Is It Any Coincidence?

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Is it any coincidence that LMNO's posting has slowed down at the very same time missing persons cases have gone up?  Further, is it any coincidence that bodies are found in the sewers of Boston, but the sanitation department hushes it up?  No, I don't think so.  I am told that this is all nonsense, but isn't that exactly what they want you to believe?  Isn't that exactly why they give you pills after your trip out East, so you'll at least stop screaming about the Grabby-Girls in the storm drains?

Likewise, is it any coincidence that PD posters are vanishing, at the same time we get an influx of Northern European posters?  I warned everyone, you saw me warn them.  "WEAR YOUR TINFOIL!", I howled, but everyone laughed and gave me mittens.  And now everyone's falling victim to the F-Rays beaming out from their monitors, leaving them as stunned lurkers who crave Lutefisk and shitty beer.  Poor old Igor never stood a chance.  Remember Igor?  Quiet guy, only posted once in a while...Now he doesn't post at all, poor boy, he's too fucked up on dark beers usually reserved for German guys with no neck.

Is it any coincidence that Sister Gothique and Swamp Jesus left Tucson, and things immediately got so bad that the cops just sit in their cars with the doors locked, shitting themselves while they desperately wait for their shifts to end?  Is it any coincidence that the homocide detectives are issued barf bags, and spend a lot of time smoking cigarettes and shivering like Risus monkeys?  (We have a poster here named Risus.  Coincidence?  HAH!)  It is in fact so bad that even the drug dealers won't go outside in broad daylight, and the EMTs are all taking Fentanol to cope.  Our preachers have closed the churches, saying that while Jesus may save, he doesn't do it here.

Is it any coincidence that things have gotten pretty fucking quiet in Portland and Providence?  Is it any coincidence that Iason doesn't post here anymore, despite having survived the "accidental" nuking of Indianapolis?  

There are no coincidences, as any physicist will tell you (except for LMNO, but he's been a suspect all along).  There is no "quantum", there are no indeterminate states.  These are LIES and DISTORTIONS told to you as a reason that televisions work...But you and I know the truth.  TVs were around and working long before quantums, and before that there was radio, ever since that Macaroni dude mugged Tesla for the secret.  TVs don't receive signal, they SEND it, which is why you immediately begin forming alpha waves in your mind when you watch it, which make you more receptive to advertising and propaganda, and also make you believe that everyone is watching the same PROGRAMMING you are watching.

No, there are no coincidences.  There are only Mr Chop and Mr Scratch and another hit & run by LMNO's upside down people, who live on the B side of the planet when he isn't putting them to horrible use.  I know these things, and I'm telling you them now, before that bastard in Boston siccs his Australians and Belgians on me.  You won't listen, they never do, not even when I scream The Truth at them, but it's all true.  The only reason I am alive to tell you this is that he knows nobody will take me seriously.

But you'll see.  You'll ALL see, and when you come begging for help, it will be too late.  All that you will find at my house is the horrible scrawlings of blood & semen on my door, painted there in a futile effort to keep the other police away, with their black eyes that have no whites or pupils, and a wrecked living room.

Then you'll be sorry.  But it will be too late.

Or Kill Me.

[EK WAFFLR]

Likewise, is it any coincidence that PD posters are vanishing, at the same time we get an influx of Northern European posters?  I warned everyone, you saw me warn them.  "WEAR YOUR TINFOIL!", I howled, but everyone laughed and gave me mittens.  And now everyone's falling victim to the F-Rays beaming out from their monitors, leaving them as stunned lurkers who crave Lutefisk and shitty beer. 

There will be more of us.
Northern Europe is the new America.
Only, you know, without the guns.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Likewise, is it any coincidence that PD posters are vanishing, at the same time we get an influx of Northern European posters?  I warned everyone, you saw me warn them.  "WEAR YOUR TINFOIL!", I howled, but everyone laughed and gave me mittens.  And now everyone's falling victim to the F-Rays beaming out from their monitors, leaving them as stunned lurkers who crave Lutefisk and shitty beer. 

There will be more of us.
Northern Europe is the new America.
Only, you know, without the guns.

Words cannot express how much I wish that were true.

[EK WAFFLR]

Words cannot express how much I wish that were true.

The first sentence is true, at least.
Because, in spite of the apparent lack of posting here lately, I, for one, haven't had as much fun online for years.
And it's inspiring to be here.
So I've invited a few people over who'll probably register soon. Or else.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Words cannot express how much I wish that were true.

The first sentence is true, at least.
Because, in spite of the apparent lack of posting here lately, I, for one, haven't had as much fun online for years.
And it's inspiring to be here.
So I've invited a few people over who'll probably register soon. Or else.

LMNO is only going to have them disappear. 

[Cain]

Likewise, is it any coincidence that PD posters are vanishing, at the same time we get an influx of Northern European posters?  I warned everyone, you saw me warn them.  "WEAR YOUR TINFOIL!", I howled, but everyone laughed and gave me mittens.  And now everyone's falling victim to the F-Rays beaming out from their monitors, leaving them as stunned lurkers who crave Lutefisk and shitty beer. 

There will be more of us.
Northern Europe is the new America.
Only, you know, without the guns.

Does this mean all the hot Swedish chicks are going to give up beach volleyball and take up shopping in Lidl, buying vodka made in China?    But, for canny investors out there, it should be noted there is no peopleoflidl.com website...yet.

On the other hand, Scandanavian noir does ensure that when police procedurals take over the television networks, they will be dark, brooding and full of political corruption.  It'll be like COPS meets The Wire, every night.

[EK WAFFLR]

Does this mean all the hot Swedish chicks are going to give up beach volleyball and take up shopping in Lidl, buying vodka made in China?    But, for canny investors out there, it should be noted there is no peopleoflidl.com website...yet.

Lidl were kicked out of Norway after six months.

[EK WAFFLR]

Words cannot express how much I wish that were true.

The first sentence is true, at least.
Because, in spite of the apparent lack of posting here lately, I, for one, haven't had as much fun online for years.
And it's inspiring to be here.
So I've invited a few people over who'll probably register soon. Or else.

LMNO is only going to have them disappear. 

We are undisappearable. It's always dark here. We can't even find each other.

[LMNO]

The Urge never stops.

I've found there's a wave-like motion, like all things, with ebbs and flows, but never an absence of the Urge.  Over the years I've learned to ignore it, at least in part, at least for a few minutes.  But it tickles me, in the back of the skull, a constant reminder of what I have to do.

It's not easy, let me tell you.  The unsavory types I have to work with to scratch that itch takes its toll after a while.  I mean, have you ever tried to talk with Mr Chop for more than five minutes?  Those eyes just go right through you, and he can make even the most banal observations about last Sunday's football game sound like a fresh evisceration.  It's downright unsettling, it is.  But he can't help it, what with the way he talks.  Something to do with the soft palate, so I'm told.  Or maybe that whole "unhinge your entire jaw" thing.  Brilliant with a cleaver, though.  Even ECH would be impressed. 

But the Urge.  It leads me down dark roads.  Familiar scenery, after all these years.  One suburban sprawl leads into the next.  The waist-high fence, the white front door, the five-pin tumbler lock, the porch light that seems to burn out at just the right moment (Mr Scratch has shown skills that still bemuse me), the padded rug in the foyer.  And my tools.  They never change.  Not since the Urge first manifested when I was eight.  Sure, I've had to replace some things, especially the ones with moving parts (I can't tell you how many pairs of pliers I've gone through since that first time), but some things seem to last forever.  Every time I take hold of the porcelain shard, its thin edge gleaming from a clock radio, I'm always reminded of the grim smile that doll was left with.  You really can't have that experience twice.

You amuse me, Roger.  You know that, right?  It should be obvious that the upside down people have "special" rules when it comes to you.  OK, fine, the fact that you've got Tucson hibernating beneath you works to your favor.  Note even Mr Chop wants to wake that up.  Even when the urge flows the strongest, they know not to begin their little dance with you.  It would be a shame to see you from the inside, just yet.  There's still time.  And so many Harvard students to get through, first.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

The Urge never stops.

I've found there's a wave-like motion, like all things, with ebbs and flows, but never an absence of the Urge.  Over the years I've learned to ignore it, at least in part, at least for a few minutes.  But it tickles me, in the back of the skull, a constant reminder of what I have to do.

It's not easy, let me tell you.  The unsavory types I have to work with to scratch that itch takes its toll after a while.  I mean, have you ever tried to talk with Mr Chop for more than five minutes?  Those eyes just go right through you, and he can make even the most banal observations about last Sunday's football game sound like a fresh evisceration.  It's downright unsettling, it is.  But he can't help it, what with the way he talks.  Something to do with the soft palate, so I'm told.  Or maybe that whole "unhinge your entire jaw" thing.  Brilliant with a cleaver, though.  Even ECH would be impressed. 

But the Urge.  It leads me down dark roads.  Familiar scenery, after all these years.  One suburban sprawl leads into the next.  The waist-high fence, the white front door, the five-pin tumbler lock, the porch light that seems to burn out at just the right moment (Mr Scratch has shown skills that still bemuse me), the padded rug in the foyer.  And my tools.  They never change.  Not since the Urge first manifested when I was eight.  Sure, I've had to replace some things, especially the ones with moving parts (I can't tell you how many pairs of pliers I've gone through since that first time), but some things seem to last forever.  Every time I take hold of the porcelain shard, its thin edge gleaming from a clock radio, I'm always reminded of the grim smile that doll was left with.  You really can't have that experience twice.

You amuse me, Roger.  You know that, right?  It should be obvious that the upside down people have "special" rules when it comes to you.  OK, fine, the fact that you've got Tucson hibernating beneath you works to your favor.  Note even Mr Chop wants to wake that up.  Even when the urge flows the strongest, they know not to begin their little dance with you.  It would be a shame to see you from the inside, just yet.  There's still time.  And so many Harvard students to get through, first.

If this was the PROPER future, I'd have a jet pack and a zap gun to deal with that shit.  I'd have a rock it ship flown by Bootsie Collins with George Clinton at the weapons console.  I'd have turbo pistols and intelligence-enhancing drugs and I'd practice on the neo-men in the sewers, with Dr James Semaj.

But this is the wrong future, the wrong Earth.  Semaj has vanished, I don't have turbo pistols, and the closest thing I have to a rock it ship is a beat up, clapped-out Jeep with P-Funk on the Ipod thingie.  I must therefore rely on The City to protect me from your bother boys...But what protects me from The City?  It kills everyone I know, but it won't eat me, no matter how many chances I give it.

It occurs to be that I just might be the main character.  This would rock in a proper world.  Here, it keeps me awake at night, paralyzed with horror.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

I've been exploring the Under-The-Bridge Place.

I bet you didn't even KNOW there was an Under. Well, there is. And there are things that wash ashore there that are the reason the homeless don't set up tents under that bridge. Bodies with no hands, and jelly-clad remains with bones showing through that almost look human except you can tell they never did have any legs. Some people say they wash down from Canada, but it doesn't make any sense because the river flows outward from the mountains to the ocean. There's no way for Canada to get to us here. My vagrant friends and I, we think they're what happens when you listen too closely to the call of the bridges. We didn't know before that all the bridges really want is for you to come with us to the Under-The-Bridge Place. Just so you can see what they see and know what they know. Where you can see the imprint in the mud where that street kid sat, right before. And the last place Old Sick Ben staked his tent.

Some people say that Old Sick Ben is still around, you know. That if you live too near the park, by all those empty houses around Firelane 12, sometimes he'll slip like an albino salamander pale and wet from the ninebarks and steal your cat from the porch. We don't know what he does with the cats, but we called him Old Sick Ben for a reason. Never too many possums around when Old Sick Ben was still on the safe side of the river. I heard that's why the Junkman built that crazy fence; it wasn't to keep the goats in or to keep scrappers from molesting all his old broke down trucks and tanks, it was to keep that thing that used to be Ben out.

We don't go up Fire Lane 12 anymore. Just in case.

[EK WAFFLR]

Once upon a time, I was born.
Born down Below. In the dark. For the first five years of my life I knew not what light was, and I learned to listen for food. That iron tasting fluid surging inside food was my shining beacon, and I grew able to hear it at great distance.
Raw flesh, the breakfast of Champions.

I did, however find light. And the world changed. It was ugly. Bright and ugly and distracting me from the ebb and tide of the blood I now knew was red.
I tried to adapt. Oh how I tried.

But fuck it.
I'm going back Below.

[Ari]

Likewise, is it any coincidence that PD posters are vanishing, at the same time we get an influx of Northern European posters?  I warned everyone, you saw me warn them.  "WEAR YOUR TINFOIL!", I howled, but everyone laughed and gave me mittens.  And now everyone's falling victim to the F-Rays beaming out from their monitors, leaving them as stunned lurkers who crave Lutefisk and shitty beer. 

There will be more of us.
Northern Europe is the new America.
Only, you know, without the guns.

Words cannot express how much I wish that were true.

We're working feverishly on it, at least some folks do - they say the people elected them folks fair and square but i have my doubts. And they put this giant monster in the room with us. It eats whoever moves or makes a sound. Sometimes it just grabs somebody at random. Everyone looks away and ups the volume on their tellie; but you can't ignore that crunching sound when the screams finally stop.
Doom has reached out across the big pond, or maybe it was us to gave birth to it in the first place? It doesn't matter. The propaganda ministry will just paint it pink and them folks say we can reason with it, we just have to build up trust.