking, and the overbearing humidity did not aid one bit in finding their sanity— "Don't touch me." Pink attacked the boy's cheeks as the reality struck him cold. Bleeding and all, a tongue rammed into the warm crevice and nearly sucked out the feeble life he had left. The boy was about to crash down and burn again when the other arm took an iron clamp up and down the exposed back pulling him forward, closer than ever before. Bellies were touching—Max grabbed a strong hold wrapping himself around the man's shoulders for support in partial fear of dragging Brad down with him. The lip lock broke for an instant, "I want your fury—I want your spirit. Give me everything it took to win!" The command injected newfound energy. The hands on Brad's neck dug into the nerve, onto the shoulder blades and onto his back—leaving imprints wherever the gloves made contact with the bare skin as their mouths clasped onto each other—traveling down the forehead, bruised cheek and eyelid down to each other's neck and collarbone—varied to each other and never in sync. The jock wanted to break the boy's vertebrae, ribcage—arm—anything, just to get a whimper or a yelp of pain— The expression that played on both faces was not that of bliss, but of incessant rivalry, mixed into that of confused pleasure and stimulation— "Stop—we should stop—please, Brad," panting. "Bradley." Another deep kiss led to a fumble of hands rubbing at bare chests, up and down Max's slender sides, finally reaching that last cover, "You won't be needing this anymore— The sudden refusal knocked the senior down, slipping on the slick tile along the way. Head fell with a thunk— "Ohh—what the hell-!!" Massaging that little bump, which was nothing compared to the blood loss at the back of the Goof boy's skull. Max, as satisfied as he was, only displayed a show of disgust… Or, was it a longing for something other than the lying body at his feet? "Maximilian—we got a good thing going here—why stop now??" "Roxanne." "… what.. ?" A phlegm-filled gulp—"Roxanne." How was it possible, after all the times he suppressed her very existence, hitting it off with other girls—her image was all of a sudden as vivid as death? "Your first time?" Brad was leaning forward in curiosity in an all-too-casual sitting. His neck bent back to try and find the answer in the kid's reddened eyes. "…. No." ~~ "But, what do you mean I can't see you again?" "A lot's been going on, and I can't take you with me." "Roxanne, please—I'll even transfer out of this campus— Slapped away, "Come back to your senses, Goof!"~~ As the name rang like mad in his ears, the 19 year old peered over the guy in front of him again. No, Roxanne was not his first time—she wasn't even a lover. No one ever was… His weakened heart suddenly ached for some pure form of affection. And now, it seemed that his last chance at true happiness had flown away… The only thing left was an empty shell of lust—a primitive desire. All he ever knew was school, friends and sports… Roxanne and his dad. The last fence to hurdle, separating him from selling his soul to the devil, who took advantage of his hesitant stature, "Relax, Goof, everything's gonna be fine— Everything's gonna be fine. Everything was thrown back to a sharp clarity. What the hell was he doing? What would happen if his father found out about this? The expression of worry was blatant. "Oh, Max. Nobody's gonna know what we did here. At least, I won't tell." "… Yeah." The gloves were removed. The last spark of innocence was extinguished, "Sure you won't, Bradley." There was no sense of letting his one chance of humiliating the X-Games King get away. "I might as well make the best of it." A low growl to his now darkened features. All the senior could do was let out a small gasp. The eyelids drooped to indifference. Not a smirk, not a frown. The movements were brutal—towels were ripped off, exposing themselves to each other. Max slammed his body full-length over the other, letting Brad's head fall to the tile again— And again as the black dog took his turn—ramming his mouth into the other while strangling him with both hands—"What the hell are you doing?!—” Hacking The pressure tightened, "Please!" and suddenly gave way, I'm supposed to hate this person— "Remember?! I'm supposed to hate you! Despise you—" Fever attacked as the boy manically pressed forward—"fuck you." Bradley's eyes widened until only the pupil was seen, at a loss for air and for words. As the words sank in, something clutched at his own heart. Out of fear, he let Max do exactly as he threatened, letting those ebony fingers grab at his crotch and pull and tug, and squeeze at everything—Loud moans were all the crazed boy could perceive—but he wanted something more out of this jerk— The legs went up in the air, massaged ferociously before letting a throbbing organ inside. A little howl, "Ha ha—Max, you look different… " a nervous chuckle. "Well, you told me to give it my all." It was now obvious that something in this kid's mind had snapped—that childish spirit had gone only to be replaced by a somber mannequin. The senior's breathing came in abnormal intervals; he could only utter this, "No—wait—Maximilian—-!!" This boy of no sexual talent dominated over the leader—going in deeper and deeper with each thrust. All Goof boy could imagine was revenge, torture. He already regretted not being close to a power tool—As the blood attacked his reddened cheeks and down his fur in drying clumps with all the sweat rolling down his body and biting his tongue to not join the chorus below him, all he wanted to do was go even further— To the point when he began to rock in all directions to find the place where the jock was most vulnerable, "Haa! Haa! M—Max. Max… ! Ngh—nggh—MAX!— A hand wrenched onto the other member and with a strong thumb tortured it at the same time the sophomore delved in again. The multitasking was doing the trick—"STOP!”—Pain-filled howl— Eyes flared as a corner of the predator's mouth jerked upward, "Everything!!" Both figures arched forward, backward, inverting against each other and grinding. Vapor, sweat on each and every part of their bodies. Bradley realized that he'd been ignoring every plea. Max could no longer contain his innate desires, pulled out and bit the tip before swallowing the organ whole, "Agh! Do you want to rip it out of me?! Stop it!" Up the naked fingers went from behind, legs high in the mist— The jock went beet red. Nearly fainting, he felt the final strokes of the tongue and thrashing of teeth before moaning aloud, "You goddamn Freshman!" A burst of semen went up in the boy's mouth— Horrendous flavor. He spat it right in the guy's face. Never had a feeling over him been so foul—A wave of nausea only fed into the boy's anger, fury, loathing for the man under him. The black eyes finally took a good, long look over the surface of that lean, toned… Before going down any further, Maximilian's eyes snapped back—locked to blue orbs, which were half opened before making contact. A dominant fear of the new predator ran circles in the jock's mind. He didn't know what to say—what to do—Usually, he would set the ground rules when it came to sex. I've laid more men and women than anyone on campus! "And now this-" inaudible whisper. Goof didn't even flinch. It took this long to come to terms with the fact that he was smiling. Smiling, not for the pleasure of either one of them, but because he was so close, "And… I'm about to win, Brad." The young man's state of mind shifted gears—the shallow breathing that carried the fear soon returned to its normalcy, and then a crease formed down the middle of his forehead. It was lethargic at first—And then those elements of bigotry and pride which he had always thrived on flooded into him like before— "Shit!" a shout of frustration and a fist at the cold tile. The boy was within him again. Max gave him no time for a comeback— The next thrust was one of the strongest, knocking the air out of him, and again—once more as the boy screamed out, "This is for you, Brad!"—Eyes livid—entire body shaking—fists clenching and unclenching before settling on slugging the brat in the face— "This is for everyone who ever tried to break me, whenever I was down— "ALWAYS, BRADLEY! ALWAYS!!" Maximilian was becoming either deaf or blind to whatever he spat out in the current situation, because the screams had gotten harsh and blood-curdling—more blows, bruises quick to form—Claws dug into flesh and pried open ridges— "BUT WHY?!" The bloodied hair matted over his face "Max!" Ill attempts at spitting out the copper "WHY?!?" Max Goof had lost himself to years of literal and imagined persecution—Faces flickered for milliseconds on end as the hardened member dug even deeper, tearing at the entrance's sides— "You motherfucker! You're gonna kill me!!" No generous amount of unsettling bodily fluids was enough to conceal the same exact being that had tried to kill this same kid much earlier. Legs slammed straight down. There was no room left for that foreign object to budge— "Shit!! Sh—it! Fuuuck—!" The other writhed in pain at the height of his anger, to be so close only to be shut out… Again. "Get—" Brad's laid back attitude scorched off. The boy's inferiority complex kicked in with bitter disappointment. "Brad… ley?" "Get, the hell, out of me.” Another sickening heartbeat was accompanied by a tearful gasp. The worm pulled out. Before he could even begin to apologize the pissed jerk jutted his arms right into the broad shoulders, rocked himself up and over the ex-predator, causing him a near concussion, grabbing at a leg and twisting the whole body down to the ground— "oof!”—Backside in full view—"Bradley, I'm sorry!" All the pain and pleasure had reached its peak, and was about to be released. The leader's aid consisted of rough slides up Max's ass, ramming into the zenith, All those suppressed shrieks and moans of the obscene belted out getting lost within all that jungle rhythm in the mist—that whitewashed rainforest— "Agh—Bradley! Haa—ha!—Nggh! Please, Bradley—" The slamming continued, frantic. The one last ill hold onto his dying rage as the same image of the same girl emerged, then realizing who was actually over him now, "I hate you— I hate you!" Roxanne!! "I HATE THE WHOLE WORLD—!!— Ah!—Tension released from his own cock right before the crazed jock let out his second wave of cum, "I want to die." Both expressions were shattered with scarlet. Both were hard of breathing, unable to understand the void of time. The boy's hand fell limp on the tile; his body sank to the floor in a puddle of their own sweat, blood, and tears. A splash of cold relief washed away all existence of what happened here, in this unnecessary lovemaking—lust. A strong limb pulled the dead weight up to its feet. Out of the void was a warm, sturdy shield, pressed against the swollen cheekbone. Eyes barely open, the loser shuddered and let out a withering sigh as the cascades fell on the embrace. Bradley, finally eradicated of all his hatred toward this naïve individual, planted a firm, prolonged kiss on his head, face buried in his bloodied hair… "Oh, Max, I hate you too. So much." His arms wrapped even tighter with the energy he had left. "Roxanne." The demon turned child wept at his grave loss… "Maximilian Goof, no matter what the hell happens next, I won't let you die—Promise of an enemy." Saddened in the heart, face down—hidden in his rival's chest, this loser couldn't help but attempt a smile.

[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

[eagesoldartblog]

Not sure if you remember but you reblogged a post a while back (and tagged it #antagonist au if that helps) and talked in the tags abt Lewis trying and failing to be a villain and like. I'd love to hear more abt that

Ay! So fun fact! I accidentally mish-mashed a bunch of aus together so have fun~ 

EDIT: ALSO! Please be sure to check out the tags for the Trigger warnings!

Antagonistic Lewis 

I can be a villain, Lewis reassures himself, taking quick, long paces as he circled the dark, Stoney room. You’ve done this plenty of times before! Sure that was on stage, everyone knew their part- but you can do this…!

If he still had a neck, a throat, he’d be gulping back his worry. But unfortunately that form of him hardly came up and right now, he wasn’t sure how to deal with the ordeal that would have been needed to bring up his face. 

Unless. Lewis pauses for just a moment, eyes snapping over to a chair in the middle of the room. Well, not just a chair, it just so happened to be holding the very man who forced Lewis into a position such as this. Killed him, snatched a life of opportunity away. If it was to show him, then maybe. Maybe he could shove aside the swamped feeling of despair, inturn for the reward of watching his killers face becomes contorting with the knowledge that his victim was back. Then Arthur would know. He would be able to comprehend just how serious he was.

Bitterness almost drips from the ceiling and clings to his clothes and skull like glue, fueling his thoughts to spiral and grow restless and angry, how He wanted to be a father and have a family, Kingsmen. A family where you were in it.

His fist tightens, glare honing in so much he could see the hairs on the back of Arthurs neck stand on end. How his shoulders shake and tremble and rise with shallow breaths. Earlier Lewis had been worried he had restrained too tight. But now? Lewis wanted to grab the knotted ends of the rope, and pull and pull until he could watch Arthur’s organs come up his throat. 

No. No… not yet. Lewis hisses to himself, shoving his rage and making it subside into something more manageable. Disdain. Sure, annoyance and hatred threatened to climb up his body and consume him entirely in a sheet of flame. Flash out and have the roar echo against the walls. But he forced himself to stay silent, calm. It was better to keep his bitterness hidden for now.

Not yet. Lewis reminds himself, echoing it through his head like a mantra and Lewis takes slow, careful steps. Relishing the click, click, click of his heels. Each one marking the smallest jolt in his captives’ shoulders, who slowly began to sir.

Wait until he was conscious. And show him the true meaning of fear.

Lewis’s smile stretches across his cheeks, listening to the smallest moan creeping out of Arthurs mouth. Able to watch that peaceful expression become one of confusion, disbelief, and slowly blink to awakeness. Lewis could almost commend himself on the dramatic timing, because just as Arthur lifted his head, he gasps, eyes snapping up to meet his expression. Fear and confusion taking hold of his body, covering his face like a rat stuck in a trap.

It fills Lewis with a glee so immense he could giggle with delight. Jitteriness taking hold of his entire body.

”Good evening, Arthur,” He hums, unable to make out the euphoric feeling of finally being able to speak these words for real now. No more reciting, no more imagining. Arthurs racing heartbeat was real and Lewis could feel its pound in every part of their small room, ”I’m so glad we could finally meet in person. No more running away, hiding away in that van of yours,” Oh yes, Arthur will pay handsomely, one for taking away his life and spitting on it with the pathetic excuse of a search, and two, for wasting all of his precious time. 

His smile tightens, teeth grinding and straining against his jaw. The noise grinding into his ears and making his body nearly convulse. Had he cared just a bit more for himself and his bony form, he would have paid it more mind. 

Instead. 

SLAM. Arthur screams, jerking his body like he was trying to leap away, only to be bound by the tight ropes around his chest and the hand gripping his shoulder. The fist- had it been lacking a glove- would be noticeably growing red. Knuckles would have bulged out from his skin. And if Lewis was being serious, he wouldn’t doubt it if the bone ripped through. That’s just how anger was. 

And, just like how he imagined, so many times before, it hurt.

When he grabbed it, Arthur had most likely gasped, tried to wriggle out. Now his shoulder was clamped to the chair and Lewis was inches away from his face. Unable to properly examine how Arthurs eyes snap from him to his shoulder, make out how he desperately tries to push and wriggle his arm out. So much that he slams his elbow against the chair to force it out. But to no avail.

Now to deliver his next lines, ”You know, I was thinking of how I should kill you ever since you trespassed onto my property.” he made sure to whisper, low and soft, to drive home just how little he cared, as if being quiet would show this despicable man how serious lewis is. 

His grip tightens. ”I’ve been imagining every possible death I could bestow upon you. Should it be the way I died? Should it be in a bathtub?” As he speaks, his hand latches to Arthurs chin and jerks his head to the side. The room shifted, morphed, the walls opening up and staining with water-damaged wallpaper. A single tub, covered in rust standing at the furthest wall. 

Drops of tears hit Lewis’s fingers, snatching his attention down before directing his gaze to Arthur’s face- his eyes were wide and his neck strains, breath coming out in shallow, panicky breaths. The severity of the situation finally hitting him. 

To think, Suddenly, A voice in the back of Lewis’s head whispers, you had to save him from many of these types of situations before.

…Huh? 

Lewis couldn’t help but blink, eyebrows screwing together as his mind suddenly freezes. Frozen- not like he’s been hit by a bullet, but instead watching a travesty occur and being unable to process any of it. And for a moment, Lewis can’t help but be shocked at the tone of it. Indifference? Boredom? Ple-

“P-please stop it-” Arthur chokes out. His eyes squinting shut as tears fill his eyes and begin to drip, rolling down his cheeks and- and suddenly Lewis’s thoughts stall. His plan, his- his script jumbled and losing itself in a wave of confusion and- 

What is he doing? Why are they there- ”Why should I? I’m dead, don’t you remember?”

Arthur throws his shoulder again. But to no avail. His eyebrows twist up, and he looks up at Lewis once more and a pleading look is all that Lewis can make out. Except instead of filling Lewis with rage, it throws him further into the murky depths of confusion. Is-is he seeing this right now? Why- 

He didn’t even notice, but his grip loosened. So much so that Lewis took a step back- floated away and he could barely make out his hand simply dangling there.

“I just- I just want to find my fr-friend.” Arthur chokes out, more tears rolling down his face as he dissolves into that awkward shuddery sob. Unable to breathe but with so much trying to leap out of your throat and there’s nothing else you can do to lock it up. 

It was… pathetic. Horribly pathetic. But- … 

Lewis shakes his head, reminding himself that there was no way this bastard is being honest! He lied for years- excellently crafted a lie beyond any logic that ultimately ended in shoving him off a cliff and to his doom- 

And he continues to lie? Even- even fucking now? 

But Arthur doesn’t stop crying, his shoulders shaking and the rest of his body beginning to tremble. The only thing preventing him from slumping over and really seal the deal of his supposive despair was the rope that Lewis was now seriously regretting.

…What was he thinking? Lewis demands of himself, tearing through his thoughts as he circles the side of Arthur and his fingers lace the ridges of the rope. 

”H-hey, I’m sorry, Arthur.. I didn’t mean to- fuck- I shouldn’t have done that-” He stumbles over his words, fumbling with the intonation, as well as whether or not he had the right to even apologize for- for kidnapping him! For threatening him with death-! Lewis should be ashamed of his actions. The rope unravels, and disintegrates. Arthur brings up his arms slowly, eyeing his palms in shock before he’s up and standing and turning to Lewis. Distrust covering his face as he backs away like a frightened cat and almost pressing himself against the wall behind him. 

Lewis, wasn’t exactly sure how to respond. Something about this scenario was off, it was wrong, and he couldn’t tell what exactly it was. Perhaps it was just the guilt that was already beginning to swell. 

He- he’s seen this before, hasn’t he? Lewis could only recall a faint image- when they were much younger. Lewis was trying to practice for his role in a play, and Arthur had come over to help. 

Lewis was a villain, and they were dangerous. He was dangerous. He only- took out his frustration through his roles.. And… 

Lewis faintly could remember the scream. Arthur begging him to stop because he was hurt.

How did Arthur ever forgive him for breaking his arm-?

“Wh-here’s the exit?” Arthur asked, his voice wavers and Lewis is once again forced to see the sorrow etched into his exhausted face, and Lewis had to remind himself that things were different now. He- 

Silencing his thoughts, shooing away the memories, Lewis sighs and nods to the door just a yard away from Arthurs feet, keeping his head down. ”Down the hall, then take a left and go up some stairs, the exit will be on your left.” 

He flicks his wrist, and several deadbeats fizz into existence, ”here, they’ll guide you out-

Click

BANG!

There’s an explosion. One that rocks through the room, and tears into him. Somehow Lewis was still standing, but that could have been the shock, as his eyes flicker down and peer at his chest… and make out.. A hole.

A small one, barely big enough to chip anything major- being his anchor and ribs- but… a hole. That’s for sure. 

Lewis blinks, slowly raising his gaze and…. Only able to make out… 

Arthur. Has a gun. A gun that is pointed directly at him now. Smoking lightly and shaking even more. Matching the look of complete, utter terror on his face. 

”Ar-”

Another bang, but this time Lewis was plunged into a world of black.

[nomimits7]

Undecided Chapter 5

Title: Undecided Pt 5

Genre: Investigation, murder, masked behavior.

Warnings: murder, psychotic behavior, might be triggering.

Members: detective OT7 x Forensic scientist Reader

Note: Phrases are just add-ins to help with the storyline… If they confuse you, feel free to ask!

Summary: Moving overseas for a once in a lifetime job offer was one of the scariest things Y/N ever did. That was until she got stuck in a twisted investigation of random murders, all with one link but no leads. Closing in on the culprit(s) Y/N doesn’t realize the danger she’s getting into. With no family or friends, can Y/N dare to trust those seven closest to her with her life?

A/N; I am so sorry this took so long. I’m stuck on a scene in chpt 7 that has reference to this chapter and the next! I hope you enjoy

Undecided Character intro update

•♡•

Dream: Indulge in daydreams or fantasies about something greatly desired.

•♡•

Maybe your dream was telling you that it’s okay to stay.

Well, ‘Mission getting all the boys to trust you’ were… successful? Can you truly call it successful? After all, you didn’t actually do anything. They did the testing, they set you up, they tested you, on the third day you were in South Korea to be exact. You were ecstatic that they finally trusted you, but on the other hand, you were… disappointed? You wanted to prove yourself in your own way. Not that you weren’t thankful but now what? Do you continue as normal? Do you become more intimate in your duties at the office? Questions, so many unanswered questions.

Speaking about the office, your first question of many would be exactly that… “Uh, where are we? This doesn’t look like the office”

“Oh! Ha-ha no this isn’t the office. You’re at our apartment Y/N. Remember I told you we lived in the same hotel the office is in?” Jimin said, tilting his head as he observed you.

Of course, how could you forget that? He did mention them living in the same hotel as the one where the office is located. Why that thought didn’t occur to you first, you do not know. Idiot.

“So, you all live in a shared apartment?” You asked as you glanced around the very spacious living room.

“Yes, we do. I know it's weird but being part of a traveling agency its easier. One place to worry about is better than seven different apartments in one city, don’t you think? Besides, It not just one apartment. We own the whole floor so there’s more than enough room.” Hoseok said matter of factly. As if it was the most obvious conclusion to the scenario, which it wasn’t.

Well, come to think of it, it did make more sense. When they’re all together they never have the stress of being late for work, neither were they alone at night unlike you. Wow, you kind of wished you were living with them, just to NOT be alone at night.

Wait… they live in the same building as their office. That means all of them drive all the way to your place to pick you up just to return to the same building. Where does that make sense?

“But, if you all live here, basically at the office. Why do you drive all the way to my place to pick me up just to come back here? I could always take a cab or something. There’s really no need for you guys to fetch me at all.” You curiously asked

This seemed to get a reaction from all the boys. You could physically feel Jungkook tense and relax under you as you wait for an answer. Come to think of it, why are you still in his arms? Not that you were complaining. Turns out they are very comfortable to be in.

“Well, we actually discussed that when we reviewed your resume. And we all concluded that it would be safest to fetch you ourselves than risk you, a foreigner, to navigate your way to work each day. Even though the streets are relatively safe, there still are a few individuals that prey on the innocent and foreign, like yourself. We even thought of having you live at the hotel as well, but all the rooms were booked, and it would have been awkward for all of us if you moved into our apartment from the word go. Besides, even if it doesn’t look like it at first, we tend to get jealous when one of us gets to do something the others can’t partake in, little dove.” Namjoon successfully answered. There’s a reason he has such a high IQ.

“Oh, that makes sense I suppose”. You said as a blush crept on to your cheeks. You swore he used those nicknames just to see you blush and judging by his smirk, you were 100% sure he indeed was. It’s just a matter of time before the rest of the boys pick this up. Whether they’ll use it like Mr dimples over there, you don’t know.

“Y/N? Why did your face turn pink just now? Was it the nickname Namjoonie gave you?” Yoongi asked raising one of his eyebrows. A smirk made its way onto his face as this new information manifested into his brain. Why does he have to be so fucking observant? No, the real question is… why did he have to say it out loud?

“Oh? She can blush? Well, well well… this is going to be fun” Hoseok said. His voice taking on a playful tone. Playful bordering dangerous. Maybe even with a hint of challenged laced between the lines if you squint.

This was not good. You were in trouble and you had absolutely no way of escaping. And the fact that you blush at almost everything that made your stomach to a flip, was not going to help you.

Before you could even think up an escape plan, Taehyungs dreaded phone rang again. This time though no one tensed. A ringing phone wasn’t something to be afraid of, it happens all the time.

“Kim…” Taehyungs deep voice carried across the room as the boys each continued teasing you. It wasn’t until Taehyung let out a, very loud ‘what’ that everyone fell silent.

“Where?... How long ago?... 5 minutes? And you never thought of calling us? You’re an idiot! We’re running against time here… give us 5 minutes” Taehyung concluded sarcastically. Turning around and facing you, his next words made you visibly freeze on the spot.

“So, Y/N? Have you ever seen a fresh murdered victim? Guess today's your lucky day…”  

•♡•

~Follow the sound of the pipe, follow this song. It’s a bit dangerous but I’m so sweet. I’m here to save you, I’m here to ruin you. You called me, see? I’m so sweet. Follow the sound of the pipe. I’m taking over you. I’m taking over you~

The song continues to haunt you at the back of your mind as you try and focus on the scene. Although, if this can even be called a scene. Silently you cursed Jungkook for playing the song during your drive to the scene, but a small part of you was even thankful for it, it gave you a distraction.

Nothing was out of place. Nothing except the lifeless body draped over one of the corner chairs. Again, dressed in black and wearing red shoes. You patiently waited for Seokjin and the medics to clear the scene so you could map out the floor.

In the art of investigations and so, the forensic scientists are the ones that map out the floor. They mark specific areas where everyone can walk. All other areas are off-limits. This helps with the preservation of evidence and it’s just protocol. Doing this and drawing the scene as found are crucial steps in any investigation.

Once you gave the go-ahead the rest of the boys all filtered into the scene. Each carefully moving within your set boundaries as they all set to work collecting what they could. Even though this is not wise, it’s faster. They’re all trained and educated investigators, they know how to handle evidence. They have been collecting them long before you were part of the equation.

Once everything was collected and the whole scene has been thoroughly searched, twice, you all head back to the office to start your individual tasks on sorting the evidence and analyzing everything.

After many hours of sorting and analyzing, Taehyung called everyone to the briefing room for any updates.

“Right, Seokjin. Let’s start with you” Taehyung said as everyone found their seats.

“Right, Victim was female. She was shot executioner style, but this time the wound wasn’t fatal. She was, however, tortured before death. Unfortunately, I can’t say whether the torturing happened before, or after she was shot. I can, however, conclude she died at approximately midnight yesterday evening. The cause of death was major blood loss, internally as well as from the wound in her skull. She was beaten, mutilated with a blade or sharp object and forced to drink acid. This crime is much more brutal than any of the others.” Seokjin concluded with a sigh as he slaked in his seat. Visibly drained.

“Namjoon? Anything on who the victim was?” Taehyung asked.

“Victims' name was Mary-lee. She was a 24-year-old businesswoman. She was last seen leaving a popular night club only two blocks from where she was found nearly 7 hours later. She was alone at the club. Came alone and left alone. She had only one beer, meaning she wasn’t drunk. The bartender even said she came by regularly, usually only having one beer before she would leave.”

“Jimin? Do you have the results of her toxin scene?” Taehyung reluctantly asked.

“I do, With the little blood found in her liver, I found no trace of any drugs or alcohol in her system. She was completely sober during the time of her death, it’s as if the killer made sure she felt everything that happened to her. This means that these killings aren’t linked by drugs.” Jimin said.

“Great, that’s good. Were getting somewhere. Y/N?” Taehyung said sarcastically as he turned to you.

“Mary-lee was shot with a round nose bullet. That’s why it went right through. These bullets are usually found within law enforcement, unfortunately, this bullet was custom made. I also came to the same conclusion as Jimin, I just found the link in another form. The victim was once again totally cleaned and drained of blood. She was wearing black clothes and red shoes, had no trace evidence just like the previous victims even if no drugs were used on her. This means the killer is getting creative. He tortured her, something he never did with any of the other victims. She was found in pub- ” You said as your eyes went wide when they made contact with Taehyung who failed to notice.

“Right, I think this settles it. We are officially looking for a serial killer. One that feels safe enough to take risks. One that’s playing with us. One that finds joy in his killings. Yoongi, inform the press. We need to catch this mad man before he kills again.” Taehyung concluded as he stood only to be stopped by your voice.

“Wait, somethings off. Linda was killed last week in a similar fashion than Mary-lee, but they weren’t killed in the same week as the first four victims. Why would the killer change his style so drastically? Unless we missed something big. But what?” all eyes were on you as you bit your lower lip in concentration.

“Y/N, if there’s someone who can figure this out… it’s you. We’ll all help and look for the link or the reason this guy changed, but don’t ponder on it too hard, the answer will come” Hoseok said as he gave you a pat on the back.

Slowly everyone filtered out of the briefing room. Exhaustion being a common trait everyone shared at this stage, yet you all went back to work.

You can rest when you're dead...

•♡•

The news of a serial killer on the hunt for his next victim, literally send a tsunami of panic through the city. Stores started closing earlier, children were kept out of school, neighbors even started suspecting each other as the case grew more and more complicated. Lead after lead was reported daily, all leading to more dead ends than in the entire continent. This just made things even harder for everyone at the office.

You were on the verge of burning out. Tonight would be your third all-nighter and you felt it. Your eyes were lifeless, your muscles ached and begged for rest. The case had come to a complete standstill. No one could find anything to boost your chances of catching this inhuman psycho. It’s as if he was untouchable.

Staring at the same report for the hundredth time your mind went blank once again as you tried to see the connection.

Yoongi found something else at the crime scene. Something missing from the first five. A single strand of hair, female but not from the victim nor any other victim. The DNA extracted also didn’t match anyone registered on the system. This meant that either the killer was female, or the killer was near another female before he killed Mary-lee.

But there were other possibilities as well. It could have been one of Mary’s client’s hair or other worker's hair… yet everyone at the office was registered on the site used by investigators. A security measure the company uses to make sure its employees weren’t previous offenders.

There was another option, one that made your heart speed-up. The possibility that the hair sample found belonged to that of a foreigner. You were a foreigner. The color-matched your hair color, you were female, yet you never met Mary-lee.

There’s only one option left to ease your anxiety. You needed to provide a sample and clear your name, just in case, even if you knew it was nearly impossible for your hair to be a match. But something deep down felt off. This killer wasn’t that careless. He wanted this sample to be found. If its to send a message you were determined to find out what he wanted to say.

•♡•

You know that it’s already begun. The moment you hear that sound, maybe I’m a bit dangerous. Like the pied piper, I’m testing you. Like the fruit from the tree of good and evil.

Time came to complete standstill as everyone in the briefing room was staring at your, now very pale face. A mix of confusion and shock written on everyone’s face as Jimin lowered the lab results. It was a match. Your hair was found at a crime scene you’ve never been to.

No word could describe how helpless you felt at that very moment. All your hard work on building their trust, redeeming your past mistakes was now on the brink of extinction. You wanted to prove yourself and you have, now this happened. They’ll never trust you again.

“Y/N, that figure you saw at your home the second night you were in that house. You can’t recall if he/she was in your home?” Taehyungs cold voice sliced through the air, successfully scaring the living shit out of you.

“N-no, I-I don’t think s-so” You weakly replied. You felt your body losing all energy as more blood left your face. Once again you felt strong arms on your shoulders, a glass of water appearing in front of your face. Your eyes were glossy as you just sat there, making no attempt to take the offered water.

“Y/N, hey stay with me, sweetheart. Come on, drink this. No no, come back to us Y/N” Yoongi’s voice rang out as another pair of hands took your face in theirs, lightly tapping it.

“Hey, we’re not mad at you. We know for a fact you have never been to that office. There’s absolutely nothing connecting you to this case. That’s why Taehyung-ie asked if you know if that individual was in your home. That hair was planted, and we all know it!” Hoseok said from behind you. His arms tightening their grip on you as he spoke.

“Y/N, I firmly believe everyone in this room would agree with me when I say that this psycho’s targeting you. You aren’t safe in that home, not anymore.” Jungkook said from his seat, visibly vibrating with anger.

“I agree and don’t let Tae’s cold voice get to you. We all need a break from this case before we all go completely insane.” Seokjin said with tired soft eyes.

The room went quiet as your color slowly returned to your face. The newfound information slowly sinking in as you furrowed your eyebrows. The implication they were referring to had chills running down your body. Why would this killer target you? You were a nobody. A foreigner-only trying to make a living. For heaven's sake! You didn’t even know anyone here! Except for the boys.

“Why me…?” You whispered. A lost memory threatening to expose itself as the reason.

“We don’t know, but I promise you we’ll find out. No one fucks with our family and your family now!” Jimin said, surprising you with the harshness of his words.

With affirmative nods from all the boys, you felt a sense of calmness fold around you. You're going to be okay.

“Y/N” Taehyungs voice made you turn to him. His voice was somewhat softer than before.

“I think it would be best if you relocate. As Jungkook said, it’s not safe for you to be in that house. Not just that but being alone in general. I do believe the rest will agree to the fact that this madman has his eyes set on you. Don’t worry Y/N, you’re safe with us even if it’s our fault there’s a target on your back. So, how about it boys?” Taehyungs voice carried through the room.  

His words made you smile, that familiar warmth returning as the implication of his words truly hit you. They care for you. You’re important to them. You’re safe with them.

“Why don’t we just let her join us at our apartment? There’s plenty of space! She can take the biggest guest room at the end of the hall. That way we’ll always be close to her. No one would be able to get to her.” Namjoon’s voice suddenly rang out from the back of the room.

M-move in with them? Wouldn’t that be… weird?

Seeing your worried eyes, Seokjin quickly stepped in. taking your hands in his, his eyes locking yours in place as his thumb rubbed reassuringly over your knuckles.

“Y/N, this way we’ll be able to keep you safe.” Taking a deep breath, he continued with a pleading tone.

“Please move in with us doll, let us keep you safe”

Taglist: @lexisthegreatest @wearelivingthoughts @chim-possible @mojo6 @allme4ever @autumnboo126 @backinblack1967 @anamarieswift2194 @inkouowo @loisje123 @alomarce @xxgothickxx @crazy-fangirl-10 @holyblazinghell @speakyourselfloveyourself @cyphyia-lea  @sftwgguk @mindhoney23 @moonlightnightingalesworld @barbyisafangirl @queenofkats02 @honeydewseoks @hani-bun @stargazingmoonchild @catherinekowalski @sexiquid @imfor-everdrivinginpuddles @anthoblanchette-blog @ohmyspook69 @sweatypersonaalienopera @alomarce @thatgirlwithmanyobsessions​ @tired-mochi

Things are heating up!!

Chapter 6

[cavitymagazine]

𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔧𝔞 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤

There’s a painting of it that you’ve probably seen somewhere. Pointillist. A dirt road and a cornfield. A parked green tractor. And, the imagery discordant, a dejected ninja slouching beside the tractor, staring down at his limply held blade as though it’s the ultimate substantiation of meaninglessness. This painting’s been reproduced, parodied, enshrined, and displayed all over the globe. It’s at the Detroit Institute of Art, presently, in fact.

Equation from a crypto-meteorological textbook:

91-101 kph [wind speed] + oblique, angular shadow systems [precise configuration/density: UNKNOWN] + misty [optional?] rain/overcast sky + uprooted bamboo trees and/or bamboo chips/strips/material [exact amount UNKNOWN] = ninjitstorm [perhaps]

Crypto-Beaufort Scale entry for ninjitstorm:

Beaufort Number: 10

Name: Chimerical Gale or Conjuror Storm

Wind Speed: 58-62 mph [91-101 kph]

Description: Considerable structural damage occurs; ninja assassins manifest

The homely Nebraska town of Sumner has a general store called General Store – it’s that kind of agrestic. People and corn. And more corn. Grain sacks. A poky video store. Grousing tractors.

Of course this uneventfulness is a late and lamented portraiture of Sumner: it is the way it was before the squall of gleaming katana.

One advanced afternoon in the mid 1990s it rains ninja on Sumner. Like homicidal hailstones, they somersault and roll and flying-kick out of tornadic funnels. Like armed sleet.

It marks the first and only occurrence of this phenomenon in the U.S. It’s a huge moment in Weather History.

Day 1: Chaos and horror. Eleven townsfolk are struck down; some livestock are poisoned by blow darts tipped with something more lethal than cyanide, others are gorily ornamented with shuriken. Green tractor paint obscured by arterial spray. Sumner’s roads go redly moist.

Law enforcement refuses to step in. Here’s an excerpt from the press release the Batch County Sheriff’s Department issued the day of the killer atmospheric conditions:

“While this department mourns the lives lost in Sumner this afternoon, the deaths, according to FEMA meteorologists, are no more ‘criminal’ than, for example, hurricane or mudslide casualties. We don’t arrest natural disasters; we don’t prosecute tsunamis. Sorry.

FEMA experts advise residents to stay indoors until a solution is reached. Crisis managers are in talks with Tokyo climatologists…”

Day 2: Terrorized townies hole up inside their houses and barns. Doors are needlessly barricaded and boarded over. (The aerial ninja confine their sneaky, homicidal industry to the outside world, in compliance with some meteorological principle only the atmosphere kens.) Sumner fathers cradle shotguns, uselessly. (Bullets have no effect on thunderstorms, squalls, or pneumatic assassins.) The town on Day 2 is ghostly and coiled, tense. Black-masked ninja zip in and across Sumner’s roads like darts: horizontal black blurs… a deadly twinkle of metal… then: gone. Hidden again.

Ain’t seen one all afternoon.

That don’t mean they ain’t out there.

My nephew googled it.

What’d it say?

Not much. Lingo for ‘em’s some Japanese word. In America they call ‘em Dudikoffs. Sounds Russian.

That don’t help, Carl.

Carl’s dumber ‘an shit on a post.

Eat me, Baker.

Ain’t never happened here in the U.S. Not ever. Last one happened in the Ukraine in ’94. Bunch in Japan in the ‘80s.

On Day 2 the only deaths are an ambling wiener dog cleanly sectioned by a sword and a few chickens, their clucking heads crunched via nunchaku, the weapon’s rawhide link sticky with fowl blood.

Day 3-5: A predawn charge overtures a full day of mass assassination almost as frenetic and ravaging as the first. This spasm of killing, however, slows over days 4 and five. The manifestation still beheads anyone or anything not under a roof, human or stock, but a certain berserk spirit seems to dissipate noticeably. The slaying isn’t as enthusiastic.

Theories abound, most of them infused with a hope contoured by acute desperation; they’re near-mythic, these theories.

Research into feline predatory patterns/Marquette University/1996:

“Our team stuck cats – housecats and ferals, both – into cages: one cat per cage. Then we simply dumped mice into these cages with the cats. Dozens of mice. The mice, of course, had nowhere to hide.

“The pattern was conspicuous right away: the cat frenzies, eyes big as dinner plates, followed by a maelstrom of claw action.

“Every cat, though, without variance, did this:

“They massacred the mice frantically, as though the mice could escape or we might take them away any second.

“Then, somewhere around Mouse Victim #14 (it’s a 12-14 range, this phenomenon, though we’ve seen it go as high as 16; never lower than 12), the cat just mellows, stops killing. Every time.

“Does the cat get bored around kill #14? Is its bloodlust sated at or around that magic number? Or does it merely realize the mice are trapped and it need not rush its rampage?

“Or… or, more interestingly, does kitty experience some kind of lynxian existential crisis? Does Garfield gaze dejectedly at his bloody, dripping claws as though they’re the substantiation of meaninglessness and say to itself, figuratively, ‘What’s the use?’

“Does Toonces pause and ask itself, ‘What the fuck is the point of me, anyway?’ Unless someone speaks cat, we’ll probably never know.”

Day 6-21: Days 6-21 play out as a more salient, more fizzly copy of days 4 and five.

The murders diminish in both number and frequency.

The mute ninjaforms meet an apparent corrosion of their eager bloodthirstiness. Their hearts are no longer in it, it seems.

The ninja seem bored. Or disillusioned. Sometimes a ripe townie will stroll right past a ninja, practically daring it to cut him down, practically volunteering, and the airborne assassin will merely look down at the dirt road, as though ashamed.

Some pundits attribute the change to Sumner’s population’s obstinacy, its grim insistence on resuming business-as-usual on Day Five. On 5, farmers rouse their slumbering tractors, church service is held, and a semi-normalcy pre-ninjastorm is willed into being. Granted, ninja bashed and hacked a not-insignificant number of townies during this time of unsheltering, sure, but the folks of Sumner were through hiding, come hell or ninja.

Day 22: A milestone in the Sumner ninjitstorm: 22 marks the day of the final killing of a town resident by a manifestation. It’s an awkward kill, like the last twitch of some fading convulsion: a meaningless reflex. Miss Maple, 83 years old. She was exiting the post office. Three ninjaforms were milling around out front, by the office’s decorative trough and hitching posts. None of the ninja had attacked in days. As Miss Maple passes the trio, nodding a “How do you do?”, one ninja flinches, and the flinch clumsily morphs into an instinctive strike. A jerky nunchaku stick cracks Miss Maple’s brittle skull. Red spurts out through gray scalp. Blood spatters her lavender shawl. She dies in the dirt road, her seizurely throes the only movement. It’s pathetic, that last killing. Dishonorable. Ninja wear masks, but still it’s as though the humiliation can be read on the assassin’s face: a child caught in the act of doing something stupidly cruel for no good reason.

Day 23-Day 60:

Crazy to say it.

Well, shit. You want it to go back to the way it was last month?

‘Course not. Hell.

I know what Carl’s gettin’ at though. Yessir. It’s glum. They’re like reminders of somethin’ sad.

Somethin’ bygone.

Yeah, “gone” is right. Gone are a bunch of decent folk gettin’ stabbed and decapitated for no goddamn reason. Are y’all forgettin’ that?

They are weather, Dan. We gonna hate somethin’ natural forever? It’s like stayin’ mad at the tornado that took your pickup.

Like stayin’ sore at the scorpion for stingin’.

That weather took my wife’s eye out with a dag-gum throwin’ star, Baker.

Settle down y’all.

How much’s a bag of them Corn Nuts?

The picante ones? Them’re good.

Well, listen. Them ninja, they’re here. And, ill or good, they’re ours. That’s how this town is. They’re part of us now.

Harmless, the ninja of Sumner slouch, their all-black suits vivid in the dayglare. They mill a lot, doing nothing – mopey shadows.

A gradual homogeny blooms: the town, its placidness, its standardized, cyclic normalcy, first tames and then assimilates the disorder of ninja, like a gobbling Norman Rockwell that quickly swallows up and absorbs any rogue or transgressive brushstrokes.

No one likes a sad ninja. Sad ninja are worse than your ordinary sad person. They’re oppressive.

The ninjaforms go from skulking assassins to lethargic killers; then to dejected, bland objects of pity – voiceless panhandlers, like stray cats or confused urchins.

Lost in despair, pouting between the town’s squat buildings or brooding in silent circles behind the video store, the ninja, finally, become the sullen pillars of the Sumner community.

Day 61-Present:

The ninja are as much a part of Sumner now as the cattle. As fixed and integral as the cornstalks. More so, maybe.

Sumner’s a tourist destination now; a very disappointing one. Morose ninja contemplating the dirt get boring fast. Tourists snap a few photos of the incongruous weather-forms, grab a slab of Marge’s Diner’s “famous” banana cream pie, and drive back to Florida or California or wherever tourists come from.

There is talk of penning up the ninja and making them a petting zoo. They’re docile as sleepy goats now, after all. Sometimes tourists’ kids will run over and pet one of them or tug at one’s pant leg. It gave people ideas.

Sometimes sympathetic Sumner grandmothers, overcome by pity, will do something like pet one of the glum ninja, stroking its hooded, hung head, extending a solace that isn’t receivable.

Story and artwork by Will Bernardara Jr.

[Author Bio]

Will Bernardara Jr. is the author of the novella America from voidfront. 

[jimlingss]

Tell Me Lies [Interlude]

Prologue | Part 1 | Interlude | Part 2 [Finale]

➜ Words: 3.8k

➜ Genres: Fuck me up with this angst - it hurts so good.

Spin off of the Korean Drama 'That Winter, The Wind Blows' (2013) and the Korean movie 'Love Me Not' (2006).

➜ Summary: All it would take is one more scheme. One more and you could live the rest of your life in riches. Except, you don’t expect your last victim to be Jimin’s sister.

➜ Warnings: Topics of blindness, illness and death, lots of cursing, minor slut-shaming, teenage angst, vague suicide mention.

The little girl hops down the stairs at a pace that is too reckless and too dangerous. It would take a mere millimeter more for her feet to be off balance on the steps and for her to come tumbling down. But still, she holds her breath, dashing swiftly despite the scoldings of adults upstairs, and she makes it.

  The child throws herself across the living room, past the sofas and the piano. She makes it towards the front entrance and outside; the sunlight beaming down, the rays kissing against the apples of her cheeks and long lashes. “Minnie!”   A boy, only two years older, spins around. His fluffy brunette hair swishes against the breeze, a sheepish smile spreading into his chubby face, eyes crinkled with a soft expression. “Yes?”   Unlike the events occurring, the weather is beautiful outside. The surroundings are sunlit, cotton ball clouds cluttered through the azure sky, morning dew sparkling on the verdant grassy lawn. Though the girl’s eyes trail to the tall suitcase that stands by his side, the car parked at the front of the round driveway leading up to the home, and a crowd of adults by the vehicle, talking about things that don’t make sense.   The six-year-old girl approaches, small hand curled around her teddy bear’s arm, and she tugs on the hem of his striped long sleeve. “Minnie, when are you coming back?”   He hums a note, considering the answer. “Later.”   “Later when?”   “Just later…”   “And what about mommy?”   “She’ll come back later too.”   The girl sulks, looking up at her older brother, blinking past her tear-filled vision. Her big doe-eyes stare into his own brown irises and it would take another flutter of her lashes before round tears come rolling down her face. “But I don’t want you to go! Why do you have to go? Stay!”   “I can’t.” He frowns, brows knitting together, the grimace ruining the innocence of his features, as if it wasn’t meant for him to know such pain at such a young age. “Mommy and daddy can’t stay together anymore.”   “Why?”   “Because they don’t love each other,” the eight-year-old tries to explain in his limited vocabulary, struggling to justify the reasons in a coherent manner.   And the young child still cannot understand. “Why not?”   The boy settles on the one explanation he knows, the one that answers all questions but doesn’t at the same time. “Because.”   She pouts, cheeks huffing out and the girl contemplates for a moment before looking at him again, quirking her head to one side. “Then what will happen when you, mommy, and daddy don’t love me anymore? Will I have to go too?”   “That won’t happen. You’ll always be loved.” He grins and moves his palms to squish her cheeks together, her lips smushed and reminding him of a fish. “Me, mommy, and dad will always love you because we’re a family.”   “Then if we’re a family, why do you have to leave?” Rinae asks again, and again, unable to comprehend why her family is being separated. “I don’t want you to leave, Minnie.”   “I have to go.” He squats down, meeting her at eye-level, closing the five-inch gap between the pair of them. “If I don’t go, then mommy will be sad and lonely. So, I’ll stay with her. You stay with dad, okay? That way, no one will be lonely or sad.”   Her voice lowers in volume, becoming quieter and quieter. “But who will I play with?”   “You can make friends.”   She shakes her head. “Don’t wanna.”   He smiles at her childishness and pats her head, trying to be gentle but at his age, he only manages to be awkward and rough, nearly whacking her. The girl’s sadness is almost shattered by his annoying behaviour...almost. “I’ll call you and mail you every day then.”   Rinae’s eyes widen, and she blinks at him, once, twice. “Every day?”   “Every day!” he agrees. “And I’ll come visit every summer and every Christmas, and we’ll play lots. You won’t even know I’m gone! It’ll be like I never left.”   “Jimin!”   There’s a shrill cry of his name, his mother standing by the car and beginning to get into the vehicle. The arguing had gotten too much to endure and now she cries out for her son while being unable to bear looking at her daughter whom she had tearfully bid goodbye to earlier, planting a kiss on her forehead and hugging her one last time.   “Be good, okay?” Jimin returns to his feet. “I’ll come back soon.”   Hope blooms inside her chest and suddenly, the young child doesn’t feel so sad anymore. “Okay.”   A family torn in half, one left behind and the other off to nowhere. As the doors to the car shuts and the engine whirrs to life, beginning to pull away from the curb and straight ahead, Rinae chases after the car with all her might. Her little fists ball up, tiny legs taking leaps, and she goes sprinting.   The housekeeper, the servants, all the adults gathered scream and shout after her. “Rinae!”   But she pays them no mind, squeaky giggles spilling from her lips, her arm moving up to wave eagerly. “Bye, Minnie!” While she calls out for him, he turns around from the backseat, face appearing at the window. And he grins, waving back to her and saying something that she can’t hear. “I’ll miss you!”   Just like that, as the vehicle signals and takes a left, disappearing from sight, her brother and mom also vanish from her life. In the many years to come, Rinae would realize that her brother had a bad habit of never keeping his promises.

“Was there any mail for me?”   Maybe it was because she was only thirteen. Maybe it was because she was young, overly naive and innocent that she never quite lost hope. Even when so much time has passed, so many questions left unanswered, she still waited and waited, day after day.   “No.” The housekeeper diverts her attention elsewhere, giving her the same response as yesterday. “None that was for you.”   The once little girl was no longer, instead, she had become a teenager and a rather vicious one at that. Being the only child in a wealthy household, it was only a natural occurrence to be spoiled — and fluctuating hormones, mood swings, a growing judgment, only added to her sharp perception.   It wasn’t long before the heiress began to have her suspicions and it wasn’t difficult for her to investigate what was really going on. All she needed was to wait at the door before the sun even rose, to speak to the mailman first and take the pile of letters in his bag.   The way the housekeeper became pale spoke enough for itself.   “You hid it from me, didn’t you?!” Rinae is hysterically screaming, her jaw clenched and her teeth gritted against each other, hard enough for her molars to fall out. “These letters from my brother—” She holds up the single envelope, hand quivering, knuckles turned to white. “—how many more are you hiding or did you throw them all away?!”   “Rinae.” The young woman, her supposed stepmother, walks forward with an open palm. “Calm down and we can talk about this.”   The letter nearly crumples in her fist. All she sees is the colour red, her eyesight blurred through unadulterated rage and at the same time, grief overwhelms her body. Tears gather in her eyes, but she forces her voice not to waver or become weak. “Don’t tell me to calm down! Do you know how long I’ve been wondering about my mom and my brother?! How long I’ve been waiting?!”   A realization hits her, shocking her system, making her sick to her stomach. “You cut me off contact with them,” she whispers quietly, the calm before the storm, and her eyes lift once more to the young woman in front of her. “Didn’t you?”   “Rinae.”   “Don’t touch me!” She screams again, timbre raising to the high-ceilings. Rinae pushes her stepmother away from her, wholeheartedly disgusted with the woman and from the impact, the latter is shoved against the wall, a broken gasp choking from her lungs. “Don’t touch me with your dirty hands, you fucking bitch.”   “Rinae!” Her father stands at the top of the staircase, hand brushing against the banister, and he’s absolutely mortified at her outburst.   The thirteen-year-old completely ignores her parent, cornering the woman in and pointing straight at her. “Don’t you think I know? You were the one who separated my family in the first place. You forced my brother to leave. You’re a homewrecker.”   An affair that started before she was even born, Rinae had caught them once, back when she had never heard the word ‘divorce’ in her life, before that same word became the reason that her family was gone. To even think about the suffering her mom had to go through, for years on end and when she was pregnant with her, it makes the girl want to scratch the woman’s face up until her skin is raw with her bare fingernails.   “Are you satisfied, huh? Are you happy that you get to live comfortably now? How many more men will you spread your legs for after you’re done with my dad, you fucking dirty cunt—”   There’s a gasp. Her eyes are suddenly cloaked by her black hair, neck twisted in the opposite direction, having received whiplash. Rinae’s face has gone numb, cheek especially, and when she looks again, her father’s hand is raised mid-air. The sound of the slap echos in her skull, fingerprints indented into her cheek, and she is able to piece together what had happened in the past two seconds.   “You do not get to talk to her that way.” Her father’s voice is cold and threatening, rumbling deep, as if daring her to do anything like that again. “She is your mother.”   “She will never be my mother,” the young girl spits back in as much animosity, hyperventilating and glaring at the two people, or rather, the two strangers. “I only have one mom.”   “And that woman will never step into this house again!” He shouts, losing his temper, face having gone red in anger. “I was the one who told them to keep the letters from you. They left! They’re gone! And they’re never coming back. You don’t need those people in your life.”   The woman’s brows furrow, taking a step forward as if to wedge herself between the both of them and lessen the tension in the room. She grasps onto Rinae’s father’s arm, gently gazing at his profile. “Honey…”   Rinae shakes her head, looking at the couple, the way they stare at her like she’s the outsider, like she’s an annoyance to their happy lives, the only disturbance to their peace, and she runs.   Her eyes pour of rain.   //   The girl writes to her brother. But she never receives an answer back. Maybe she did, maybe her brother did write to her, and she simply never got his letter. Maybe her dad or that woman hid it from her again, maybe they disposed it, or maybe they never even let her own get sent away.   Whatever the case may be, it didn’t matter...not when she was planning to go there.   All it would take is to save enough money or swipe some from her father’s wallet to get a plane ticket. She didn’t know exactly where he was, but a general location was better than nothing at all. A plane ticket, one backpack, and she could sneak out in the middle of the night, truly run, and she could be reunited with her family.   It was a perfect plan. Really, it was.   And maybe it could’ve worked, but before she could even try, life had stopped her.   “What’s wrong with her?!”   Her father’s voice bellowed down the hospital hallways and the doctor had winced. “Mr. Park, I think it’s best we speak privately in my office.”   As much as they tried to hide it from her, keep Rinae from being distressed, as if she could be happier in the prison she was living in, the murmurs still leaked past doorways and palms covering mouths.   Hereditary — Sick — Save her. They were words that haunted the many nights she stayed bedridden in the white room.   “I don’t want to live anymore.” Rinae had turned to her father one evening, and what had spilled from her lips was never a statement or a question, it was a plea.   There was a silence that followed, and he smiled briefly. “You’re going through with the surgery tomorrow. We have the best doctors on this case, so don’t worry. You’ll receive the best possible treatment.”   The man gave one last glance before leaving, completely ignoring his daughter’s request.   It took years. Surgery after surgery, multiple times near death, doctors swarming by her side and her life on a thin line; the Grim Reaper always teasing but cruel enough to never pull the plug completely. The girl became a ghost, a shell of herself, alive but not living. The machines pumped her heart, ran blood through her veins, made sure that she was nutritionally healthy without having to eat. She didn’t need to lift a single finger to have the place bending at her will.   It was hell at its greatest form.   “What time is it?”   The nurse looks up from her clipboard briefly. “There’s a clock right there.”   Rinae squints across the room towards the wall that was a few meters away. Her vision blurry, she sighs and becomes irritated with how the nurse doesn’t answer her in a straightforward manner. “I can’t see it.”   Apparently, that was enough to set panic like a wildfire.   “It’s open angle glaucoma. The optic nerve has been permanently damaged. There’s no way for us to bring back her vision to how it was. The most we can do is slow it down—”   He interrupts, brow twitching, and he mutters under his breath calmly, “What were you all doing here when she’s been in this hospital twenty-four seven under constant care and supervision?”   “My deepest apologies, sir.” The doctor swallows hard. “We’ve overlooked this and I, as well as everyone else in this hospital, are willing to be responsible.”   He barks out a halfhearted chuckle, one that never quite reaches his eyes. “You’re going to be responsible alright.”   There’s a beat of quiet before the physician speaks up, clearing his throat nervously. “If I may be frank with you, Mr. Park, in all honesty, it’s a miracle that your daughter is alive. With her original diagnosis and the amount of surgeries she’s had, having an eye disease is not the worst case—”   Again, the man intercepts, rubbing his temples in exhaustion, ignoring his pounding headache, the wrinkles set deep into his skin and showing his age, how work has compromised his health. “You told me there’s no cure?” he enunciates carefully and slowly.   “There isn’t. The best we can do is slow it down—”   Her father’s fist slams down on the desk, knuckles turned white. “Bring me someone who knows then! My time will not be wasted with your incompetence.”   As furious and stubborn as he could be, it didn’t solve anything.   This was one of the few things money couldn’t solve.   It was gradual. It wasn’t like one day she could see and the next she could not. But slowly, day after day, month after month, the world became blurry. Her vision became confined into a small space, peripheral fading away, and then before she could come to fully accept the new conditions of her life, her eyes were stolen away from her. It wasn’t darkness but simply, nothing.   She could see nothing.   Maybe it was karma. Karma for her dad abandoning his family, for breaking his vows, for not paying more attention to his only daughter and the sole child he had left. Karma because she lived comfortably, in a warm house and bed, having food to eat, while god knows where her brother was under the blue sky.   And sadness quickly turned into anger.   “You’ll always be loved. Me, mommy, and dad will always love you because we’re a family.”   L I A R.   “I’ll come back soon.”   L I A R.   “Your bro...th...er—...help us…”   L I A R.   “Shut up! SHUT UP!” She screams, cupping her ears and blocking out all the sounds, erasing all the memories as if they could be so easily deleted. They were liars, all of them. Everyone in her life deceives her, making promises that couldn’t be kept, granting her ignorance instead of truth, keeping her away from pain when they were the ones who caused it instead.   She was angry. Resentful. Because it was easier to have someone to blame rather than shouldering the burdens of suffering alone. There was only so much someone could do when they were sad; to cry, wrap their arms around their body and cradle themselves, trapped in their own mind, asking why, screaming over and over again before turning to madness.   But with anger, she could live again. With anger, she could look forward, have a purpose, even if that purpose was vengeance. In anger, someone can find strength to stand once more.   Yet, as Rinae stood on her feet, becoming angered at her existence, she could not help but think it would’ve been better if she didn’t have it in the first place.   To have something and for that to be ripped away. It would’ve been better to not have known at all; to not know how vibrant colours and hues could be, how lovely the shade of the sky is, the colour of flowers blooming in spring, the crinkled leaves that flutter down in the autumn season. To not know how beautiful the world could be.   To not know the soft embrace of a mother, the gentle hand of someone who loves unconditionally. To not know laughter, happiness, the teasings of an older brother, to have someone be a shield, and be so warm that their voice felt like sunlight itself.   Her sight. Family. Love.   If she didn’t have it, she wouldn’t have known loss.

“Your father’s calling for you.”   It was ironic, really. The universe loved to pull tricks and this seemed to be one of them.   Standing at her father’s deathbed, she couldn’t help but think that she was the one who wanted to die, yet he was the one that was dying. It was funny. She wished she could laugh.   “Rinae…”   I hate you.   She thinks but does not utter the words. He doesn’t deserve her voice, to hear her speak. And so, the young woman graces him with silence, gifting him the worst kind of punishment, and the one that he had given her for so many years of her childhood.   “I’m sorry,” he wheezes out, barely a murmur.   Her breath hitches in her throat.   “I’m sorry.” The walls tremble. “It’s my fault.”   The cold-blooded man who would never apologize or bow his head down was doing so for his own daughter. “I was the one who ripped our family apart. Single-handedly. It was my fault.”   He coughs and wheezes, forcing the syllables from his raw throat. His timbre was strong once, loud enough to boom across the house, up to the high ceilings, allow everyone to know how he was harshly reprimanding his daughter. Now, it is weak, barely murmurs.   “I ruined our family. But the least I could’ve done was let you stay with your mother and your brother. You would’ve been happier with them. Not with me. I’m sorry I was selfish.” The room is quiet, and she wonders what his expression might be, if the regret was shown on his features as much as they existed in his voice. “I’m sorry I was such a bad father to you.”   “I’m sorry.”   “I…” The sound that emits from her mouth is unfamiliar to her own ears. She can’t remember the last time she’s spoken. “I don’t know if I can forgive you.”   For years, an entire decade, anger had become a part of her.   What would happen if she were to let that anger go? Who will she even be?   “It’s okay,” the old man’s sincerity is overwhelming. “I don’t want forgiveness. I just wanted you to listen.”   //   Snow flurries descend in spirals, drifting and gliding through the pale sky. The tangled flakes are of a loose powder, settling until the land is blanketed in white. But to her, it is a storm.   The thick scent of flowers is smothering, the floral odor covering the fresh snowfall. Murmurs are heard in the back, whispers that are too loud and there’s a bitter taste on her tongue. Someone is sobbing in the distance, perhaps even choked wailing, but there’s a note in their raw voices that leak the disingenuity. Another person is speaking, recalling memories with exaggeration, making false claims — he was such a great man, how everyone loved him, how it’s a shame that he’s dead. Yet, she knows that behind closed doors, people are rejoicing.   Rinae stands tall, holds herself together like she had practiced for so long.   It’s easy not to cry. She shouldn’t feel such sentiment to a man who was more of a stranger and only a father in name. But when she recalls her last memory, his apologies, his acknowledgment for never being the person he should’ve been, things are made difficult.   Still, Rinae does not shed tears during the funeral. Not until it’s over.   Behind closed doors, her eyes pour of raindrops, rolling down her face, choking out of her aching chest, overflowing her palms and collected in puddles on the floorboard.   Truly, she has no one left.   Not her brother. Not her mother. Not her father.   She doesn’t even have herself anymore.   Alone. In a wide open space, a house with enough rooms to fit twenty people, wealth that could be endlessly spent for the rest of her life without having to work a single day, she is alone.   “Park Rinae!” Someone shatters the bubble of silence she’s created, interrupting the path of acceptance she was taking. Out of nowhere, from years spent in loneliness, a stranger has planted themselves into her life. “It’s me. Your brother—”   L I A R.   “I don’t have a brother.”   She doesn’t need help. She doesn’t need anyone. Maybe being lied to once would’ve been fine, maybe three times, but after thirty times, fifty, a hundred, she would be foolish to ever believe someone again. Still, the glimmer of hope that was deeply buried under open wounds and itching scars still exists. And all Rinae knows is that she’s absolutely petrified — she doesn’t want to be alone.

[hotelconcierge]

HYPOCRISY IS BAD, BUT YOU’RE WORSE

“I like the Walrus best," said Alice, "because you see he was a little sorry for the poor oysters.” “He ate more than the Carpenter, though,” said Tweedledee. “You see he held his handkerchief in front, so that the Carpenter couldn't count how many he took: contrariwise.” “That was mean!” Alice said indignantly. “Then I like the Carpenter best—if he didn't eat so many as the Walrus.” “But he ate as many as he could get,” said Tweedledum. This was a puzzler. After a pause, Alice began, “Well! They were both very unpleasant characters—” (Through the Looking-Glass)

This is a moviepost—extensive spoilers follow for Death Proof, Jackie Brown, and Inglourious Basterds—and I wrote it mostly because I wanted to talk about some movies. But first, a topical tie-in:

There is always an outside that a person considers unworthy of life...The individual progressive or racist may never say that the outside is unworthy of rights, but they feel it. This is what is meant by that line from Inglorious Bastards when the character of Lt. Aldo Raine says; the "Nazi ain't got no humanity. They're the foot soldiers of a jew-hating, mass-murdering maniac and they need to be de-stroyed!"

Here we have a thirst to destroy the perceived inferior, except instead of a racist seeking the end of Jews it is the progressive liberal seeking the genocide of racists. That's irony.

And understand what is happening here. Aldo Raine is really a proxy for Quentin Tarantino. Tarantino is the one speaking, not Brad Pitt. The man is very left-wing and he wrote the script. That move is essentially an exposition of the directors [sic] politics.

The above quote is taken from The Anti-Puritan. Exactly what it sounds like: dude read three Moldbug posts and now thinks he can write. The specifics of this guy’s bad opinions are not that interesting—would you believe that even the videogame industry has been corrupted by cultural Marxism?—but perhaps something can be learned from the framing:

A climate scientist drives to an important summit on global warming. On the way there, he fills up his tank with gas. The only reason oil companies are in business and climate change is occurring is because of people like him who fill up their tanks with gas. Their payments make climate change possible. The payments are the reason Exxon, Shell and BP exist.

A feminist complains about the cis het patriarchy. Her boyfriend, whom she spreads her legs for, is tall, strong, confident, manly, and "dominant" in every way. Fucking dominant men is the reason they exist, the reason they will continue to exist, and the cultural incentive to become dominant...She and billions of other women perpetuate "the patriarchy" with their sexual choices. Patriarchy exists because of them.

A college professor complains about McDonald's. She has eaten fast food from a burger restaurant recently. She, and millions [of] others, are the reason McDonald's exists. (Source)

Let’s accept that there’s a lot to unpack here and move on. Focus instead on the form of the argument: tu quoque, again and again. The feebler the discourse the more accusations of hypocrisy (Bush Lied, Barack Hussein’d) because hypocrisy doesn’t require knowledge of anything but pre-algebra logic. Even a child can identify a contradiction: “But mom! You said—!”

This is precisely the skull malformation that has constricted discussion of the protestors who identify as “Antifascist Action” and are derided as the “alt-left.” Antifa has already become a perennial non-issue where all opinions are based on anecdote and there are plenty of anecdotes to go around; no one has skin in the game, anyone can upvote, and measurable achievements are dwarfed by spikes of indignation like hypertensive hemorrhages into America’s brain. If you don’t believe me, you haven’t been watching the stock prices of PP, NRA, PETA, and BLM.

Antifa now faces the two attacks that were long ago formulated against other activist groups. One: antifa is composed of violent morons who carry upon them body and pubic lice species yet to be classified by science. Two: antifa is counterproductive to their stated goal, e.g. getting to whack-a-mole pamphleteers is actually a powerful incentive to suffer for fashion.

I suspect both criticisms are true, but whatever—does the first imply the second? Is violence bad even when it is effective? Because if it isn’t, then claiming that “antifa are thugs too!” is worse than useless. Your opponent can simply reply, “So what? Nazi ain't got no humanity.” And now that you’ve cried wolf, that guy won’t listen when you claim that, in this instance, violence might not work. So you better be damn sure about your answer: what price should be paid for the sin of hypocrisy?

There is always an outside that a person considers unworthy of life...

Quentin Tarantino has dedicated his career to answering this question. 

QT has seen too many movies for it to be any other way. If you consume enough art across epoch and genre, you can’t help arrive at the Susan Sontag #redpill that content doesn’t matter all that much. All art is genre fiction no matter the pretensions and our lizard brain judges accordingly. Sure, thematic analysis is fun to play with after the fact, but if a movie has the right tropes in the right places—femme fatales, tough muchachos, pretty pictures, happy ending—well, you can convince yourself of just about anything.

Take, for example, Death Proof. Genre: exploitation/slasher. Synopsis: hot babes go for a night out, ex-stuntman stalks and runs ‘em down in a death-proof car; stuntman rinses and repeats with another girl gang except they turn the tables and Mortal Kombat his thoracic spine. Rating: extremely badass, you should check it out, anyone who tells you different is a pleb.

Namely: some people complain that the movie has too many scenes of girls talking and that their QT-isms are an unrealistic depiction of an actual group chat. The characters bicker lewdly, if that’s a thing, alternating between weirdly masculine sex-as-status teasing and pledges of undying affection, the verbal equivalent of a catfight, which is maybe how a creepy foot fetishist would imagine female dialogue, but...

Nope, still pleb. Tarantino wasn’t the first guy to invoke this trope, it’s part of the DNA of the slasher genre, as old as Jamie Lee Curtis getting razzed for her virginity in Halloween. Misogyny, maybe, but also content is a spook. Slasher movies have to fill 70 minutes before the eponymous slashing, and they also have to make you care about the outcome of said slashing without humanizing the characters so much that you get all Marley and Me when they die. 

What’s the secret? Status games, the less nuance the better. Boys would watch paint dry if you said it was a grudge match. Catfighting is no different than the elaboration of powers in a shonen manga or the suspicious glares exchanged between heist movie protagonists: it creates tension. Different value systems have been described, there can only be one, now you’re rooting for process of elimination to reveal the truth. No—you identify with that process. Hail Gnon. You could make a movie with men playing status games and being killed off by women and men would still find it hot; I know this because of female horrorcore rappers but also because this movie is called Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! and it’s 10/10. Incidentally:

This is referenced again in the final scene of the film, in which the viewer cheers on our group of heroines as they beat to death a pleading, injured man.

Here’s the hot take: tote bag feminists are wrong to think that drawing boobs on Powergirl is a male attempt to diminish her power. On the contrary, the more vampire slaying the better. Sexualization is an attempt to gain access to female power: if she wants The Phallus badly enough, she might just lend her power to you. Obverse: men are idiots for thinking that the existence of rape fantasies means that women secretly want to be raped. There’s an image floating around the manosphere about that terrorist with a heart of gold, Ted Kaczynski, who was gauche with ladies in the free world but deluged in love letters upon his incarceration. Before you can say medium = message, someone tragically rendered celibate by their 23andMe results will point to this as proof that women “only want serial killers.” Newsflash: Kaczynski is serving eight life sentences without possibility of parole. Do you think the fangirls didn’t know that? Rape fantasies (theoretically “hot”) are qualitatively different than being raped (“unimaginably horrific”) because you construct the former, can turn it off at any time. The fantasy victim is assaulted by a terrible power, but the person who selects and controls that power is...

Of course it is, cough, problematic, that slasher movie girls display power through HPV vaccinations while male zombie apocalypse survivors soliloquize on whether suicide is inevitable in the absence of God. But once you sexistly set up that women should be valued by their sin, the wages = death equation is not in and of itself misogynistic. No, it’s just inevitable: sex-as-status tension can only be relieved in two ways and one of them is frowned upon in theaters. Film crit cliché and Kraftwerk song, I know, but: watching a movie renders you impotent—you can’t interact with the sexy image on the screen—except through what the camera will allow.

That’s why you are complicit in the murders that occur in the first half of Death Proof. The ex-stuntman—old, a teetotaler, star of TV shows long forgotten (and played by once-famous Kurt Russell)—is as impotent as you are, capable of getting a deleted scene lap dance but zero penetration, and when he gets in his car to commit vehicular homicide x4, he looks at the camera and smiles. Because you’re right there with him, waiting for the money shot. It would be nice to fuck, but you’ll settle for a murder. Except when it actually happens, played four times for your amusement, it’s horrible—a face melted off by a tire, a wet leg flapping in the street. Throw in a Wilhelm scream. Wasn’t that what you wanted? Are you not entertained?

It’s all perspective, my man. For all the short shorts and naughty words, the girls plan and backup plan ways to prevent unwanted sexual advances; two of them have boyfriends and one is texting a crush trying to seal the deal; they discuss and decide against inviting the opposite sex to their lakeside vacation. But that’s not what you see from the outside. That’s not where your attention is drawn, wandering the club and editing your .jpg of grievances. For you, dancefloor means sex, choker necklace means slut, and being a slut means she would never sleep with you. That’s a personal insult. And that means that nothing else matters.

Which is insane. This isn’t an argument for or against promiscuity, the point is you don’t even know promiscuity looks like. You know symbols, and for that matter, why those symbols, where did you learn those? Brazzers? If you’re gonna be mad at a thing you should at least be mad at the thing itself, not at whatever fucked up fetish you’ve imposed on reality.

There’s a scene midway through the movie where QT tips his hand. The second girl gang is lounging in a car, one of them dangling her feet out the window. The ex-stuntman approaches, you assume his perspective, and maybe because it’s an old grindhouse film...

...but the color goes out, and everything is black and white.

Which, speaking of:

Jackie Brown is first and foremost a movie about being extremely cool all the time (you should watch it). The plot is an excuse: briefly, Pam Grier (airline stewardess), Robert Forster (bail bondsman), Samuel L Jackson (arms dealer), Robert De Niro (ex-convict), Bridget Fonda (stoner surfer chick) and a couple Feds each try to nab a briefcase holding $500K.

Jackie Brown is secondarily a movie about how race shapes each and every human interaction, but that description makes it sound like a Very Special Episode, and that couldn’t be more wrong. The movie is gleefully amoral, in fact lapses from pure MacGuffinism are treated as intolerable weakness, e.g. Jackson to De Niro:

ORDELL: You know what your problem is, Louis?

Louis doesn't say anything, he just puts his hands in his pockets.

ORDELL: You think you're a good guy. When you go into a deal you don't go in prepared to take that motherfucker all the way. You go in looking for a way out. And it ain't cause you're scared neither. It's cause you think you're a good guy, and you think there's certain things a good guy won't do. That's where we're different, me and you. Cause me, once I decide I want something, ain’t a goddam motherfuckin' thing gonna stop me from gittin' it. I gotta use a gun get what I want, I'm gonna use a gun. Nigga gets in my way, nigga gonna get removed. Understand what I'm saying?

Apparently not, because De Niro later makes this mistake and gets popped.

For these characters, race is just another weapon. When Jackson meets Forster for the first time, he lights a cigarette, puts his feet up on the desk, and taps out the ash in a partly full coffee cup. Then he points out a photo of Forster with a black employee. “Y’all tight?” “Yeah.” “But you his boss though, right?” “Yeah.” “Bet it was your idea to take that picture too, wasn’t it...?” In their second encounter, Jackson, trying to get bail for Grier, pulls the same trick:

ORDELL: Man, you know I'm good for it. Thousand bucks ain't shit. 

MAX: If I don't see it in front of me, you're right. It ain't shit. 

ORDELL: Man, you need to look at this with a little compassion. Jackie ain't no criminal. She ain't used to this kinda treatment. I mean, gangsters don't give a fuck - but for the average citizen, coupla nights in County fuck with your mind. 

MAX: Ordell, this isn't a bar, an you don't have a tab. 

ORDELL: Just listen for a second. We got a forty-year-old, gainfully employed black woman, falsely accused - 

MAX: Falsely accused? She didn't come back from Mexico with cocaine on her?

ORDELL: Falsely accused of Intent. If she had that shit - and mind you, I said "if" - it was just her shit to get high with. 

MAX: Is white guilt supposed to make me forget I'm running a business?

But Forster—male lead, the “good guy”—plays his version of the race card and flips the script.

Example 2: Bridget Fonda, surfer gal, plots to betray Jackson, who “moves his lips when he reads,” "let's say he's streetwise, I'll give him that.” But Jackson knows that she sees him that way, it makes her predictable, which is why he can keep her around: “You can’t trust Melanie, but you can always trust Melanie to be Melanie.”

That’s not the half of it. Jackson talks a soon-dead man into getting in the trunk of an Oldsmobile, houses a homeless addict in Compton and tells her it’s Hollywood; he lies effortlessly, and when drafting your fantasy friend group you should be aware that people who lie effortlessly do it because it’s fun. Threatening someone gets you an automaton who will system 2 your demands and nothing more. Deceiving someone gives you control over that person’s soul. So Fonda’s stoned delusions of manipulating him—which in fact make her easier to manipulate—are part of her appeal. Translated: “She ain't as pretty as she used to be, and she bitch a whole lot more than she used to...But she white.”

Except Fonda is manipulating him. She’s spent her adulthood as the side piece for Dubai businessmen and Japanese industrialists who—though she doesn’t even speak the language—get off on the fact that she’s a haughty blonde who thinks she’s better than them, thinks she can manipulate them. But since they’re paying for rent and weed, doesn’t that mean...?

Example 3: Pam Grier as Jackie Brown.

From more Sam Jackson than Sam Jackson to mumblecore for Medicare, Jackie outsmarts everyone and it’s not even close. The Feds lean into their uniforms but she doesn’t miss a beat: urbane dinner guest in one scene, “panicked, defensive, unreasonable black woman” in another. Of course the movie ends the way it does, of course. Jackson steps into a dark room. Jackie screams “he’s got a gun!” And a cop pulls the trigger. You can’t always beat the system, but if you try sometimes, it just might beat who you need.

Why does Jackie win? The canon explanation is that she’s an airline stewardess: her job is to tell people of all origins what they want to hear. The meta explanation is she’s played by blaxploitation star Pam Grier. The gimmick of Grier movies like Coffy and Foxy Brown is their exaggeration of the audience’s favored tropes re: sex and race—say, hypersexuality and fashionable/wearable blackness. But the punchline of these films is that on-screen, Pam Grier with an afro is disguising herself as an high-class escort to fool the baddies: “The gentlemen you’ll be meeting this evening have a preference for…your type.” And then she kills them.

So it’s true that these films let you "exploit” a caricature, but the flip side is that anyone who can turn that caricature on and off gets to exploit you. And that seems to be Jackie Brown’s realist take: not that racism is the Original Sin for which Thou Must Atone—because everyone sees race and is selfish besides—but rather that it makes you a sucker. And the flip side: by capitalism or by meme magic, the world will always conspire to show you what you want to see. Choose wisely.

If Jackie Brown accepts that racism is inevitable, Inglourious Basterds sets out to prove that it’s also kind of fun.

It’s telling that Inglourious Basterds posters are push-pinned on the walls of fraternity houses right next to Scarface and The Wolf of Wall Street. Three movies, three sets of protagonists who happen to be amoral, masculine, and white. Sounds like a diss, but who are creatine-chugging white boys supposed to look up to? Chris Pratt? You can just tell that guy was grown in a test tube. There’s a reason Tarantino movies are popular and there’s a reason I’m talking about them instead of Buñuel or Tarkovsky and it has something to do with “making intensive use of a major language” and the twenty-somethings desperate to identify with a character named “Bear Jew.” And the above scene is indeed, “sick af.” Goes off without a hitch except when the Nazi says that he got his medals for bravery, and then there’s a split-second of—what, annoyance? Like, stick to the script, asshole. You’re sure as hell gonna get it now.

But I’m sure you’re aware that’s the joke, that once you got Ennio Morricone in the background you can justify anything. The Basterds “ain’t in the prisoner taking business”; they scalp the dead and maim the witnesses they leave alive. There’s no panorama of concentration camp horrors, no humanizing backstory, no evidence of any softness save boyish joy in the art of cruelty. Halfway through the film a young man celebrating the birth of his son is shot dead after surrendering in a Mexican standoff; the Basterds shrug and move on. At the climax of the film, a movie theatre full of Germans is exploded, shot, and burned to death. The modern viewer can’t help but cheer.

The opening chapter, Colonel Hans Landa vs. the outgroup under the floorboards, sways your sympathies in the opposite direction. No, it doesn’t make you hate the French or the Jews. But the tension—the silence and the ticking and the mounting requests and insinuations—is so unbearable that you can’t help but wish for someone to pull the Band-Aid. And the camera can’t do that. Only characters can. Only the character driving the action, and Landa drives the action in his every appearance. Something has to happen—and like the man onscreen, you cave.

Hans Landa alone seems to understand that he’s in a movie, which is perhaps why he’s so polite, so witty, so manically overacted. Perhaps this is how he sees through the Allies’ tricks and disguises: he assumes everyone else is an actor as well. And perhaps this is the apologia for his crimes: he’s just playing a role. The Basterds loathe the Nazis, but Landa bears no animosity towards the Jews, can empathize with them quite easily—it’s just, he likes to play detective and the Nazis were hiring. Is that really worse? Didn’t both the Walrus and the Carpenter eat as many as they could get?

And so, near the end of the film, when Landa cuts a deal to exchange his Hugo Boss for Levi Strauss, he asks of his prisoners the one question that would matter to a character in a period piece: “What shall the history books read?”

Landa’s argument, of course, is a load of shit.

In Inglourious Basterds, every disguise fails. The British film critic-turned-agent is unable to play the Nazi he’s seen on-screen. The German actress is revealed to be an Allied spy. The vengeful Shosanna is revealed as a sweet Jewish girl; the baby-faced Nazi lusting after her is shown to be a monster. The propaganda film burns. Only Lieutenant Aldo Raine and one Basterd make it out alive, and that’s because they’re American, i.e. monolingual.

Perception is a slave to narrative, but narrative has zip zero zilch nada to do with reality. The author is dead. Was Triumph of the Will a “good movie,” technically proficient and even emotionally moving? Absolutely. Could the director’s intentions have been “good,” apolitical, an attempt at beauty but nothing more? Unlikely in this case, but possible. But was Triumph of the Will “good”?

This is the obvious yet unswallowable truth: sometimes good people do bad things. “Nazi ain't got no humanity”? How many films have Nazis with wives, mistresses, children, pub games, medals for bravery? And yet Lieutenant Raine’s opening polemic is correct: the foot soldiers of the Third Reich worked for a Jew-hating, mass-murdering maniac: they needed to be destroyed. Reality isn’t Disney, where internal beauty works its way external. Reality isn’t even so kind as to match intentions with consequences. The American (Union) soldiers fighting against the Nazis (Confederacy) may have been motivated by every bit as much hatred and bloodlust, and yet they were necessary, they were the good guys. FYI—that’s irony.

“So you’re saying we should punch the alt-right?” Are you an idiot? The Nazis weren’t bad because they were Nazis, they were bad because of the things they did. If you actually think that punching a teenage Kekistani is going to bring down the New World Order, go ahead, but stop pushing the pillow of identity over the mouth of reality.

The goal of the System, the sum of vectors going both left and right, is to keep people arguing about abstractions of violence so they won’t deign to consider the ugliness of pragmatism. The radical left will asseverate that violence is justified, refusing to question whether their particular brand of protest is effective; the alt-right will keep rallying against cropped image lunatics, the finest examples of white genocide the media has to offer, never seriously considering that sometimes people lie on the internet; and “““centrists””” will deduce that since violence is never okay, since everyone is so irrational, nothing can be done. But that’s still a perspective: it’s the perspective of the camera.

Fuck that. This essay is a condemnation of anyone who thinks that the hypocrisy of the outgroup disproves their complaint, of anyone who thinks that good intentions are enough to absolve you from sin:

You don’t get to forget what you are.

[imagine-loki]

The Powers That Be

TITLE: The Powers That Be

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter Fifty-One

AUTHOR: wolfpawn ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki discovering a hidden mutant when he realises they are at risk of being found by S.H.I.E.L.D. who experiments on mutants, he is the one to help them.

RATING: Teen and Up

Alexia glared at the large serpent as it continued to lean defensively over its prey. At first, she thought the liquid dripping from its large fangs was saliva, but when some dropped onto Loki’s forearm, he hissed and an acidic burning odour made its way towards her as the clothing began to make a fizzling sound; it was then that she realised it was some form of venom. “Loki…”

“Go,” he insisted.

“No!” Alexia refused to listen, she clenched her fists and the two fire foxes’ tails rose high, their ears flattened against their fiery skulls and their heads down as they grew in size with Alexia’s anger. “Come on you oversized handbag, come and play.” She circled slightly, wanting to work out just how long the serpent was; she could not tell exactly how long, as it was half in shadows and appeared to be some bit coiled up, but it was clearly far bigger than the one she had scorched earlier. The animal watched her move around, but it refused to be tempted to move its head and attentions away from its prize.

“Lexi…” Loki groaned.

“Quiet,” She ordered in an authoritative tone. The serpent seemed to note the manner in which she spoke, the way she commanded attention and leant forward slightly, perceiving her to be its higher concern, “Come on.” She then had the foxes join together once more and grow in size, but at a distance from her, causing the serpent to be forced to divide its attention between them, its head turning side to side, the venom now dripping onto the cavern floor and not onto Loki, who, though in pain from the previous times he had been hit with the liquid, was able to comprehend what it was that Alexia was doing.

As though bored with Alexia’s game, or indeed sensing that she was readying to strike, the serpent slowly pulled its body tight. To her credit, Alexia noticed it pulling itself into a tight coil, readying to attack and prepared herself.

Snake strikes, by their very nature, are swift and deadly, so she knew in a test of speed, the serpent in front of her was a clear favourite to win such a competition, though she hoped that its monstrous size would be to its disadvantage. Inhaling deeply, Alexia decided to strike first. She looked at the ceiling of the cavern, years of water dripping down had caused sharply spiked pillars to form, so she began by forcing them to break and fall to the floor like spears, ensuring that none of them struck either herself and Loki as they did so. The serpent seemed to forget the reason for it being coiled as the sharp rocks attempted, yet failed, to pierce its scaly hide and looked to the ceiling in confusion and irritation.

Next Alexia forced boulders to be dislodged from the walls of the cavern and flung them against the creature with as much force as she could muster; again, they did not create any open wounds on the animal, but they did cause it considerable pain as more and more boulders struck it. It hissed angrily as it tried to compute how the small creature that stood in front of it was harming it so greatly without moving. It was forced to keep an eye on the flaming beast that was close by also.

“Come on!” Alexia screeched loudly, startling both Loki and the serpent as she did so. The snake seemed to realise the threat she posed and readied itself to attack once more. The more it did so, the more Alexia concentrated on its movements, waiting for the right moment. As soon as its tail was no longer in the view of the light being shone by Alexia’s torch in the shape of her fire fox, she decided to act.

Walking forward confidently, she grinned. The snake’s eyes widening on seeing her darling behaviour, it was about to strike when it halted and looked behind before it attempted to tug its tail away from something it could not see. Alexia continued to grin as she continued to make her way forward, the snake now preoccupied with thrashing as it tried to loosen the grip that somehow was on its tail, no longer paying any heed to the newcomer and its captive.

Alexia watched as it became more frantic as her distraction of earth continued to ‘snake’ its way up the body of the serpent, constricting it as it did so, who was completely unaware of the large wall that was being formed as it did so, dividing it from its victim. When the creature was fully encased behind the wall, she made a beeline for Loki.

“What…?” he groaned.

Alexia glanced over him, the light from the fox that was now next to her once more giving her the ability to do so. His face was slightly bruised, and at first glance, he seemed to have suffered greater injury during the battle that had taken place on Asgard, but his right arm and part of his chest were covered in painful blisters, the material that had been covering them burned away. “It is a little preoccupied now, can you walk?” She pulled him forward from the rock he was leaning on, immediately he slumped onto her, causing her to be grateful she had gone to his left side to assist him. “That’s a no, then.”

“Leave me.”

“Like hell,” She scoffed, taking calculated steps forward, him still holding onto her to support him.

“How did you know?”

“I heard from Heimdall you had…” Even thinking of what she thought had happened to Loki made her upset.

“Come to make sure it was true?”

“I came to exact my revenge actually,” she groaned, trying to keep them upright.

“Why?”

“Because I thought you were gone, that they took you from me.”

“But you stayed behind.”

“You left.” She retorted.

“I came to help the mortals, as a God should.”

“I…” Alexia did not respond for a moment. “I was scared.”

“I would have protected you.”

Alexia gave him a disbelieving look. “You let a big snake swallow you, how would that help me?”

“If you were here, I would not have.”

“I am not the only reason for a person to live.” Alexia was becoming winded as she made her way up the tunnel, not used to such physical exertion.

“You just stated that you were here to avenge me, that is the exact same.”

“I am an idiot, no one should pay attention to what I do.” She gently placed him sitting against a rock, “I can’t…” Sweat was beading on her brow.

“You should really do some physical training.” Loki jested, his voice rasping.

“Are you calling me fat?” Alexia slumped against the rock next to him.

“I think I told you before I thought nothing of the sort.” He scoffed. “Right before I showed you my feelings on the matter.” He leant against her for support.

Alexia sighed beside the rock. “I remember.”

Loki looked at his mutilated skin on his arm. “How much things change.”

“I did not come because I did not love you.”

“You never even said goodbye to me.” Loki reminded her.

“Said the pot to the kettle.”

“What does that mean?”

“That you did the same, you never said goodbye to me either.”

Loki groaned. “Perhaps.”

“There’s no ‘perhaps’ you were as culpable.” Alexi pointed out before standing upright again. “I cannot drag you all the way up.”

“Just leave me here.”

“I can’t,” she looked at him, her conviction obvious. “I thought I had lost you once already, I would never be able to concentrate if you are not somewhere safe, you can’t fight like this, they would get you properly this time.” She explained. “I have to make them suffer.”

“You just locked it in a cave.”

“I burned one from the inside out after crushing it painfully first, that one I could not make suffer without risking hurting you in the process.” She pointed out.

“Lexi,” She went in front of him, not far from his face. “I cannot carry myself.”

“I know,” she looked at him worriedly.

*

The Avengers looked around suspiciously, unsure as to why, after a blatant failed attack on the Helicarrier, everything had gone silent.

When the ground began to shake again, they suspected such could happen and had anticipated it. What they had not anticipated, however, was the water, which had, until that point, remained almost motionless amid all that had been occurring, was now, much to their concern, beginning to bubble as though it was heating up to boiling point.

“Friday?” Stark asked the AI, terrified of what it would answer.

“It appears sir, that the water has risen in temperature to two hundred degrees.”

“Stark?” Romanov questioned from beside him.

“It is Bálor, he rises.” Thor swung Mjolnir around in his hand before gripping the handle tightly. “My friends, it has been an immense honour to have fought beside you.”

“What the hell are you planning to do?” Asked a somewhat concerned Nick Fury, who, along with other heavily armed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, had accompanied the Avengers and the Warriors towards the lake.

“I do not plan to die this day, if that is what concerns you, yet I had no idea that Loki did, so I say it now, for fear others share his plans and I do not get to say it to them,” he explained solemnly; no one said anything in return, if they had intended to, they could not, for a moment later, a large foreboding sensation filled them all as something broke the surface of the water slowly.

It had two long blackened, almost charred looking horns and a cycloptic appearance to its face as only one large eye took up the majority of it. Its body was covered in a scale-like armour and it stood at near twenty foot tall.

“Fuck me.”

“If this wasn’t here in front of us, I would make some sort of joke Barton.” Tony did not even seem to be aware of his comment, it was partially out of denial.

“Actually, that was Rogers,” The Archer pointed out. “But I share the sentiment.”

“How do we face this?” Coulson asked Thor.

“If I am honest, I am unsure,” Thor admitted, looking at the creature that seemed to resemble the Kursed of Svartalfheim, only significantly increased in size. He looked for weaknesses in its defences but found none.

“You are more than likely to survive this, when you get back, please tell Alexia that I am sorry for everything, her childhood and how I dealt with all of what happened.”

“When I return home, I will relay the message, though I would wager she would rather hear it from you.” Thor knew it was Coulson’s way of settling his affairs, realistically taking into account his chances in the upcoming situation; but Thor, rather than dismissing them, placated him, knowing it would serve no use to try anything else. He also knew that in the situation ahead, the older agent, though wily and intelligent, stood little chance, few of the humans did, hence his pleading with them to leave.

The beast moved towards them, its face one of determination, vengeance and almost excitement at those in front of it, as though awaiting the impending conflict.

[sparkesink]

Chapter 11:

Use Pens, Not Pills

In Which Way Do A Accurately Expect To Finish Writing This?

(The Ultimate Seven Year Question…)

Scratch That:

Going On Eight Years Now,

(Fantastic.)

How Does One Used Eight Years Of Writing…

(And Still Not Understand What To Make Of It.)

Today Is One Of Those “Shitty”Kind Of Days:

Wake Up,

(Pleasant:)

One Thing Or Another,

All The Suppressed Stress Pokes It’s Nasty,

(Gruesome,)

Head Out,

Snarling.

(Evolution Of A Nasty Demeanor.)

Not All Negative Outcome Has Come From Instances Such As this,

However:

Had This Not Occurred…

I Would Have continued Procrastinating This,

(Now Eight Year,)

Procrastinated Dream…

(Completion.)

Today Was Not A Good Day.

My Face Split In Two, 

(As I Coward Within The Bathroom.)

“It’s Not Him.”

“He Won’t Love You.”

 The Whole World Is On Fire, 

(You’re Nowhere To Be Seen.)

Like Hot,

(Molten,)

Tar, 

Clinging To My Flesh, 

(As The Feathers Are Stripped Away,)

Blistered,

(Obscene.)

 You Turn A Head,

(Whilst I Scream For Help.)

You’re Pointless Bullshit,

Too Important To Spare A Look,

(My Way:)

To Understand The Pain You’ve Caused…

 As A Child,

(Determining Right From Wrong,)

You Cannot Even Admit,

Your Actions Have Been Passive,

(For Far To Long.)

 So I Sit Here, 

(Foundation,

Crumbling From Beneath.)

You Cannot Even Respond:

Claiming A Position Of The Victim,

(She’s Got No One To Listen.)

If She Dies,

(A Little More Inside,)

And No One Is There To See…

Do Her Requests For Chivalry,

Even Matter,

(Within The Grand Scheme?)

 Don’t Pay Her Any Attention,

(The One You Broke On Purpose.)

You Isolated The Prey,

Take Your Shot,

Don’t Sway,

(Don’t Miss.)

Over And Over,

(And Over And Over Again…)

Till The Poor Thing Lay,

Helpless,

Hemorrhaging,

Until Its Very, 

(Final,) 

Last Breath.

 You Sit Upon Your Thrown,

(Made Of Self Justification And Deceit,)

Remember Who’s Fur You Stole:

Purposeful For Nothing,

But Simply Warming The Creases,

Upon Your Seat.

 (Mind Throbbing.)

Fuck This Untested,

Experimental Project.

A Raw Attempt To Dive,

Inside Out:

(Finding The Basis Of A Tormented Soul.)

 From A Third Perspective,

Nothing Is Sensible.

Whilst Experiencing,

(This Puzzle Of Self,)

I Find It Most Unfaltering,

(Crude.)

 It Comes Within Waves,

(Drowning,

Salt Written,) 

Waves.

Crashing Upon My Skull,

(A Pressure Of A Thousand Suns:)

Hundreds Of Gallons, 

Smoldering Water,

(Never-Ending.)

 Gasping For Help As My Airways’ Fill,

Grasping For The Tiniest Molecule,

(Oxygen,)

The Waves Power Through Me, 

Whirling Through, 

(Vastness,) 

Of An Origin Unknown.

 I Shall Work Through My Story,

(Simultaneously Observing,)

My Own Life Crumble, 

(Scatter Amongst This Learning.)

 How Am I Suppose To Help Anyone?

(I Can’t Even Help Myself.)

Secluded From Everyone:

(No Outlet From My Silence.)

Thoughts Raging:

Faster,

Faster,

The World Spins,

(The Great Always Fall,)

Skidding My Face Amongst The Pavement.

(It’s All My Fucking Fault.)

 I Had This Inept Idea,

By Finishing This Fucking Project,

I Would Find Self Peace:

Experience Happiness Once More.

I Can’t Remember The Last Time I Smiled, 

Without My Heart Bloody,

(Gruesomely Tore.)

 If I Cried Forever,

Would Anyone Ever Care?

The Next Best Video Will Drop,

This World… 

Just Disappears.

 “How Are You Doing?”

“Are You Okay?”

(The Half Hearted Gestures,)

Enough To Make Me Stay?

My Baby Smiles,

A Tragic Mother,

A Beautiful Story,

(For Another Day.)

 So If I Sit Here,

Within Myself…

“Who Am I?”

“What Is My Purpose?”

I Cannot Seem To Find Viable Truth.

 If My Existence Is So Insignificant,

(My Presence A Nuisance,)

If The World Doesn’t Stop,

To Woe An Insignificant Existence…

Why Am I Here?

 I Once Believed, 

It Were For The Hope Of True Love,

Some Other-Worldly Purposeful Greatness,

Some Shift Of Conscious, 

A Good,

(Always Too Far.)

(Unprovable.)

 Not All Sheep Are Born Within Black Wool.

I’m A Fraud,

I’m Something, I Am Not.

I Could Take The Pills,

Dull the Pain,

Mask The Fact:

I Got A Shitty Hand.

It Is My Fault,

My Responsibility.

I Let You Hurt Me.

I Allowed Myself To Play Victim,

Allowed Myself To Stay…

Longer,

And Longer,

Until The Only Thing I Had,

Belonged To Whom I Write,

(For Sake Of “Love”,)

This Very Day.

 (No One Will Understand.)

 If Money Is The Root Of All Evil,

Time Is Money,

Human’s Break Under Financial Strain,

Wasting Time,

Making Tireless Money...

Is The Time Spent,

Seeking More,

And More,

And More,

And More, 

And More,

And More,

And More,

(AND FUCKING, MORE, MORE, MORE, MORE!)

It Will Never Be Drenched In Happiness…

Why Wake Up?

Why Get Dressed,

Why Go Outside?

 A Realization…

(You Have Nothing Valuable,)

A Heart Of Broken Strings…

A Castle, 

(Turned Dungeon.)

Gold, 

(Turnt Soot.)

Showering In Ash,

Disappointment,

(To Heavy To Loot.)

 I’m Sure I Could Fake This “Happiness”,

Lost Within Friends, 

(Saturated In Constant Forgiveness.)

A Love Who Fails To Reach For My Hand,

Another Fall, 

(Amongst The Blood, Soiled, Dirt.)

A Roaring Audience, 

Hollering Obscenities,

(Every Which Direction.)

 Am I In Love With The Idea Of Love?

The Character Built Up Within My Heart Will Never Exist,

And No-one Will Ever Amount To “Him”…

That Idea Of “Him”,

That “One” I Urned For Since Before I Could Understand,

What Love Even Meant.

 What Is Love?

When Is Love Not Love?

When Does Love Become An Addiction?

The Lines Of Heartbreak And Withdrawal,

Blur As One.

Is This Love?

Or Dependence?

 Do We Even Exist?

When The Knot Within My Gut Wreathes From Within Me,

What Would I Do Without My Daily Dose Of Serotonin?

That Hug,

When Your Stupid Face Makes Me Forget My Own Judgement,

(Just Moments Before.)

How Can You Be My Heaven,

And My Hell…

Simultaneously….

 You Will Never Be The Man I Want You To Be,

(Within My Own Mind,)

You Will Never Change To Be That Man…

I Cannot Continue To Pretend,

You Won’t Ever Be The Man I Need You To Be.

And You Don’t Want To Bend.

 It’s Time For Me To Fly.

Because When I Sat In That Tub…

You Weren’t There.

And That Was Fine,

And When I Died That Night…

(When I Believed The Pill Would Taste Better In Bulk.)

My Wounds Were To Fresh, 

(To Handle The Stabs You Had Dealt.)

 And This Is All Probably Just A Bunch Of Shit,

You Never Understood What My World Looked Like After Being Hit.

You Never Sat In That Cold Bathtub,

Shaking Under Boiling Rainfall.

You Never Knew How Much You Effected Me,

Because You Never Cared To Ask.

You Never Cared To Check,

(To See,)

If I Was Slamming My Head Against The Wall, 

(To Beat.)

 I’m Just Another Teenage Tragedy,

Make Up 13 Reasons,

While Raking Millions Like Last Season’s Leaves.

 “She Thought Too Much,

That Poor, Smart Girl.”

“She Lacked Religion.”

As If Not A Single Person Had Any Blame.

Like Just One Mother Fucker,

One Fucking Person To Worry…

When That Addiction Doesn’t Pass.

When They Don’t Wake Up,

(From A Drug Induced Nap.)

She Was Never Wanted, 

(In The First Place,)

Why Pay Her Any Attention?

Then Cry At The Funeral Like,

“We Were So Close, 

I Never Saw This Coming.”

 Just Another Statistic…

Just Another Overdose.

Another Sad Story,

Another Trauma For Their Children,

Broken,

(As If We Didn’t Make Them.)

 The U.S Military Guard Poppy Farms In The Middle East,

And Then Shifts A Head To The Opium Crisis.

“Such A Tragedy,”

(A Simple Travesty.)

Your Politicians Pocket Their Cash,

(The Real Drug Dealers.)

The Profit Of Misery.

I Fucking See You!

I See Your Childish Game.

 It’s Easier To Murder The Victim,

When You Spent Valuable Time,

Sedating,

Tormenting,

Feeding Sickness To Their Beautiful,

(Impressionable,)

Mind Space.

 A Fucking Dollar Earned Mad, 

Right?

 We Don’t Need Your Chemicals.

We Don’t Need Your Phycho-analysts,

(If Your Only Solution Ends In Sedation.)

We Need To Feel.

We Need To Process,

We Need Time,

(To Heal The Broken Bits Of Our Self…)

We Need To Hit It,

(Full Force,)

Take That Fucking Bull By The Horns.

We Need To Fix Our Selves,

Because Everything Else…

Is Nothing More Than A Cowardice Copout.

A Shortcut,

(An Addiction,)

With Psychosis On The Withdrawing Menu.

 I Am So Fucking Sick…

The Excuses We Create To Avoid Confrontation,

(Especially With One’s Self.)

God Forbid, 

We Be Human.

God Forbid,

We Allow Ourselves To Be Raw.

God Forbid,

We Figure Out…

Who We Are;

That Our Truth Is Our Purpose.

 Those Who Understand This Assimilation Of Writing,

Understand The World In Which We Exist Within.

Nothing Matters,

(In Direct Contradiction,)

It Is The Only Thing That Has Ever Mattered…

The Memories,

Those Fuzzy,

Simple Thoughts,

They Get Sweeter, 

(The Longer They Age.)

 You Don’t Need To Savor So Intensely,

(Upon Those Darkest Of Pages:)

Desperate For Someone To Love,

Unable To Be Loved In Return.

A Turntable,

Flowing One Way…

Scratching To Reciprocate,

A Passion.

Left Empty…

Tucked Inside A Dust Sleeve,

Filed Carefully For Further Enjoyment, 

(When Left Alone.)

 A Lifetime’s Belittling Weight,

Piled Through The Galaxy, 

(Upon My Heart.)

Haunted By A Love Story,

In Which,

(Consequentially,) 

Will Never Stop Ending.

 When The Antidepressants,

And The Antipsychotics,

The Antispasmodics,

And The Countless Diagnostics,

Peg You As A Lifetime Customer,

Causing Manics Upon Withdrawal…

Banking In On Your Torment,

(Your Soul.) 

A Sea Of Prescription Zombies,

Hazing Everything, 

(Including Your Light Of Day,)

Drug Dealing Billionaires,

(Masking The Façade,)

Pulling Your Pennys For An Endless List,

(Of Side Effects.)

 Constant Fear,

(Failure,)

A Beast With Four Mouths.

Constant Reassurance Of My Failure,

Achievable Exclusively By Breaking Through Rambles:

(The Consistent Chatter Ringing As Church Bells.)

It May Be Nothing But A “Silly Dream.”

It May Be Nothing More Than “A Waste Of Time And Money.”

It May Be Nothing To Anyone More Than Myself…

Fighting,

(Scraping By,)

Shot Back In The Dirt…

(Back Where I Started.)

An Inspiration Sprouted Through Hunger,

Unable To Afford Nourishment For Those I Love,

(Those I Am Responsible To Care For,)

Till My Next Insignificant Paycheck Rolls Through.

A Thought To Myself:

“Such A Fucked Up World Is This?

You Receive One Day Off Per Week,

(If You Are Lucky.)

You Still Cannot Feed Your Family.

After All Of The Bullshit That Steals Your Money,

Before You Even Get A chance To See it.

The Crippling Student Debt,

The Medical Bills,

The Various Insurance Bills,

The Utilities,

The Shelter…

What Does One Do?

A Beautiful Daydream Of A comfortable Life,

A Life Of Beauty,

Helping The World See The Purpose Of Their Own Existence Here…

Write,

Just Write.

(What Other Choice Have I Been Given?)

Regardless Of Failure,

(Rejection By The Masses.)

At The Close Of all Of This…

I Will Be Able To See My Story…

Sitting Upon My Bedside,

(Till’ The Day I Perish From This Existence.)

I Will Fulfill My Greatest Challenge,

(Reap The Gratitude Of My Greatest Accomplishment.)

Not A Damn Soul Will Ever Be Given The Power To Remove That From ME.

So,

Here It Is.

(A Young Woman’s Most Intimate Reality.)

Pieced Together.

One Part At A Time.

I Am Here.

Finishing This Shit.

I Will End This Fucking Story.

I Will Finish Telling My Truth.

I Will Heal From This Journey,

(Silent,

Hidden Away…

For Too Long.)

I Will Wake Up.

 I Will…

Use Pens…

Not Pills.