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Messages - Eater of Clowns

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Aneristic Illusions / Re: PUAHate shooting incident
« on: May 31, 2014, 12:54:53 pm »
Side note, I love a mass shooting being referred to as an "incident." Like the time you left a floater in the toilet bowl at work or when crazy old Larry vented a little at his boss. This isn't to disparage anyone, but goddamn, we're so used to talking about killing sprees that they're fucking "incidents."

Two days ago I saw the onions news article title about this: ‘No Way To Prevent This,’ Says Only Nation Where This Regularly Happens
It was funny, if a little grim. Calling them "incident's" is one step away from the onions stupid title being used genuinely instead of for comedic effect.

And in other news today, we had another little gun related "whoopsie" - 7 dead. This follows last week's firearm "uh-oh" that was thankfully only six.

Aneristic Illusions / Re: PUAHate shooting incident
« on: May 31, 2014, 02:58:10 am »
Side note, I love a mass shooting being referred to as an "incident." Like the time you left a floater in the toilet bowl at work or when crazy old Larry vented a little at his boss. This isn't to disparage anyone, but goddamn, we're so used to talking about killing sprees that they're fucking "incidents."


Had the balls to open that yet? Have fun.

Actually, I got an email when I turned my phone on upon landing in Tucson.  The bag is in Dallas, and they will be forwarding it.

Holy shit. This is either going to be REALLY weird, or so unbelievably mundane that it will just be baffling.

I am not expecting much out of the universe, these days.

Don't let them touch.

You know what happens when dopbaggangers touch.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: Spagbook
« on: May 30, 2014, 02:21:00 am »

Dominic Carrasquillo, with his slicked back hair stained deep enough brown under all the product to be black, with his solid frame and decidedly Italian and Spanish genes, did not look like a financial crimes investigator. He didn’t even look like a cop. He didn’t necessarily look like a criminal, but if Dom told a person he was a busboy at a fine eatery on Federal Hill that did errands for his employers from time to time, said person might not be surprised. Some part of the investigator in Mike, what little of it there truly was, instinctively expected of Dom a difficult interaction. The man simply put forth that vibe.

“Your man’s seen better days,” Dom said. Even this had a way of sounding like a challenge, coming from this man.

Mike didn’t say anything. His hands rested on his hips with his shoulders bunched up, leaning forward a bit. His eyes were squinted. He didn’t respond to Dom but looked around Prospect Park as if expecting Sid to pop out from behind one of the bushes.

“Was he hurt,” he asked finally.

“Nah,” Dom said, “he wasn’t hurt or nothing.”

“So then seen better days how? Was it his clothes? Were his clothes ruffled up? Did he look like he’d slept at all in the last couple of weeks? Come on, Dom, help me out here.”

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Mike. Sid looked like Sid. Cheeks all red and pocked, tiny little suspicious eyes, kinda bald - Sid. Just Sid that ain’t all there.”

Mike sighed, nodded. “Alright, so he was preaching.”

“Yeah that’s what I’d say.”

“Preaching how, then? Crazy man on the street corner preaching? Hellfire and brimstone pastor preaching?”

“Nah, not like that,” Dom paused. His hands rested in the pockets of his jeans and he brought one up to scratch the back of his head. “You ever watch TV late at night maybe ten, fifteen years ago, early 2000’s.”

Mike nodded.

“There used to be this guy, pitching his book, wild gray and brown hair standing up, big eyebrows, scrawny dude in a green suit with question marks like he was dressed up as The Riddler or something. He had some tried and true method in this book of his for making money and he was real over the top about getting it out there,” Dom made eye contact with Mike and tilted his head back a bit, “you ever see that guy?”
Mike had. He always had these big thick glasses on him and had a girl or two close by in every shot of the commercial. “Yeah I remember that guy.”

“That’s how Sid was preaching. He was a used car salesman, high on the pitch. What was he talking about anyway? You’re acting like you know already.”

“Trust me, Dom, you don’t want to know,” Mike turned to the park exit and pointed at the street sloping downhill with his chin. “So he just walked off that way, calm as could be? Would be, what, two hours ago now?”

“Yeah. That’s all I saw of him. Look, you need any help, or - ?”

“That’s alright, Dom,” Mike grinned at him, “wouldn’t think of putting you through it. You remember how much a pain in the ass Sid could be.” He held out his hand. “Thanks.”

Dom took it and crushed it like a scrap of paper. He smiled back and even the smile was a fight. “Don’t mention it.”

Dear Mr The Good Reverend,

I don't mean to alarm you but I suggest that you sit down to read this and strive not to show any visible signs of distress.

We have located your checked baggage in Guatemala City. Please do not look to the baggage which you collected before departing the airport. Give nothing away. A team of specialists is en route to your location and you must follow their instructions strictly. We will get you out of there safely.

It is in your best interests that you remain calmly seated, so I will provide you with the facts as we have them and encourage you to stay where you are and let your eyes not leave this letter.

Three hours ago I was alerted to an anomalous occurrence during your flight. Two baggage handlers were discovered incapacitated and


bound. Our logs regarding the plane's cargo have been tampered with but we believe a malicious party intercepted your baggage between your dropping it off and the plane and replaced it with a seemingly identical bag full of, and I stress this, SEEMINGLY IDENTICAL BELONGINGS.


We have seen this pattern before and in most cases contain the situation before any arriving passengers collect their bags but regrettably in this instance we were unable to do so. The team sent to intercept the baggage before your collection have not been heard from but I will not be surprised if we discover them near your property after ensuring your safe escape.

Oh this is good.

Malevolent luggage.


After the wait for that one due to threadjack, I thought it was especially beautiful to see THAT as your response.

How so?
Just because I walked away after the threadjack and came back curious about how you'd interpreted Cain's abstract request and how you'd interpreted it was PERFECTLY.


I have to admit, the delay was mostly in part because I really wasn't sure how to express the idea


EOC as the illegitimate dictator of mexico. Preferably sat on a throne made of discarded tequila bottles.

What the hell are you people doing with my likeness?

Give it back to me! It isn't yours!   :lulz:

Aneristic Illusions / Re: PUAHate shooting incident
« on: May 29, 2014, 04:52:55 pm »
If I'm reading this right, p3nt, you're butthurt that an experience you had that, by your own admission, has nothing to do with this issue, wasn't accepted as equivalent when trying to discuss it? And your conclusion isn't that gender violence should stop, it's that people need to learn how to deal with it and be better for it?

Is that what you're saying? Because that sounds nauseating.

Not a particularly exciting chapter overall, I know, but I needed it to move the story forward. Flipping back to Mike over in Providence for the next few entries.

I wasn’t much of a motorcyclist. Just prior to this trip I was going to sell mine back home, barely stepping on the thing and, when I did, having an anxiety filled ride with death around every corner. And I thought back to my first days in Colombia, back in Cali, with my host happily whipping his Honda Pilot around mountain roads, heedless of the motorcyclists, ever present, ever daring. Ever crashing, actually, how many of them had we seen tossed to the side of the roads just since we’ve been here?

The day was waning. Doors to storefronts were shut for the lengthy lunchtime. People were in their homes with their families, eating hugely in the afternoon, resting a while before the remainder of their days. Eating, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d done that. I was hungry.

I came to another intersection with a wide street and turned right down there. There were shops and signs lining it rather than the homes of the other little drives. That would have to be good enough to find a motorcycle renter. The hotel manager motioned some distance away, back in his office, so I quickened my pace, nearly running, long uneven strides with the fresh memory of one unshod foot and the very present feeling of stretching, healing, bandaged flesh. Zipaquira’s array of colors turned dizzying.

Just off to one of the side streets a woman patted out handmade arepas and threw them on a well heated grill made from a bisected oil drum. My mouth watered, forgetting my mind’s aversion to the food staple. I quickly ordered three of them and ate them still steaming and burning down the rest of the street. A motorcycle ride wouldn’t get me to Bogota much faster if I passed out from hunger on the way. I was practically choking on the last dry bit of the corn cake when I saw the row of bikes ahead of me.

I hadn’t ridden things like these since my license. Tiny 250cc machines, efficient as can be. My attention was split between looking the bikes over and trying to find a clerk to rent one from.

“Hello, my friend,” I heard. I looked around, seeing nobody. “I’ll be right down,” the man’s voice said. I looked up. He was leaning out the window of the second floor. He ducked back into the house and I could hear the footsteps leading off to the rear of the building. A door slammed and the thudding of boots hit the stairs. He appeared in front of me a moment later, jeans and black boots, a bright pink shirt and a smile. “What can I do for you,” he asked, his English heavily accented.

“I’d like to get to Bogota on one of these,” I said, and swept my hand out at the bikes.

“Sure, sure. Have you ever ridden before?”

“Oh, yeah, plenty, I have a Bonneville back home.”

He raised his eyebrows. “We don’t have anything quite like that, but…”

“That’s fine. Just tell me you have something with an automatic starter,” I said. I’d never used a kickstart before and this was not the time to try. “How about that Honda over there?”

I worked out a price with him that allowed me to ride the thing one way. He was going to have a cousin of his pick it up and bring it back for an extra fee. I climbed on the tiny machine. It was amazingly light. I could bounce it back and forth between my legs. I turned the key in the ignition and hit the starter. Nothing happened. I needed to go, I needed to get to Bogota. I hit the starter again, there was a dull rasping noise and no life to the engine.
I looked around wildly and the man was there again. He held up his finger for me to wait a moment, bent down next to the engine, and flipped down the fuel control valve. He backed away and gave me a thumbs up with a bit of a worried expression on his face. Of course. I hadn’t used a fuel valve since I got licensed.

When I hit the starter the engine came to life. I waved to the guy again and flipped down the visor on my helmet, instinctually missing my regular riding gear like gloves and a jacket, just briefly, before I eased off the clutch and moved it forward to Bogota.

Laundered clothes would not be necessary for what I had planned. If anything, they would be a detriment, a liability. It was still midday, even after sleeping and cleaning off. The museum would close at five or six o’clock, most likely, and Bogota was still a two hour drive from here. I couldn’t trust a cab to get me there in time.
Lara and I came here from the brewery; there weren’t many things for me to gather. The wastebasket was empty and I tossed everything I could find in the clean bag, pulled it out and tied it up. I left the room and practically slammed the door shut, locking it behind me.

The manager was in his office, shuffling around papers on his desk. I knocked. “Pardon?”

“Si, senor?”

“Uhm. Checkout? Leave? Bill? Pay?” I cursed my lack of Spanish again and tried to make my way through the transaction.

By some luck he was able to understand me and nodded. He reached across the desk and brought a grey plastic calculator with enormous buttons before him. He tapped them with some small satisfaction for a moment, then looked back up at me.

“Cuarenta siete mille pesos, senor.”

I stared at him dumbly. He nodded and turned the calculator to face me. Its screen read 47.000,00. I gave him my credit card. While he was running it, I tried another question.

“Por favor, uh, moto? Motorcycle? Rental?”

His answer was rapid. I watched his finger point what would be left out of the hotel, then a left from there, a right, and then his hand come up and pushing his fingertips and palm out with an extended arm. That would have to do. I signed the bill for the room and passed over the key.

“Gracias,” I said, and made my way back out into Zipaquira proper.

It took one look at the sun before I wished the Necronomicoin back in in hands, warding off time, folding and stretching distances, that psychic disc turning reality into a plaything. No, I was a plaything of reality. I took a left out of the hotel entrance and followed the narrow street until I came to an intersection that looked suitably important, then took a left down that.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: You bastards
« on: May 24, 2014, 09:56:07 pm »
I see a distinct lack of tale telling.


I know.  We've only written about 600-700 pages between us.  We are bad monkeys.   :sad:

550 pages of which are totally Roger.   :lulz:

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