Topics

31

Or Kill Me / The Cleansing

« on: January 17, 2009, 08:24:54 am »

Lots of rhyming going on, yo? Don't know if this is really my style any more, but I used to write shit like this all the time a few years back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Who's manning up to man the defences?
The patriot called, now come to his senses?
The bomb maimed your pride, now it mains you,
The fight that you sought, isn't the one that you're in,
It's Dirty. It's a Dirty old fight, It's Dirty.

Who's paying the fines for fucked up finances?
It isn't that banker, bailed out, "good intentions".
The shit hit the fan, now it hits you,
Staining your beautiful and hard earned suit,
It's Dirty. It's a Dirty new suit. It's Dirty.

Oh for a world that was clean, oh for a world that was clear,
For a world that, for you, held none of your fears,
The answer is simple, or so we are told,
It's repeated until our dreams are bought and are sold,
To make the world simple, to make our suits clean,
We have to get our hands Dirty.
We replace the stains with dirt that's unseen,
We have to get our hands Dirty.

Who watches the men who are watching us?
Who watches them? Are they watching themselves?
Your reflection of fear now reflects you,
But at least you can see what never was there,
It's Dirty. It's a Dirty new vision, It's Dirty.

Oh for a world that was sane, oh for a world that made sense,
For a world that, for you, held no more pretence,
The questions are scripted, the vision is bold,
A lie, oft repeated, becomes plated with gold,
To create a world in our image, to wipe the slate clean,
We have to get our hands Dirty.
We replace the stains with dirt that's unseen,
We have to get our hands Dirty.
To make the world simple, to make our suits clean,
We have to get our hands Dirty.
We have to get our hands Dirty.

32

Principia Discussion / Principia Discordia (Evangelical Edition) now availiable [X-Post from POEE]

« on: January 09, 2009, 06:15:16 pm »

'Cause he's a lazy bastard, I assume.

Posting this here for him.

GREETING YUO FUCKERS.
THE PDEE
This is an all-rehashed version of the Principia, intended for distribution. To this end, I have re-worked graphics and whatnot to make it the smallest page size I was able to find at any print-on-demand publisher (4.25" x 6.75"). It is also pretty bare-bones, in an effort to make it cheaper - it's got RAW's intro, the original 75 pages, the Starbuck's pebbles myth, a few random other things, and the Fifth Edition. 94 pages total, plus an obnoxious orange cover. I tried te make it as cheap as possible (but alas, lulu wants their cut). I'm not making jack from these, by the way, like 30c American per. Virtually nothing. I'd like to thank Syn (or whatever Payne made his fucking name into this week ) for his assistance, and anyone whose stuff I raped and didn't know the author.
Also, anyone who contributed to the Fnord Fonts, I am indebted to you, as I made extensive use of them.
I am planning to do another one, more along the lines of my original idea, but it will have about twice as many pages, and so will be less feasible for giving away. But still smaller page-wise.

 - Reverend Smeg the Kilted, KSC
Hail Fucking Eris.


----------------
The noise in my head is: The ADICTS - Viva La Revolution

33

Think for Yourself, Schmuck! / Shrapnel and History - The Static Model

« on: December 06, 2008, 04:46:04 pm »

I've been thinking recently that history (as an academic exercise, as opposed to The Past in totally objective terms) and shrapnel (as the concept has been formulated on PD, and specifically in the way I've been trying to make it work) are very similar things, if not quite the same thing.

I'll start with history here.

Historians will usually tell you that their "job" is to inform the present day, and by extension the future, about the pitfalls of history. The mistakes of people that were made in situations similar to what we face today features strongly in this, but more importantly a relation of 'Why' we got to where we are today as opposed to 'How'. The latter almost always requires an historian to overlay some form of Theory of History over past events, in the vain hope that we can create some form of recurring pattern from them and thus have a stronger tool for predicting the future.

History, however, is not a grand story, written by even a competent author. It's a series of decisions, actions and events occurring in the contemporary present. There is no beginning, end and climax. There is no thematic arc and there is no cast of characters (there are characters, certainly, but they weren't cast for the role or written in to satisfy a need for them in the plot).

Having thought about this a bit, I decided to try my hand at creating a model for my view of history. The first idea that popped into my head was a very simple and controlled thought experiment that may not work very accurately or even reflect the real world, but bear with me.

I started with something that was very fresh in my mind - the recent presidential elections. Picture a voting district with absolutely no decided voters in it. Every single one of them are 'swing' voters and are not predisposed to either candidate (an impossibility in real life).

When their votes are counted, the results are roughly 50/50 to each candidate. There are only two candidates running here. and every single eligible person cast a vote for one of them.

You can view each vote, each person, with a colour coded square. For perversity consider 'black' as a McCain vote and 'white' as an Obama vote. You can also arrange these squares onto a grid, and assign each square a place on that grid based on extra information about them, for example; ethnicity, geographical location, age, weight or whatever else you want.

The more extra information you use to arrange the grid, the more broken up the blocks of colour will become, until it begins to look like a screen shot of static on a detuned television. the complexity doesn't even have to end there; you can create a series of these picture representations by doing the same for voting results over a number of elections or by changing the parameters by which you placed the squares on the grid.

Run these series of pictures as an animated .gif and you will end up with a crude version of television static.

Historians will look at this model and try to glean a Theory of the History of the electoral results from it, but as we've seen, the complexity only increases with added (possibly important) information even from a fairly simple premise.

Real television static is caused by the TV set picking up signals from a relatively wide band of the electromagnetic spectrum, including other broadcast frequencies and even a trace of the background radiation from the birth of the universe - the big bang. What historians are trying to do with finding the thematic arc of history in our model is really finding one specific frequency and its effects on the results, so they can apply that finding to other models. They are looking for 'Why' of past events.

When you expand the premise of our model to include the almost infinitely wider range of reactions (add differently coloured squares) and the same for the extra information we used to place those squares on a grid, the huge complexity of such an undertaking makes the effort to find out 'Why' in any useful detail becomes a pointless exercise.

Presidential candidates, luckily for us, are not historians. They will look at the actual results and move on. The breaking down of demographics and analysing of electoral performance is a job for their campaign staff and their parties, the only important thing for them is the 'How', in this case how the result turned out for them and how that impacts their election night.

Now, to tie this into my thoughts on shrapnel, I needed to consider how small actions and events affect people in the contemporary present, and how those effects continued to influence them. I immediately realised that the important lesson to take away from the thought experiment was to remove the 'why' from the discussion. Why shrapnel affects us and continues to do so is not so important as how it does, which is possibly why I've been on such a loose end with this concept for a while now.

Becoming aware of the shrapnel that affects us, and learning to deal with it is the ultimate goal here. We don't need to invest the entire process with a narrative in the hopes of creating a usable model which we can attempt to map shrapnel and its effects. The causes, processes and consequences of shrapnel are too complex to allow it and are very much tailored to each individual, so any model we arrive it will be inherently flawed anyway.

Maybe it's time for me to change the channel of this detuned television and actually watch something on it. Maybe some porn or something.

34

Think for Yourself, Schmuck! / Intermittens Issue 2: Submissions/Discussions

« on: November 19, 2008, 02:14:31 am »

Basically, what I'm after for turn at editing is an examination of what the building blocks of "modern" Discordia are, mostly in terms of what the general consensus is at PD. So far, the articles that I would like to include are my own take on what that is.

Few of the following articles I want to include have been given the final okay by their authors, and I have a number more I'll need to search for. The following list is just to set the tone of what I'm putting in:

STFU With Your Hippie Shit -CAIN
State of a Union? -HSD
Larry King Interview -ENRICO
Short Circuits - Part 70 - Inaction  -LHX [Can't find where I yoinked this from straight away, I'll link later]
Memo from Ramses -Unknown Author, found by Cramulus
Barbed Wire -PAYNE

I'm going to cull some more "funnier" stuff from the Lollercaust thread, and probably include Cainads thing "who killed lulz".

Anyone else have suggestions for what you'd like to see included?

Any criticisms of what I've done or not done so far would be appreciated also.

This project is likely to run for a couple weeks (more than long enough between issues).

35

Or Kill Me / Preaching to the choir, perhaps

« on: November 04, 2008, 05:41:26 pm »

This is not a hug from your mummy.

This isn't kissing it better.

It isn't being able to stay up a bit later with a cup of warm milk when you've had a nightmare.

Life sucks. Hard. And it's only going to get worse, you can see the signs everywhere. It's in our politics, it's in our banks, it's in our TeeVees, It's in our advertisements and our schools and our stores and in our streets.

You can't walk down those streets anymore without feeling dirty, as the apes breathe out the air you are breathing in, an endless cycle of sharing each others air, in and out out and in.

This is not democracy.

This is not people power.

This is not a shift in the market.

The election is just a symptom, it's just a reflection of the apes infesting central North America. Vote, and get a free loaf of bread. Bread and circuses. Seriously, that is actually happening.

Augustus limited the borders of the Roman Empire, knowing that to try and control more would lead to more hassle than it was worth. Maintain the borders with the legions, keep the army away from Rome as much as possible, reduce it's influence over the politics of the Empire.

Where are the limits of the American Empire? Have they now be found?

This is not the end.

This is not the beginning of the end.

This is not even the end of the beginning.

This is the same old story, the decline and fall of an empire into corruption, decadence and ultimate failure.

It is a time for yetis, it is a time for getting your yuks in, it is a time to get mad as hell while you still can.

36

Literate Chaotic / Paynes new writing project

« on: October 08, 2008, 07:10:02 pm »

The sun melted down through air that seemed thick and stagnant. Thick with moisture, with potential. But dead and still.  The clouds seemed to reach all the way down, a uniform, pregnant, gray, and only the hint of a breeze that sent leaves and other detritus skittering along the ground in small fits and starts.

The imposing cliff faces of concrete surrounded the small square. Faceless, yet the buildings seemed to convey a quiet malice none the less.

Will, a sturdy young boy of six years, was running, every limb using far more energy than was neccessary. He ran along low walls, into a flock of pigeons. All the while burbling with delight. His father walked, far more deliberately, farther up the road than his son, who would occasionally look back to see that he hadn't lost his caretaker.

He was unaware of the atmosphere of this place. Unable to feel the presence of the tall building looming over him. At six years old, everything looms, and everywhere is a playground.

Wills father was all too perceptive of the discomfort of the urban jungle. He was a tall man, well in excess of six feet tall. His face was weathered, and his eyes haunted. The features of a man who had seen much, lost more and was still standing.

Rashid Parmen had fled his homeland when he was in his late teens, his parents had been killed in one of the paroxysms of violence that periodically shook communities apart in the old country. He had stowed away in a container ship and come to Britain, knowing that another outbreak of feuding and aggression could cost him his own life, that he had been lucky to avoid his parents' fate.

He had turned his hand to anything he could to make money, had seen the best and worst of what Britain could offer. Rashid had met Wills mother, Amber, and they had begun a whirlwind affair. Rashid hadn't truly loved her, but he needed the closeness and companionship, and Amber had never needed that love. She had been trying to piss mummy and daddy off, and she had succeeded. They disowned her when she married Rashid.

Will had been born a short time after, and for a short time they were content. Amber had died when Will was two, killed in a senseless road accident, run over by a young man in expensive car who had had too much to drink. Her killer had never been caught.

Rashid looked to Will, now with arms outstretched and airplaning through another flock of pigeons and making piping "Rat-at-at-at" noises. Will was all he had left, and Rashid was Wills only family. He loved his son with a fierce loyalty, he had sacrificed much for him and was prepared to sacrifice much more.

The tall man had almost reached his destination, a small office set into the corner of the square. He had determined that he needed to get out of Britain, go somewhere less untrusting of men and women with the wrong colour of skin. Having no documents, he had been told that this office would help him leave the country safely.

"Will! Come here!" His son immediately ran back to him. Rashid picked him up with his hands under his armpits. "I am going in there for a little while," he indicated the office with his head. "Can you go play on the swings while I am gone?".

Will was excited by the trust, and enthusiastically nodded. Rashid laughed and put him down, tousling his hair just as his son ran across to the play park in the middle of the square. He watched his son for a moment, then turned into the darkened door of the office.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been fifteen minutes or so since his father had left him at the play park. Will had been perfectly content to swing back and forth, up and down, his legs pumping to gain him greater height. There were no other children there, but there was a crowd of people in the square, and Will watched them. So many different kinds of people, walking, wandering, sitting down and talking. Will liked to watch people, he made stories in his head about them. That one over there was an astronaut, and the woman sitting in the bench sang songs.

There were sirens wailing nearby, and even though he heard sirens all the time, Will was still excited by them. He wished he could see some firemen working, that would be great fun. It never happened though.

Which made it even more surprising to him when a police car screeched to a halt at one of the entrances to the square. He stopped pumping his legs, letting the swings momentum die as he watched the police men get out of the car. They didn't do anything except stand near the car. That wasn't right, they were supposed to chase the bad guys.

Will felt his curiosity rising, he was staring at the police men now, wanting to figure out what was happening. As he did so, more police men came, and they started to position themselves around the square, speaking to the people, moving them all away to where the first car had stopped. One of them came over to him. A real police man! Will was excited, but nervous too. He hadn't done something wrong, had he?

"Hullo, little man," the officer greeted him, very serious and stern. "you have to go stand with everyone else now."

Will started as the police mans hand landed on his shoulder, but didn't question him. As he was guided over to the other people, Will kept looking over his shoulder, looking for his father.

As he got closer to the knot of people, he was relieved to see that some other police men had notebooks and were asking questions. He knew that when police men weren't chasing bad guys, they were "making inquiries". He didn't know what this meant, but he knew it involved talking to people and writing things down.

He joined the milling group of anxious pedestrians and shoppers, and the police man walked away. Will looked around, his nervousness gone and his curiosity on the rise again. The astronaut was being questioned now, and he looked like he was getting angry at the police. Just then, he felt a presence beside him. He looked around and up to find a woman standing next to him, he hadn't seen her from the swings.

She was wearing a bright red dress, and he was sure he should have seen her. No one else here was wearing such bright colours. Though he hadn't seen her before, he wasn't particularly alarmed. He was surrounded by police men and was therefore safe.

He grinned up at her, and she flashed a quick grin back before bending down to be face to face with him.

"What is your name boy?" Her voice was gentle, but Will could hear the authority behind it. He didn't even consider not telling her, let alone lying.

"William Parmen, miss. My dad calls me Will though." He was thrilled when she smiled encouragingly.

"You are a brave boy, Will. Where is your dad now?" Will pointed across the square, to the office in the corner.

"He's in there miss, he said he'd be out soon." When he said this, the woman nodded. She placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

"I'll be here for you until he comes back, Will." He nodded at her, his thoughts having turned back to his father. He was watching across the square now, waiting for him to come back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rashid was exiting the office before he noticed the police presence. He didn't know why they were there, nor did he care. He was only worried about his son, who wasn't in the play park. An officer approached him.

"Sir, I'll have to ask you to come with me"

"Where is my son?" Rashid ignored the hand the police man had raised to take hold of him.

"Sir, this way." The hand landed on his upper arm.

"My son, where is he?" The police man didn't answer, instead trying to pull Rashid away. Rashid used an open palm against the mans chest and shoved him away. He turned and walked into the open square, keyed up and nervous for his son. As soon as he stepped out of the shade in the corner, he spotted Will in the knot of people on the opposite side, and he started jogging over.

"Stop right there! Get down on the ground!" The police man behind him called out. Rashid ignored him. As he ran on, he heard the man speaking into his radio.

"I've identified the target! He's coming to your position now!"

"Roger that, we are prepared. All units take cover"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will saw his father coming across the square for him and started waving. He wanted him to see the police men working. Over his shoulder, beside the car, he heard a couple of excited voices, but he wasn't really interested in that. He'd heard a number of people get very excited when the police were questioning them. His entire attention was focused on his father.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, the woman in the red dress was still there.

A gentle squeeze again. Just as a loud retort echoed off the tall, gray buildings. Everyone flinched at the unexpected noise.

Even as he watched, his father stopped. He looked puzzled, too.

And then he fell over.

Will was shocked to his very core. He was moving before he even realised it. As he got to the edge of the crowd, a police man grabbed his clothes, and Will hit him between the legs. He was instantly freed, and immediately on the move again.

There was someone running behind him, but he ignored it.

He reached his father, crumpled on the ground, looking smaller than he ever had before. There was blood everywhere. Will slid to a stop and threw himself down grabbing at his fathers face, shouting incoherently.

His father just looked back at him, unable to speak, unable to make any noise except for a dreadful gurgling from the back of his throat. Will continued to cry and fumble at his fathers face, noting how his small hands were lost in his fathers beard, strangely aware of every little thing right in front of him. As Rashid Parmen struggled to take a final breath, Will watched him die.

As his father went limp, life leaving him, the woman in the red dress knelt down next to him. She screamed and moaned, but Will barely noticed. Everything had frozen, gone into slow motion, from his eyes to his heart.

Two policemen arrived, and they pulled both of them away from his fathers body. Will didn't, couldn't, fight back. The woman did, but was pulled back all the same. They were brought to a bench close to where they had been standing before. A young police man stood nearby, but all the others were too busy trying to control the crowd.

Will buried his face into the womans shoulder, and cried. She held her head down, close to his.

"Will, we are in danger. I want you to do exactly what I tell you to. Can you be a brave boy for me?"

Will didn't answer, it was impossible to answer.

"Will, we are going to get out of here. Right now."

37

Apple Talk / ATTN Roger and ECH

« on: September 29, 2008, 05:39:03 pm »

I watched with great interest your WRATHful duels.

I challenge you BOTH at once!

38

Think for Yourself, Schmuck! / Opensource discussion on O:MF and what comes after.

« on: September 19, 2008, 01:42:16 am »

O.K. I'm going to start by addressing an idea from The Diceman by Luke Rhinehart. It's been coming for a long time now, I just need to shit it and get it out of my system.

I always felt this was an enjoyable enough book, with some clever ideas, principly the idea of our egos being made of a large number of conflicting desires and emotions, the large number of which are chained down and oppressed by One Self, a monolithic ego that we identify as being our "real Self".

I never really liked the solution in the novel, the idea of rolling a die to decide what you are going to do in any given situation and being absolutely bound by the dies decision.

It seemed inelegant - a destruction of any form of responsibility, which I personally feel is ultimately counter-productive. (Of course the complete abandonment of responsibility can lead to some really good opportunities for horrormirth, as long as you don't mind being the guinea pig).

Saying that, I don't really know if there IS a solution to this "problem" of chained mini-egos, but I'd like to find one. As Discordians, many of us try to stick crowbars under the One Self of ourselves and others, to break roles and habits and shake people up a little. We perform mindfucks in an effort to do this usually, or go straight to the root and attempt to change habits and roles directly (usually to ourself, using one self as a test bed).

There are some of us that will intentionally play a specific role for a time, let that mini-ego have it's time in the spotlight. We try to do it to others by making attempts to derail their One Self momentarily, allowing one of their mini-egos to step forward temporarily.

What other methods could we be looking at? Are there any new ideas out there to achieve these aims?

I feel that the larger the amount of tools at our disposal, the greater the chances of our success. The more cutting edge our techniques, the more likely we can avoid our targets in built defences, slicing past the scar tissue caused by years of a specific type of shrapnel.

I'm not talking about evolving the Mindfuck concept, I'm wanting some bluesky thinking on what we could conceivably replace it with in the future.

Go.

39

Or Kill Me / AIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE! WOMPed rantiness

« on: September 18, 2008, 12:43:33 pm »

40

Discordian Recipes / Grilled Peanut Butter Sammiches

« on: September 16, 2008, 03:00:19 pm »

Dunno if this has been posted before, but I shall post it anyway!

When I was in Edinburgh, I become briefly obsessed with peanut butter sandwiches. It became pretty much all I ate for a week.

To mix it up, I'd toast them thusly:

Make a standard peanut butter sandwich, sprinkle some cinnamon on that shit.

Butter the outside of the sandwich, sprinkle some brown sugar on that shit.

Grill it until the sugar is caramelised.

Wait for it to cool down a bit (it get's really hot), then eat.

Repeat until you are sick of peanut butter.

41

Bring and Brag / Words in my head. MY HEAD!

« on: September 16, 2008, 01:55:58 pm »

When it's dark, turn a light on.
Like God in genesis, it's for you to do.
Pay no mind to the mirror on the wall,
Cold and vicious, dead as pterodactyl eyes.

When it's cold, put your coat on.
It's winter until you make it spring.
It's time for you to wake the fuck up,
"Harsh injustice" just another of your lies.

   And until you realise that it really was only you all along,
   The fear you felt has scared all other fears away,
   And working for nothing but a chance to work tomorrow,
   Is when you realise, is when you can say:

There is
No man,
No plan,
Just what you see through the bars of your cell
No pain,
No blame,
But that which you create yourself.

When you're put down, seize your freedom.
It's always yours, and never given.
Bastardised, your rights are trampled,
Have you no more to do than sigh?

   And now you look for answers, and find there are none,
   The books you've read have only given you more to say,
   When "rights" and wrong, and wrong can be right,
   Everyday is a fight, a message, an urge to say:

There is
No man,
No plan,
And the cell, too, is another lie
No pain,
No blame,
And no father in the sky.

42

Or Kill Me / Are you scared?

« on: September 09, 2008, 11:41:01 am »

Are you scared?

Do you wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, fearing that in a day, a week, a month, a year that this house, the bed, the wife, the kids the car may all be taken away from you?

If you're late to work, are you scared that you'll be sent home early with no job? "How will I pay my rent now?!"

When you get an unexpected call, or find a brown envelope in the mail, does your heart flutter as you wonder exactly what it is being demanded of you now?

As you walk to the store when it's getting dark, do you try to look out of the corner of your eye at the kids sitting around with nothing to do, expecting them to make a sudden move for you?

Do you expect to find no money in your bank account every time you check it?

Are your bowels feeling loose, as the crunch of the jackbooted stormtroopers gets ever nearer, sounding like God chewing his cornflakes in the morning?

Do the words "Four More Years!" make you want to grab a gun and head for the hills to live out your days scavaging an existence off of this slowly dying land?

Is there a conspiracy everywhere you look now? Have you seen the lizard eyes of Sarah Palin yet?

Do you mistrust each and every word you see written down, looking for whats written behind them?

Is Robot Nixon living in your closet?

ARE YOU SCARED YET?

43

Or Kill Me / Things to do before you die

« on: September 09, 2008, 10:10:21 am »

6~Take out that damned jackboot from your ass. It's not cool, it's not funny and it's like a genetic disease in that you'll end up passing it onto generations of your descendents.

5~Learn to question EVERYthing. Occasionally, people tell you lies. Even people who sound perfectly reasonable and sane. The softer they speak, the more polite they are, the bigger the lie they can be hiding from you.

4~Stop waving the flag/passport/skin colour and calling it "Patriotism".  That shit just isn't funny anymore when the Government is already doing the same thing. Patriotism isn't about being a better citizen, it's about demanding a better country.

3~Take a crash course in bullshitting. It's the "in" thing these days. You might as well learn to be better at it than your Priest, Bank Manager and President.

2~Take time off and have a little fun. It's what they don't want you to do, right? When people say "Oh, telling someone not do something is like inviting them to go ahead and do it", they could well have a point when it comes to this. Do you REALLY want to be stuck in that cube all day when the sun is out?

AAAAAAND

1~Swim with dolphins. Nothing like having a wet slimy horny motherfucker wrapping it's prehensile penis round your leg to realise that these lists are all bullshit, and you really need to make up your own damn lists.

44

Or Kill Me / Meanwhile, at the Forum...

« on: September 03, 2008, 12:00:44 am »

Setting: A large airy room, all in marble and gold. There is an open area in the middle of the room, with large "steps" set around it in concentric circles. Set into niches in the walls are statues of George W. Bush, Bill Clinton, George H. W. Bush, every President since Nixon, every Prime Minister since Atlee.

There are a lot of aging men and woman, dressed in bed sheets sitting on the steps talking quietly amongst them selves, and one standing in the middle of the floor, preparing to speak...

"Distinguished friends! We are here to today to discuss diverse matters of interest to our interests as representatives of ourselves and each other! Let us proceed firstly with the matter of our next Emperor."

He pauses and regally surveys the the seated councilors. He points to one.

"Copious Taser, you may speak first."

The indicated man stands up, smooths off  his bed sheet and proceeds to the floor.

"Friends! The Emperor (may he reign forever!) is due to step back from the throne in a few short months. The People, hardly oppressed by his benevolent policies, have decided that this is a good time to consider our politics, and hold them under SCRUTINY! I have spoken with some of you about this, and have decided that we needs must divert their attention to other matters of smaller import, such as the prospective candidates genitalia, or mayhap the colour of their skin!"

The seated men and women nod sagely, some mutter supportive sounding words. There is a small grunt as one of them in the back row is introduced to another's knife. He slumps over, but no one thinks it out of the ordinary, as several others are similarly slumped over in slumber.

"Some others are making scenes in public, and ignoring our pleas for them to focus on what we tell them to. Our loyal citizens are having their freedoms protected by our actions to keep these rebellious scalliwags in order."

He pauses for a moment, seemingly trying to regain some of his composure which has obviously been upset by the mere thought of having to deal with public unrest, here! In the Land of the Free!

"We are now arranging to have the two most likely candidates to assume the Imperial Mantle to be as popular as the other in the plebeians eyes, the better to distract them from our essential work. My friends, we are close to getting past this period of unrest, and getting back to more years of stability and freedom to do as we wish."

There is polite applause as he bows to the assembled elders and makes his way back to his seat. The Speaker steps back to the floor and draws breath to speak again. He pauses when Copious Taser sits back down on a tack and yelps. A few of the men and women near him giggle behind their hands.

"I thank my friend Copious Taser for his words. It is true that these are unsettling times, but we are almost through them. We must remain united and strong within these walls, fractious though we may be out-with. I call my friend Pluribus Unum to the floor, he has requested a chance to speak before you today."

Pluribus Unum stands up, steps over several sleeping and "sleeping" elders, wipes his sandals of blood on one of their bed sheets, and makes his way towards the centre of the floor.

"Fellow councilors! I bring to you happy news today! I, with some diverse help from some among you, have been working on our "doublethink" policy. Yes, we were worried to begin with that this frankly Orwellian idea would be too obvious to the people, too likely to ferment unrest rather than quell it, but we were wrong! The people have been weaned on television since birth now and have no idea who old George was, let alone read his books. We now have implanted the idea that only protests held in cages are valid with our "Freedom Cage", and have now so closely aligned "Freedom" with "Security". Through logical progression, we can now enforce "Security" with "Cage", and then we will have them, if you excuse me, by the balls."

Again there is quiet acknowledgment of this small feat. And a small strangled yelp as The Speaker is 'removed' in the traditional and time honoured way.

"When next we meet, there will be a new Emperor. I expect we will back our assigned candidates, and have a nice and close "election". Remember to tell your candidate to keep his trap shut! One small slip now will blow everything to hell, and we don't want that, do we? I thank you, my friends, for your time."

He moves back to his seat, and The Speaker, a woman now walks back to the floor.

"Lastly, we shall hear from our "underground" man, our representative amongst the people. He hasn't much time to speak to us today, or his lack of presence will be noted. Let us listen!"

A previously unseen man steps out from behind a pillar, he is wearing a bedsheet like the others, but it is also pulled up over his head, hiding his features.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, hear me! My work amongst the people goes according to our plan. I have guided the most rebellious of them in directions that we believe are fruitless. Amongst some, I have encouraged parroting of old catch phrases and jokes and the taking of illicit substances. Amongst others, acts of petty vandalism and the creation of what they term "meme-bombs". As we..."

There was a small murmur of dissent and unease, but also some of support for the mystery man.

"As we already suspected, many of the latter ARE dangerous. It is well that we caught them when we did. We are feeding them all with small portions of the truth, to keep their need to know sated, but as planned they do not know the whole of it, as much as they want to. My latest report, regarding the adaptation of the "three man con" has been dispatched to this esteemed council. What you will read concerns the removal of the third participant from our Three Man Con policy, the third participant of course being the person being conned. My work continues, and my updates will also. Thank for your time, friends"

He turned, somewhat melodramatically, and stalked towards the door.

As he neared it, some of those closest to him may have heard him whisper to himself.

"Fucking dupes. Stupid, blind, ignorant dupes."

But they wouldn't have known who he was talking about.

45

Or Kill Me / The Morning After

« on: July 14, 2008, 05:06:59 pm »

I'm surrounded by the stench of life and death, but the stink of rotting flesh in between is stronger. The dead reflectionless eyes of the autopiloted walking, talking, breathing corpses that surround me no longer inspire pity.

I don't want to help them anymore. I don't even believe they can be helped.

I have my own problems to deal with anyway. My own head is broken, and the bodge job repairs I've carried out on it will only take me so far before I have to take it in for a service, and I really don't want to do that again.

Sometimes, I sit on a bench at the harbour, watching the bar flies coming and going. I have a drink myself, but I'm not using it as medication, I just like the way I think when I'm mildly drunk. The bar flies are self medicating. They just want to stop seeing the noxious meat their lives are feeding on, the shit their lives leave on societys decomposing body.

I look at them, and I laugh at their folly. It only sounds like screaming when my heaving diaphragm breaks down some internal defense and I see I'm far more like them than I'd like to believe.

So I occasionally write little bits and pieces of almost meaningless text, trying to sort out my own thoughts, trying to reconcile the facts that I hate my species, but don't hate myself. That I can make excuses for my own behaviour, and believe them, but cannot forgive the same faults in others.

Then I take my anti-depressants, and worry about it tomorrow instead.