Richter, Those Are Some Powerful Big Buzzards.

[Richter]

You know why a lot of modern "Wizards", "Warlocks", or "Sorcerers" try to summon angels or demons? 

Because Crowley said he did it.

Not a hope of power, not a hint of reason, just dial up a celestial motherfucker, say hello, and ask them to fuck off since they jsut got their pagancred.

Smart wizard does NOT summon, smart shamman only talks to the spirits when needed, smart priest does not pray, someone might answer.  Do not drunk dial the dead.

The City, the Civilization is like that now.  People clustered to people, clung to their metal and stone trees.  The hooting and howling channeles through phone lines and meeting rooms.  It's all inlaid, laced and lanced throuhg with the leylines of communication by which we can summon demons by the name of Police, EMS, Fire, and Papa John's.  Invoke their presence, or speak their numerical digital names through the wires and they willd descend upon thee.  The foolish call them to complain that their father broke their bong, and suffer.  They do not like beign invoked needlessly, and take their eye and their task to EVERYTHING, regardless of who summoned them.  These groups are composed of people, that follow the rules and guidlelines of the city that make sure they can't quite ACT like people.  We always could contract with demons and monsters, jsut now we see another way their built out of people.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Do not drunk dial the dead.

THIS.  Any of you fuckers call me after I die, and you'll regret it for the rest of your lives.  I have to put up with monkeys for the time being, but I will NOT tolerate an eternity of them.

The City, the Civilization is like that now.  People clustered to people, clung to their metal and stone trees.  The hooting and howling channeles through phone lines and meeting rooms.  It's all inlaid, laced and lanced throuhg with the leylines of communication by which we can summon demons by the name of Police, EMS, Fire, and Papa John's.  Invoke their presence, or speak their numerical digital names through the wires and they willd descend upon thee.  The foolish call them to complain that their father broke their bong, and suffer.  They do not like beign invoked needlessly, and take their eye and their task to EVERYTHING, regardless of who summoned them.  These groups are composed of people, that follow the rules and guidlelines of the city that make sure they can't quite ACT like people.  We always could contract with demons and monsters, jsut now we see another way their built out of people.

Even the Elder Gods are monkeys.  This explains everything.

[Bebek Sincap Ratatosk]

Around here we got buzzards too (well, turkey vultures as Sjaantze, Harbinger of Distraction keeps correcting me). Being that this is CowTown, there's no Desert, there's no City... well not much of one. Hell you can hardly see the fucking city for all the trees and grass that still grow in the officially fenced off bits of town.

It's not like my home. Where I grew up, the fences were around the bits of land where people lived and the trees grew where they wanted to. But, even in the wood we had Vultures. Big Vultures, cause those fuckers had the easy life. Right in "The Heart of It All", the woods around here are full of the dying and the dead, freshly rotted meat is just what the Vultures crave. Hell, in the Desert they're looking for mice and jackrabbits and the occasional Happy Family... slim but scary pickings. In the woods, they gorge themselves silly. The rabbits are fat, the Deer are large, hell even the squirrels are, like most of America, three times bigger around than their genetic code planned for. Yep, plenty of Good Eats.

A lot of people think that vultures are only after the dead, but its not true. If you're healthy and its obvious they can't make a meal out of you, they try to scare you off. Have you ever had a vulture puke on you? Let me tell you, its a moving experience, as in "you don't stop moving till you hit the shower". Yep, the Vultures are everywhere.

[Dysfunctional Cunt]

Roger, you know I won't stop until they pry my dead and decomposing body off the highway. 

It used to be I kept walking because they said to stop.  Then a decade or so ago, it was out of fear.  Now it's because I refuse to fucking give in to the monkeys and the pull of the "everything is gonna be allright" mentality.

It's a nightmare out there for so many.  How sick is it that I laugh as I walk by the ones who huddle in the shadows trying to hide from the vultures, praying to a god who went on a permanent vacation to Cabo sometime in the 1st century. 

The vultures, they are sniffing at the trail of the ones who know who they really are.  You can watch them as they turn their beedy black eyes and watch as we walk by.   They keep a close watch on the ones who aren't bent over from the pain and misery of falling into the lullaby of the lie. 

Only...they've done something, tricked us some how. They've made themselves out to be generous, giving. They leave behind a trail of their kills, for nourishment. But only so they can look forward to a feast later. They're not like other buzzards, they have the luxury of taking their time with us.

Buzzards are patient.  They take the long view.  That's how they ended up owning the world.

An interesting question is, "Can we use their methods to steal it back without becoming what they are?"

There is no set answer on how to fix the problem because there are millions of problems to be fixed.  You ask, can we use their methods to steal back our world?  If we devoid ourselves of our humanity, maybe.  It's not enough to get your hands bloody, you have to be able to keep them that way.  Teach your children how to do the same.  So we lose a generation to gain the next 100?  Small cost?  Or unmeasurable loss?  We have to learn how to think, and teach the ones who follow not only what we know, but put it in their minds to discover what we don't. 

Until then, if you're scared, bend over a little, walk slower, don't look up, left or right.  Just plod along.  As for the rest of us, as Roger advised, never let the buzzards see you sweat, and I add, don't let them close enough to know you can.

[Salty]

Only...they've done something, tricked us some how. They've made themselves out to be generous, giving. They leave behind a trail of their kills, for nourishment. But only so they can look forward to a feast later. They're not like other buzzards, they have the luxury of taking their time with us.

Buzzards are patient.  They take the long view.  That's how they ended up owning the world.

An interesting question is, "Can we use their methods to steal it back without becoming what they are?"

It seems like we keep trying, but end up succumbing to the taste of blood ourselves. Maybe the only option left is to poison ourselves so that when they dig in, it'll be the last meal they ever enjoy.

Maybe we're already doing that. Sure would explain much of the madness.

[Eater of Clowns]

Their offspring aren't always their own, but they are always buzzards.  In a monkey classroom they can be seen by the keen of eye, briefly, a furry chimp thing laughing or glaring in just such a light that their lips belie wicked beaks hungry for their peers.  Flashes of feathers reveal beneath their clothes, especially when ruffled, these things that fashion themselves as great birds of prey, not carrion seekers but eagles in their own minds.  And sometimes in the minds of those they trick.

With time the ways of buzzards come to their minds, they learn to work with altitude and vision, to ignore their hunger in favor of bigger meals to come.  Some will see the horrors wreaked upon their too-rapidly dying prey, such being the fact of the barren landscape.  The nobler will land and preen, feather by feather, until they are pink sick things, they will saw the bones of their wings to the base like fallen angels, and they will shuffle about with their born kin.  Others will fly and eagerly clamp their beaks for the feast, with their patience coming all too soon.

Some are not buzzards at all, they're ape opportunists.  They swing so high until the day a big winged thing settles nearby and promises them the wonders of flight if only they entrust themselves to its talons.  Silly stupid apes they are, they do, and they fly for a time and some even learn to do it themselves, gluing the tattered remains of dead forebearers to their arms and flapping wildly against all probability.  One can tell them by the shadows they cast, for they are ever in the silhouettes of buzzards so large they are but darkened outlines blocking the sun.

I have never seen the desert, Roger, but oh have I visited wastelands.