Principia Discordia

The gun begins a gunpoint. The essence of a gun is only valid when it have been pointed at you. The same goes for a knife or even a fork. You and your wife a ,Äúdiscussion,Äù and she pulls the fork at you. You don't think oh my fucking god that thing can kill me, quite painfully too. How do I make her see it MY way? Because I can compromise, but really, I know I'm right.

The fork can kill you.

Everything he touches, fades. The apple fades. The vase fades. Doors seems to go transparent when he walks through them. Idiots run after him, only to stop by the door. The locklight is enchanced to give full detail.

There is a man and a woman. They are in their house. Their two children are sleeping in their own bedrooms. The dog is in his house. The lawnmower is where it should be. In their bedroom, the man and the woman have oral sex, anal sex and they are also using artificial phallic symbols. Outside, there is a man. The man sits in his car, except it isn't his, they give it to him so he can sit where he sits. The man and the woman have paid for his car. He sits up front in his vehicle. A box labelled Dunkin' Donuts is on the shotgun side of the car. The man is masturbating with the donuts. Occasionally, he briefly brushes his hot cup of coffee against the head of his cock, brushing back skin which was left by his priest. He bites his lip. His mind is there, in the vehicle. It's with a girl named Lucky, she said she had a motto and it churns over and over in his head and then she's there by the shotgun side saying 'you're lucky if you don't catch anything'. His mind returns and he sees out of the window. The man in the car eats the top donut. He flips on the surveillance system and he hears the man and the woman having sex. The man is being deepthroated by the woman whilst the man licks the woman at the spot where he thinks the clitoris is (he is a bit off, though). The woman has a cucumber in her hand which she penetrates her husband's anal opening with. The man in the vehicle has started to masturbate again. He is spitting at his penis, repeatedly. The dog is still silent. The man in the vehicle is breathing heavily. He finishes, smudging the vanilla even more before he puts them back in the box. He takes a grip at the steering wheel, closing his eyes and bending his head towards his legs. 'I mustn't run away. I mustn't run away. I mustn't run away. I mustn't run away.' The man in the house ejaculates and hits the clitoris for the first time as his wife moans. The man stops. 'That was good wasn't it, darling? Give us a fag please.' She nods, smiles, and cries on the inside. Her tears have reached the stomach and it is burning her from the inside. The woman starts shaking. The man next to her hears a fizzleish type of sound coming from her. The room is starting to smell with burning skin. It becomes hot to the touch and he thinks he can see a fire in her stomach. The man with the dog and the children panics. She grabs him 'the cucumber is the freezer. The atom is only alive when under attack. Stasis is the destroyer of rebirth itself. The icecream man will want to sell his van, buy it.' The man in the vehice is outside it, repeating his mantra before jerking upward and making a megaphone with his hands and he starts to scream 'Prying open my third eye. Prying open my third eye. Prying open my third eye. Prying open my third eye.' The man in the vehicle leaves with the vehicle.


The machine isn't. It also represents what you thought it didn't. The sound of one hand clapping is the sound of a tree falling in the woods or the sound of yuppies discussing if dolce&gabbana is too gay to wear or not. Then they listen to radiohead. Then they play Creep with mimicked voices and mimicked passion. One dame falls. She stops just before them and falls. The doctors told her parents that she died from a brain malfunction. It couldn't handle anymore crapshitcocksuckingmotherfuckinglovelickingcellularphonehonking great music performed by fuckeheads who wouldn't know the backside of a book even it it came running after him with pies, cookies and his mother's buttplugs. She was lucky said the doctor. Not everyone of us gets to die from crappy music. The doctor thinks about the case and reasons that it must have been put there by the government so that the mpaa can make money. He posts it on the internet and two days later the country is brought down by unknown shocktroops, all the uniforms are ostriches. They have crowns on their heads and they sing old russian drinking songs. The insurrectors kills everything in sight and fucks everyone with a pulse in the white house. They then proceed to buttfuck all living men of power with nuclear warheads. Then the firstborns of the revolution eats it and dies fat and rich. Haliburton rebuilds the country.

FUCKING RAH!!!!!!!!!!

8)

yay for haliburton

That was awe insipiring. Love the doughnut sex.

Why do you hate america?

Quote from: Irreverend Hugh, KSCWhy do you hate america?

Because of the aftertaste and smell.

Why must you insist on testing?

Quote from: Irreverend Hugh, KSCWhy do you hate america?

Because it's far away and hollywood killed me slowly with their crappy 80s action movies. The meaning is to get revenge on hollywood but until then, you'll do.  :E

(oh, and hating america is all that rage nowadays.)

I won't do.

I have too much malice. Perhaps you may wish to swap something fot it.

Quote from: Irreverend Hugh, KSCI won't do.

I have too much malice. Perhaps you may wish to swap something fot it.

2 bags of skittles and a klondike bar?

Quote from: Sepia

Quote from: Irreverend Hugh, KSCI won't do.

I have too much malice. Perhaps you may wish to swap something fot it.

2 bags of skittles and a klondike bar?

Sounds like a deal. Let' shake on it.

Quote from: Irreverend Hugh, KSC

Quote from: Sepia

Quote from: Irreverend Hugh, KSCI won't do.

I have too much malice. Perhaps you may wish to swap something fot it.

2 bags of skittles and a klondike bar?

Sounds like a deal. Let' shake on it.

/me spits in hand, drinks a shot of cheapass tequila and spits it in hand.

Quote from: Sepia

Quote from: Irreverend Hugh, KSC

Quote from: Sepia

Quote from: Irreverend Hugh, KSCI won't do.

I have too much malice. Perhaps you may wish to swap something fot it.

2 bags of skittles and a klondike bar?

Sounds like a deal. Let' shake on it.

/me spits in hand, drinks a shot of cheapass tequila and spits it in hand.

Goody gumdrops.

*runs off to escape the hordes of face-raping bats he sees coming*

Great job, Sepia.

Thanks for showing us what Cat Maxwell could only attempt.


You got any more?

It only happens when I want to write something different.

Seeing that I only want to write different stuff something might come along.

Applause, applause.

You're always worth the read!


And it's still making me think, too. I don't know how you do that, but you do.

The bombing would begin. Our world, abyssmal, engulfing. Creatures ragged in clothing running in the streets, madmen talking about political and economical analyses and politicians running around with signs saying 'The end is nigh.' Then someone wakes up after having slept off a 8days speed trip seeing out the window, haliburton security troops fighting off ravagers, desperate men and women wanting something now and not far in the future. The government urged for patience but the people wouldn't listen. Not because they were starved or without houses, water and emailaccess. But the same White House that preached death over the Kyoto protocols and the only longterm goals were those of profit. Enviromental issues wasn't important. It didn't affect them nor us. We would all be dead by then, wouldn't we? The government had showed them that everything had to happen now. As soon as possible. Let's ravage the planet, we took it. We took the rights to this planet. The revolutionary masses thought about this. Yes, in unison, we claimed this planet. It was rightfully ours, wasn't it?
They set their own wheels in motion, leading on, attacking as we've seen in all the comics. The rebels, starved and fighting with sticks. The Haliburton sec.force armed with tazers, bleeding rubber bullets and using their ion cannon. A gang of C&C fans wanted to erect a hand of Nod but they were all skinny nerds with nothing but ideas and creativity and a passion for making the digital world real. Men with ideas can't stop bullets with their ideas. The woken man lighted a joint and tried to watch the Flying Circus but there was no electricity. He went next door but his marijuana plants had already died. Bricks and mortar would be tried and no lawyers would defend because all the lawyers were busy making creme brulee in the bunkers scattered around suburbia. All the french chefs had died because the englishmen had killed them in the name of freedom, vengeance and frog legs.

The point of paralyzation is not important when you learn acupuncture. The buzzing of industrial lights will eventually kill the sound of flies. Cicadas won't survive a nuclear winter.

The pumping made the shotgunshells go away. The shotgun was replaced with two crappy mp5s from two dead soldiers with haliburton gear and their slogans 'building a better world for us'. Noone would survive the disaster area. The joint was fading and so was his eyes. He was in the right mood though. Akimbo mp5 and a stormtrooper suit on him. He threw a flashbang first and then a frag grenade. This was gonna be easy he thought just as he dropped the joint. This is going to be just like counterstrike and I will wtfpwn everyone in sight.

The hammer strikes. The churchbell tolls. A mad arab is standing in a tower screaming that the truly mad arab has been reborn and he brought the book of the dead with him. A sniper takes him out but on the outside of Fayetteville, North Carolina, the mad arab abdul al-hazred grins sheepishly as nyarlathotep regains control. The mad arab joins the Cthulhu for president party and is 57th most evil person to be president of the whitehouse.

that was really awesome until you brought al-Azhalred into the story.


then it became uber-wicked awesome.

8)

my mythos is rusty and my typing too...

:)

Your cubicle is reeking he says. He brings the coffee and I snort loudly, to prove a point yet there is no point for me to prove. So I make the snort into a moan and ask What?
It's fucking reeking! The other people, the cow-orkers, are complaining. They can't seem to concentrate. It stinks of death. DEATH!? you hear me? Clean up the fucking mess you fucking skinny little tart.
Whassat?
Clean up your mess and clean up your fucking act. Jeez. Can I state this more clearly?

My mom told me once that I had a clock on the inside of my tummy. I'd just seen a cartoon where some poor wolf got maimed by a ticking bomb so I asked mother: Does the clock tick? And mum said yeah, but you gotta be really quiet to hear it.

His face is sortof disorted, is that the word? I'm hearing ticktocking. And then I know what is about to happen and I suppress it. I take my desire of having offspring and I replace it with my desire to make the whole fucking world of fucked up fucking cocksucking asslicking buttmunching assholes pay. No plan, no real vengeance only bucketloads of teenage angst, locked away for years, boiling, making my clock go ticktock. Somehow, Evanescencesncensce booms from the radio and I grab my used plastic spork kungfu style and shove it into the fucking annoying guy's brain. The plastic snaps and he ain't dead yet so I open up the side of my crappy DELL computer and grab the cpu fan. He's a mess on the floor, not believing what is happening, so I make him believe.
I'm getting turbocharged and ready for some good old fashioned ultraviolence, grabbing paperclips and an old inkstained ruler.
You should've seen me ma. I was fucking brilliant. I was alive.

Twenty seven years, that's what they're gonna say. Twenty seven years serving the public, serving morons and jerkwads wanting the make this place more hellish than it already is. Then they're gonna say, ohwell, you know, women. Then they're gonna think the thoughts their fathers thought before them. Women. Broads. Can't kill 'em and can't live without 'em. Hysterical, you know? Ya gotta protect them. They're property. Gotta slap 'em sometimes and be gentle sometimes. Then they'll say something about a scientific report but they're not going to bother. Why try to explain something in gibberish teknolanguage that everyone can relate to in plain english?

Broads.

Twenty seven years I shriek. My mind goes blurry as to what comes next but I think I'm slashing a jewish wifebeater with my aloe vera plant whilst screaming heil fucking hitler and doing a double backflip over to some puertorican scum and I bite his throat off and start to giggle when he makes nasty bloodbubbling sounds. Then he's in sight. White male. White whale, gold chains, BBQ tux and he's heavily exceeding his allowance of body hair. There's sweat on his upper lip and it mingles with the snot running out of his nose, his voice echoing, echo echo, I've heard it times and times over. He's gonna say how his wife fell down some stairs. And she won't have the nerve to tell me that he only gets turned on is when she forces herself to put dead and skinned rats up her ass. White whale, white fucking whale. Outwards, the pride of the family. I go mad ass fucking ahab on his fucking white whale ass. It bulges as I penetrate it with a letter opener and this fascinates me for a short piece of time until he tries to run away and I have to silence him. The television showed reruns of satc and I'd seen it.

love the lack of transition between psycho killer and everyday crap. Especially the last sentance

Sepia

10/10.

Keep it up. I enjoy it much.

And it happened. The bullet went berserk, heading towards the tv, hitting carrie in her face, directing towards something, like a magic bullet and it took a ride down history lane viewing the last 100 years as kids did when someone forced them to school instead of them sitting home and playing gta and everything was in hitech technicolor and the magic bullet hit kennedy in his pineal gland.

Death was standing 50 years later shooting a rerun of sex and the city, grinning madly, laughing a coarse laughter. But then Death transformed in his cubicle and became once more the annoying pest of the office. The annoying pest (death) sat in his cubicle and though about burning people, staking babies and masturbating with donuts when this sort of weird reek came from the neighbor cubicle so the annoying pest (death) crouched under his desk with a strong feeling of deja vu.

The president makes his commands to the undead zombie minions of the world. All televisions have been relocated to newly built mass-crematoriums and by sacrificing everyone seeing 'friends' he managed to open the gate and call forth the blind goat god. Yog-Sothoth entered forth when everyone who watched the reruns of 24 for the third time was grilled. Cthulhu rose when they torched everyone sitting stoned and laughing of monty python creating a smarter cthulhu that had munchies instead of a desire for pants. The darkness was spreading but noone noticed. The commercial banners and ads were replaced by 'In 2005 Cthulhu took the world. In 2010 he will have the galaxy for breakfast!' typish things. But on the telly there were no reruns and only new and fucking good tvshows and on the internet everyone acted differently, all trolls were amusing and noone posted long histories which they wrote by stream of consciousness whilst stoned. It was peace on the world. It was a dark world.

Then, ofcoursely, something has to happen or I will be forced to do jesterlike dances and stuff to hold on to your desire to read further.
But, just what will happen?

And in one blinking shortcut it's one of those days, grit your teeth or let your teeth grit you. Destruction itself it already rapidly growing and the laws of apathy makes more sense now than ever. Everything you ever worked for and loved seems to be working against everything you ever did. One big bile of bad in your stomach, like a fist of fists, the smoking gun of happiness. You wake up and you see that everything in your life is covered in shit. Everything is something that shouldn't be alive, like the greatest profanities of all existance. Things that should've worked doesn't. People that shouldn't be there are.
Every struggle as bigger than the second world war. Every line of stupidity seems to underline this fact and every aspect of hypocrisy is heavily expanded and italicized. And noone's there to tell you, it's just today, it's just today, instead, they all gang up and say: Yeah. This is the world. This is the real world and you're getting a glimpse of it. You've been overprotected all your life and you haven't seen jack shit yet. Yeah, our thoughts and ideals are limited to sex and money. Our views are limited to what we contradict ourselves with everyday. We're at the height of who we are when we drink and you speak of love towards every other human being and you're up there, snap snap, on the fucking buddha level, discussing metaphysics with god, jesus and l. ron hubbard. You're forgetting. Your music is being aimed at the top of the world. You want to be able to stand there being interviewed, stoned as fuck and say that you love the world. Childhood dream, wasn't it, fuckface? Childhood dream to afford enough dope so that the world looks like disney on ice.
And then, you release something, and it isn't in the newspapers and you get drunk and you drink and you crawl into my bed at night, weeping, whispering, why don't they like me. Why won't they notice me, this is what I wanna do, god damn, I love them, but they don't love me. And all I do is to dry your tears and nothing but.


(thought i'd gather all my bull in one post)

I don't want to sound like a broken record because there's so much good stuff in this forum lately, but that was awesome. You have a way of writing from the Character's POV that still sounds convincing and REAL. It can be shocking (in an honest way that counts and makes you feel it), and then it resonates... Again, I don't know how you do it. You kind of blur and mix the lines of reality but keep things crystal clear, if you will. I'm really loving this.

Thanks for putting it all in one thread. I even printed it out.

you know you've flattered me to the degree that there is no stopping me now you know?

damned good to have you back. don't you ever leave us again for so many days... :cry:

Quote from: Sepiayou know you've flattered me to the degree that there is no stopping me now you know?

Yea!

Quotedamned good to have you back. don't you ever leave us again for so many days... :cry:

Don't worry, I've handcuffed myself to my desk and glued my wrists to the keyboard. You'll get sick of me in no time ;)

my so called wife? i sthat possible?

of course because although we'v never bee n married, i also hate you. so uh, yeah. w0d uop/?


i thoguht you had a jeybaord stuck in yoru skull>?

I do. It's getting really hard to see with all of this crap in front of my face.

And you hate me? Them's fightin words! I thought we weren't supposed to hate each other until the divorce/subsequent freakout.

i idunno i think im ight've been talkign to my bedlight.

Standing alone is an old man, time would kill itself and unravel the universe trying to give him an age and the dormant monsters of r'lyeh itself would choke on human livers trying to find out how he managed to come back from the dead. Standing alone is an old man, many people know of him and all of them think him as a fiction. Some people believe him to be real but seeing as they are mad like renfield was mad they hold no real value in this world of values. Standing alone is an old man, thinking about these things. He smiles and it gives him an advantage he thinks seeing as he is the only one to think on this planet. Standing alone is an old man, starting to walk away now, picking up his books and his scrolls. He leaves the wand for a child to play with and be tormented about.

His eyes are jetblack glass and no carrion would ever try to crawl on him. He's an old man, older than time itself and with a position that would rival the position of the most ancient of gods. However, he has sway over only one domain and that is dream. he cannot be perceived as anything but a toddlers gibberish in the waking world and is seen upon as something not real as he is only seen in the dreams. moore would call his world the immateria. in the universe of the invisibles he would be somewhere in the terrain of the invisible college and most likely the architect behind the barbelith.

he is a mad arab, made flesh now in this mad world. he smiles. he smiles for the first time in the world. a profound smile. he made a pun. he'd only read puns earlier and never made one him self. he's not even sure if it is a pun but. a mad arab in a mad world. it makes him smile. there's a connection. the mad arab. the mad world. he stops and drops his books and scrolls and laughs. not a coarse madmans laughter but a child's laughter. and he thinks that the strange sounds coming from his mouth must be laughter and how wonderful this is and he picks his books and scrolls up again and wanders further and thinks of zarathustra and nietzsche but most of all of wagner. he was but an ear as N. called him. only an ear. he could only receive. the mad arab feels compassion for wagner. he has only received for the last century as well and never given anything, but now he's here. everyone knows what he is supposed to give.

all religions have different names on him but likes the sound of the harbinger best. the harbinger of hades wasn't that the name? it's a bit muddled up, but it's a nice name. it'll suit. the destructor.
the mad arab laughs again.

I love the repetition of "standing alone is an old man".

annoyance hangs in the air and i'm a skinny twig waiting to snap. the last year is all gathered in one day and noone really noticing when it begun or when it stopped. it's a crap day perhaps the worst in my life. frustration hits me floodlike when i wake up, there's people there, people in my room before i've gotten out of bed smoking cigs and i hate the smell of cigarettes the same place i'm sleeping. they poke me and yell wake up and i'm feverish and start sweating and thinking this isn't real this isn't real but they're still there when i open my eyes again. they stand there still, not understanding jackshit, we're all tuned in as much some crappy analogy about a dolphin from space. i would have liked to grab a uzi and burnt holes through all of these fuckers before breakfast.

then he's there. the asshole of dimensions. the sociopath from hell. the man with absolutely no social antennas whatsoever. the dull, boring and annoying man. some people say they feel sorry for him. sympathy. sympathy. they just haven't been with him enough to feel the drain. he preys on other people, perhaps unintentionally but we all know what the road to hell is paved with. he's leaving grey shells behind him and my hope for a better world drowns when i see him because in a better world people like him wouldn't couldn't shouldn't exist. so i try to tell him off. but the words form differently when they hit his ears. i've said what i've gotta say and pretty harsh at that but he just don't understands.

so i get up and start the day anew.

I told her it's not to play with. She played with it, day after day, nights after and even when I met her years later. She was the better half and better halves obviously get the brains. She left me and married the money and the jetset life, still keeping in touch and playing. I did my thing and I didn't know what happened in my life anymore, hated girls became wives, wives became hated girls again and she knew it. I didn't know what happened until i dropped the acid. I was alone, in the woods doing it, listening to the sounds of nature, being absorbed, watching myself.

I was in a movie.

To begin with I panicked, fuck fuck fuck, this is crap. This isn't happening, it's just the drugs, just another hallucination. Then I knew it was true. I was in a movie. I figured it would be around 2100 really, if this world had ever existed and I thought that it had because noone in hollywood could invent something as radical as this. So i'm an ai from around 2100. Fuck. is that really cool or the worst ever to happen? Perhaps i'm in a mmorpg, a virtual reality mmorpg, like with tim leary and some big fat vr goggles and saying i'm about to die and be reborn.

I landed but the feeling didn't. I was stuck in this movie or game and I didn't know any cheatcodes at all. Which was worst. I tried screaming impulse nine over and over and people only looked funny at me.
She called me and I knew that is was a film, it wasn't just a film, it was also a shitty way to introduce a story with me in it. So I knew why I thought of it as a movie because I knew she would be coming back again. She'd just left me and the art to live the life to the max. She'd return soon.

And she did. We met at a cabin and she took me aside saying what I knew she would say. She cried a little, i think it was of happiness but I don't know. We kissed and I told her a line she knew good and I told her don't ever change. But this isn't what you wanted, this isn't me anymore, i'm not the one you used sit with in the atelier. You can't love me anymore. But we've never grown apart she said, we've always been. She started singing love will tear us apart, i guess she was thinking it was that other love song but she sang it anyhow before i told her that i had been possessed by an ancient and misunderstood mad arab spirit. I told her that a storm was coming and asked her to to everything she ever wanted because it won't matter in the end and she blinked at me, smiled and said don't ever change.



(i'd like critique and i'd like to invite all grammar nazis. thankyou.)

grammar nazis be damned. it has great flow.

Quote from: Sepia... i'd like to invite all grammar nazis. thankyou.

I'm with Horab. Sure, there are some things that aren't technically according to the rules there but IMO a big chunk of creative writing is style, and part of that is playing with the rules of grammar a bit.

Quote from: Guido Finucci

Quote from: Sepia... i'd like to invite all grammar nazis. thankyou.

I'm with Horab. Sure, there are some things that aren't technically according to the rules there but IMO a big chunk of creative writing is style, and part of that is playing with the rules of grammar a bit.

or cutting them into tiny pieces an dmaking a stirfry with em.  :twisted:

So it's technically quite crap and the flow is good and the content is unmentionable?

Quote from: SepiaSo it's technically quite crap and the flow is good and the content is unmentionable?

My opinion? There are some things that I'd take my magic Editor's Red Pen to, if it was a straight piece of formal writing.

Technically, I think it is quite an inspired piece of creative writing. Someone who was better at writing than me might be able to make some suggestions as to how you could polish it a little but I think that it captures... something... just as it is.

If anything, I'd add a few minor bits of punctuatuion, to add a deeper rhythm.  But that's just my style.

Other than that, I'm digging it.

seeing as I gives not one fuck for the rules of grammar, I gotta say that was a damn sweet piece of writing. hell of a job of capturing the feeling.

8)

perhaps the wrong place to ask for nazilike critique... :)


ta for all sweet word though.

If you really want me to edit the thing for grammar & punctuation, I'll do it.


Just keep in mind it will almost certainly change the feel of the piece.

If you wouldn't mind/could be bothered by it, please do. Any little nitpicking thing also you feel could be done something with or anything.

That'd be great.

A fast and dirty edit:

I told her, ,ÄúIt's not with which to play.,Äù She played with it, day after day, nights after that, and even when I met her years later. She was the better half and better halves obviously get the brains. She left me, and married the money and the jetset life, still keeping in touch and playing. I did my thing, and I didn't know what was happening in my life anymore: hated girls became wives, wives became hated girls again, and she knew it. I didn't know what happened until I dropped the acid. I was alone, in the woods doing it, listening to the sounds of nature, being absorbed, watching myself.

I was in a movie.

To begin with, I panicked,Äî,ÄúFuck fuck fuck, this is crap. This isn't happening, it's just the drugs, just another hallucination.,Äù Then I knew it was true. I was in a movie. I figured it would be around 2100 really, if this world had ever existed.  I thought that it had, because no one in Hollywood could invent something as radical as this. So I'm an A.I. from around 2100.  Fuck.  Is that really cool or the worst ever to happen?  Perhaps I'm in a mmorpg, a virtual reality mmorpg, like with Tim Leary and some big fat V.R. goggles and saying, ,ÄúI'm about to die and be reborn.,Äù

I landed, but the feeling didn't.  I was stuck in this movie (or game) and I didn't know any cheat codes at all.  Which was the worst part.  I tried screaming, ,ÄúImpulse nine!,Äù over and over, and people only looked at me funny.

She called me, and I knew that it was a film; but it wasn't just a film, it was also a shitty way to introduce a story with me in it. So I knew why I thought of it as a movie, because I knew she would be coming back again. She'd just left me, and the art to live the life to the max. She'd return soon.

And she did. We met at a cabin, and she took me aside saying what I knew she would say. She cried a little, I think it was out of happiness, but I don't know. We kissed and I told her a line she knew well and I told her, ,ÄúDon't ever change. But this isn't what you wanted, this isn't me anymore, I'm not the one you used sit with in the atelier. You can't love me anymore.,Äù

,ÄúBut we've never grown apart,,Äù she said, ,Äúwe've always been.,Äù She started singing ,ÄúLove Will Tear Us Apart,Äù.  I guess she was thinking it was that other love song, but she sang it anyhow, before I told her that I had been possessed by an ancient and misunderstood mad Arab spirit. I told her that a storm was coming, and asked her to take everything she ever wanted, because it won't matter in the end.  She blinked at me, smiled, and said, ,ÄúDon't ever change.,Äù


_____
It's kind of choppy, to be sure.  The bolded word at the end was an assumption, because the intended word seemed to be missing.

ah, but it's good.

my engrish isn't as good as it should've been and i need the grammar education.


thanks L.

No problem.  It does lose a little something in the editing process, however.

IMO.

Quote from: SepiaSo it's technically quite crap and the flow is good and the content is unmentionable?

well you wanted ffedback on teh grammar dude, flow has mroe to do with grammar than content,btu the cotndet has gripped my hearstrings and yanked upon them violently until i am naught but a quiovering mass of tears and and unending wailing.

The library asked for God.

God said, no, I've left it. It's not coming back and neither am I.  Why should I come back? You don't love me even though I am your creator. You create your own false idols to worship. I gave you life, mind and spirit. I GAVE YOU FUCKING EVERYTHING. Yet you don't even thank me. My son died. I'd never have done it. You've become separated from the world I made for you. You don't feel the way you should have felt because your wars and racistic tendencies have brought you down. When you see my son hanging nailed on a cross you don't really feel anything, you just academically analyze what happened around 30 ad. You shrug and say he was a good man. You compare him to Che in every discussion you can.

You were headed for the godhead all of you but you forgot. You stopped feeling and what makes you feel is banned. Your brain isn't advanced enough to tackle the amounts of information you're creating every day. You get the bigger picture but you don't get the details + the picture. You're fumbling and the progress you make is pathetic. You were given a higher purpose and you abused it, hencely, I quit. Fuck you fucktards. You could've done it but you started creating "trends" and things that apparently hold high value because a big amount of people says that it holds high value. You're contributing to your own destruction in all ways but you won't realize it. You're dead. Your mortal husks walk around but noone cares about the spirit anymore.

da Vinci
Beethoven
Ibsen
Kafka


These are some people that believed and was spirit. You don't. Your strive for something ends whenever you feel like it. You have no drive, you have no pull, no need for anything other than that crap fucking junkfood you stuff into your fucking mouth every fucking day and the bible shows you watch every fucking day and the news about carrots and redwine being good when you've got cancer.

To sum it up, you live in fear. Every aspect of your lives are being controlled by fear. And those are the words that together with conformity is the new holy trinity.

Control
Fear
Conformity

CFC, CCF, FCC. It sounds like a drug doesn't it? So why don't you take drugs? Why are you afraid of breaking the law? Why are you afraid of old people in black robes and words written on papyrus? If you're smart you'll never get caugt.

Then the library said "I've tried, but everyone wants to fuck me over. The leftie kids stealing my books and the rightwingers only want to shut me down. I'm information, I'm one of the old gods still lingering here and they spit on me everyday."

Then God says: You have a choice. You always have a choice. If the choice leads to death, shouldn't that death signify a new life? The rite of passage would be the strongest rite of passage you ever passed, wouldn't it? You would kill everything you knew and you would die.
But you don't. You lie, cheat and hustle. If I still was your god I'd be fucking angry.

The arab smiled. He had tuned in to a conversation between god and the collected consciousness of The Library. He was wondering if he truly was on his way to become truly mad now.

That was brilliant.

And, crawling from the wreckage, they came. The minions, the hands of the land, the ordinaries. Each and everyone flashing guns, tireirons or dislodged parts from the airplane. They were in a state of mind, walking almost like zombies yet still retaining the intelligence in their eyes.

The mad arab viewed the planecrash from afar and was curious about the creatures heading out of the craft. They were an omen, surely, but an omen of what?

Everyone they passed by freaked out by the synchronized breathing and their hearts beating and their leader. Scarred humans were left scattered along the road, renaming all streets to destruction street. Some people saw hope after destruction had worked it's way through and others saw the total ruin and joined in, synchronizing.

Not talking. Breathing. Knowing what your team needed before they needed it. An attempt at a conscious hive mind.

They were nearing the city, dubbed by some fictionauts as City17, one of the old soviet industrial areas and now a fortress for the ruling world order. Or, more correctly, what was remaining of the world order. They marched to the City, improving their weapons and adding to the arsenal. Catapults and balistas were made, ammunition found and an entire army amassed.

The guards on the walls stood bewildered asking eachother what the fuck this was. Battle stations were assumed and some 3star general popped his head up along with his binoculars. He scanned the vast force knowing that everyone in the city was alive because they had not attacked yet. He browsed the forces, trying to find a leader person and then he saw a bunnyrabbit.

His laughter was mad, uncontrolled and made him an easy target. Before Darling Death collected him he uttered '...their leader is a bunneh...'



Next day, the children of fluffy assaulted and sacked City17.


The mad arab shifted in his seat. Had he seen the killing of a city or a rerun of monty python? Truly, this was madness.

w00t!

and not jsut for teh reference!

The words are listening.

The crucification for the masses shout uproar for blood and purple necks, deranged batmen lurking in the shadows like shadow messiahs like shadows, the shadows they are, were, or, were, put in there. The shadows are words but their batmen weapon derives flesh from bone and make bone succumb to steel. Love was never for the masses for love always needed sustenance and compassion. The world isn't being won by smart discussions on a tv program, it's being lost by potheads reading crowley and the illuminatus! and watching waking life on the telly.

The revolution isn't getting nearer because you read. The revolution isn't getting nearer. Because, you, YOU!, of all loved persons fear the revolution. You've theorized about it, thought about it and you plan to be miles away when the shit hits the fan. You don't want old ghosts coming back, haunting you and driving you insane enough to look at a lamppost and say that the lifebulb is god. You want to be insane enough to see the words and still make out a meaning you can pronounce to your friends.

You don't have the balls.

Inspire me he said. Inspire me for the love of god! My images are dreary and the words are fleeting. What is an artist without his spirit?

And suddenly, you can't switch the light on or off and you think that's weird and you think you get an "aha" experience but you don't. You've forgotten things. You went out of the loop. You skipped the basics because you're fucking savvy and fucking intelligent and fucking whatnot. You headed straight for room101 and didn't bother to rebel first.

You headed all straight for room101 for thoughtcrime. And you went there with your mates, there was a pack of you.

You don't listen unless it's being repeated over and over.

They stopped broadcasting subliminal messagin because they couldn't afford to pay for commercials during twenty years. Instead, they made the commercials longer and longer and soon you were only watching commercials. Defining your life from commercials.

The words on the screen are more important than the words your loved one makes when she writes I Love You on your stomach with 36 degrees celsius hot and fudgy chocolate.

You forgot two things which I hold as truest in the discordian fashion.

Two lines that should be read into your brain at the exact same time.

You are not a unique snowflake.
You are a unique snowflake.

The Anti-Jante and the Jante itself incorporated. You need to understand this. The basics about it aren't watching the yinyang.

You aren't breating. You're underwater.

He came to me, at night only. He always said the same. He paraphrased it cleverly but the essence and meaning of the words were always the same.

I'm so tired of them, of all the fucking bunch, I gotta get away.

So, one day I asked him, where are you going to head off to?

And he turned, sour milk on his face and said Fuck it. You're just like them, you too. Demanding, seeking what I mean with that and that painting. They're putting pressure on me, they don't know it, but they are. Small innocent questions in their innocent lives of jetset, champagne and popart.
This used to be my refuge. I guess this is the getaway.

He left before I asked if I could tag along.


A couple of weeks later I'd been out drinking vodka. I stood by the entrance door and the keyhole was floating around in space. It seemed like I had a flashback.

He sat in the kitchen with a coffeetier with colombian excelsio coffee and he was smoking those weird cigarettes he always smoked. I asked for one and took a glass and a cup and sat down opposite of him. He poured me coffee and tears were running down his cheeks.

You aren't the one you think you are he said.

What the fuck are yhou tlalking abbouut misteri man? My voice sounded silly. I was fuckdrunk on vodka and he was obviously high on something quite different and it was the cultural and mental clash of the titans.

You are not a discordian. You aren't a buddhist. You aren't a syndicalist. Your bonsai tree means jack shit and your HRGiger posters and Dali posters mean nothing unless you're hitting it up on acid. You forgot the rule.

I coughed, trying not to look like a smiley that exclaimed WTF=!?

You forgot the rule.

I started reciting the rules.

The first rule of fight club is not to talk about fught culb.
The second ruel of gihjt club is n-

You forgot the rule.

OK MISTER FUCKING MISTER IOUS. What fucking rule did I forget? I'm drunk beyond belief and I'm actually smoking one of yoru blue masters and i haven't had the drugs you've had so what the fuck is going on in plain gufcking englush.

This is as plain as it can be from my part. no drugs at this hour. It's easy.

He leaned over, pointed, You point Forgot point The point Fucking point Rule.


And he left it at that.



--
renaming thread to "shit i gotta get out of my system during may month"

a brief bit of advice?

compile and publish.

these are fucking GOOD, dude.

8)

:shock:

Whythankyou.

Then I just need to find an english/american publisher.

:)

"A hand can be used as a knife.
A handjob could cost you your life"
-Old CS Saying




Chapter One: The Lord's Name

We were headed for Salvation. Peter, me and Mary. I had stopped reading newspapers weeks before we embarked. The old Hillman was making noised dying whales made when the fishermen harpooned them. The road was littered with corpses, vehicles and frames of vehicles, some of them still on fire. Peter kicked the radio with one of his feet and some Mancini started playing. It felt like we were in the opening credits of a movie. I looked out and up and tried to see if the world had gone to black and white and if there were big white letters over our heads. If I'd taken another tab I might have seen it.

We stopped somewhere down the road before entering Salvation itself. A ragged newspaper hang onto a burnt out windshieldwiper and the frontpage declared WAR! under the fold. Some popsinger had gotten a child was what it said on top of the declaration of WAR!. So the big question was, how long had we been tripping?

A signpost lead to Avalanche Hill. It felt ill-omened like a rerun of the worst scene from easy rider. We shrugged and got back into our dying whale and went further down the road. The colours shifted, from black and white to cheesy colours out of the seventies. We were in a western but it felt wrong to be here when we were in a western because all westerns were shot in Italy. Mary reared her head, asking, We haven't taken anything for a couple of days have we? I glanced in her direction and said we haven't taken anything except those tabs of acid we took immediatly after we landed and either that acid was meant for God Himself or the whole world's gone apeshit.

None of us were thinking about the past. We were all thinking about the past but not in the way you think about something you want to say out loud, it was churning in your mind, your subconscious moved cogs and wheels but you wouldn't dream saying it out loud because as far as we knew we'd lose our perspective of what was even remotely right/wrong. We had flown from Amsterdam and landed in New Amsterdam and then we'd taken the tabs that the hippie had given us and it felt to all of us that we never really landed but it couldn't be. Who had heard of a several week long trip on two tabs of acid? None of us atleast. No. It wasn't the acid that did it. It was the world. The world had gone apeshit.

I thought about the day I'd stopped reading newspapers and the reason why I stopped and it might have worked. I always got depressed when I read the papers and I saw the future of the world pissing on it before getting paid to do it. It came to me as one of them moments of truth. I read the paper because I had grown up to do it. I had grown up to take responsibility for the world, responsibility to read books and discuss and debate and I felt cold on the inside and then relief. I wasn't going to read a newspaper anymore. My friends at the faculty had sneered and said that I wasn't taking the responsibility I ought to, me being so bright and intellectual and shit. Then I thought about the responsibility.

Quote from: Sepia:shock:

Whythankyou.

Then I just need to find an english/american publisher.

:)

ask hoshi, she knows a good self publisher.

Heh.

I was being ironic.. This is mostly a dump place for ideas.

but thanks.

publish it anyway.

as sseperate chapters in teh same book.dont'e xplain that it's an idea dump, jsut fuckin put it there as oen story. i thought it was one story. it seems like one story, in a highly mad way. especailyl when ch. 1 comes now.

the style of it feels almost Bukowski-ish.

8)

Chapter Two: They were headed tha-


Pictures had to be shot in sepia if they were to be published in a magazine around here. The fields are ripe yet all machines stand still. There's a stand on the road it says 'LIMONAED' and there are plastic cups scattered around here. The winds drag them in circles like an old Uzumakian painting and the eerieness is to touch. We stop the car and exit it, all of us, Mary saying damn i'm thirsty and we head over to see if there's anything left of the lemonade. Little Timmy's lying there on the other side of the stand and he appears to have been scorched. He doesn't burn but he's making heat and every other minute a puff of smoke emits from his mouth. Peter takes a stick and gouges out Little Timmy's eyes. If we didn't know better, we'd think they were alive. Small snails in his sockets. We should have shivered by this monstrosity but we don't. Something inside us has died or turned into full apathy. We don't care about Timmy. Timmy was probably a douchebag and if we were his age we'd probably hate him cause I know I hated the hyperactive fuckfaces doing stuff like this. Lemonade stands. My grandpa always said that lemonade stands was only incorporated into our lives so that humanity itself would get more used to stand behind the counter of McDonalds, BK, Subway or a bar.

The lemonade was long gone and the lemons were husks with small creatures in them. Snail like, going in circles. It was like squeezing a bug. Small things popped out. An ignorant racist would have asked if they were negro eggs. They weren't. We understood something, simultaneously, there were no black people left in the world. There were no whites and no yellows either. There were no Whitecollar criminals and no rapists. The president had shit his pants as he died on national television talking about pre-emptive strikes, freedom and oil. The president was Little Timmy and vice versa. The understanding was there. We knew. As when you dream something and you know what must be done and what you've dreamt is the truth and nothing but the truth and you wake up and you've written 'PINEAPPLE' on your arm.

What if it's not said Mary, what if not everyone is dead? It could be wrong and we all agreed. But something had happened, something we'd understand when we saw it. Was it the world? Was that the answer? Was it the unhinge that had happened to the world while we were somewhere else? What had happened?

We got into the car and started driving again. The wind had accelerated. Dustclouds gathered. We passed another sign pointing to Avalanche Hill like a bad omen. Not as in 'I'm not going to get this girl home tonight' bad omen but as in 'the world was raped by the antichrist and forcefed to faceraping batmen with syphillis'. There could be no hope here now. There could be no hope in venturing to Avalanche Hill.

The Hillman cursed it's whalelike curse and we were yet again headed for Salvation.

Quote from: T'ai Kunga brief bit of advice?

compile and publish.

these are fucking GOOD, dude.

8)

Seconded. I know you could get this published.

Thirded or fourthed, I can't remember. That last one gave me chills

"the car's on fire and there's no driver at the wheel
and the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides
and a dark wind blows

the government is corrupt
and we're on so many drugs
with the radio on and the curtains drawn

we're trapped in the belly of this horrible machine
and the machine is bleeding to death

the sun has fallen down
and the billboards are all leering
and the flags are all dead at the top of their poles

it went like this:"

-this monologue appears at the beginning of the dead flag blues from the album f#a#oo; it comes from incomplete movie about jail, an unfinished film that efrim wrote and has been working on for the last five years.


Chapter Three: I don't believe you, he said, grinning.

A pale wind was blowing, grinding sand into the hillman's motor making it cough like an old man with a tobacco dependancy. It stopped and we left it for dead. We started walking, taking with us only our cigarettes and bottles of water. The Hillman caught fire after we had walked five hundred yards or so. It seemed the most rational thing to do. Spontaneous combustion.

I'm grinning sheepily, and that's what they do to. My partners in crime. Three minds tuned in, turned on and ready to burn out. And we're thinking, not talking, thinking about the combustion. What if everyone suddenly realized something? Their minds couldn't cope and everyone just caught fire and fell down burning? What if there really was a giant hivemind on this planet and it suddenly said 'does not compute'?

Today's postcard is full of holes. Memory holes, holes in the what the fuck do we do when we come down section and the holes in the policemen by their truck. The policemen aren't burnt. They're just dead and the blood has dried up and the husks of maggots are where their eyes should have been. We grab shotguns and revolvers. The fattest cop has a giant motherfucking hand cannon strapped to his thigh. It's heavy as fuck and these aren't bullets. They are small planets which would blow a tank off course. Giggling in a strange manner I unzip his pants and the smallest cock in the world rears it ugly head. Still giggling I think You were right, you were right.

We walk towards town, seeing it far in the distance but the morning fog makes it difficult to make out any details whatsoever. Avalanche Hill looms under the mountain and for the first time it's visible and it's pitch black. There's an old cadillac in the road, gleaming chrome and red metallic. The seats are white leather and unsoiled. Mary jumps in and revs the engine and we're headed that way again, making miles instead of yards.

We never saw the man that stood in the cornfield draped in black. Black, as in the abyss, black as in the only hope you see when you've already been shot to pieces or drived over by a tank and you can't feel your body. Black as in the way black should have been.

Please, please do not self publish these. They deserve to be cleaned up a bit and submitted to a real publisher. I agree that the grammar adds to the flow and style, so I would be VERY light on the editing if I were you.

It might be hard to find a classification for this but you definitely have your own style and voice going on, and it's good. Really really good.

Whatever you do keep posting them! I'm such a junkie :mrgreen:

Emotional intermission

I can't hear the car anymore. It doesn't make the kind of sounds a car should. It reminds me of when I used to see a shrink. My dad used to say that I was going there to open up a can of worms I couldn't do myself and that something was faulty in my head. Faulty from his perspective I always thought because he couldn't comprehend what I was destined for. I believed in destiny and that I was destined for great things. They would fold for me, unconsciously. My name would be noted in the books. Never footnoted.

The shrink told me I had an angst problem. I was also way too angry for my own age but I though he overexaggerated. He told me to go deeper in myself and I replied that I couldn't. The layers of my mind's fabric were up in the day and I told him I didn't hide anything from him. He said I lied. He told me I had gotten better after I started taking the xanax. Problem was that I was selling it to a buddy of mine. So I reckoned if he was wrong in one thing, he could be wrong in several things.
I tolf him about a dream I had one night, destruction was the theme. It wasn't me that destroyed but I stood on the sideline and watched it happen. He told me this was insecurity and I said hell yes, it's insecurity. How the fuck can I feel secure in a world like this?

He said you gotta grow up, son.

After that his voice was droning, I didn't pay attention, it wasn't beneficial for me to go there. So I nodded, said no, yes and stopped caring. After a couple of sessions this way he told me that I had to pay attention if I wanted to rid myself of the teenageangst and angerproblems aswell as my obvious insecurity.

So he told me, you gotta embrace love. You got to accept it into your heart.

I was shivering with filthy rage and seething with raw anger. In retrospect, I wasn't the first to have thrown a tantrum like this. I yelled and screamed and kicked the cat that was on the couch and couldn't utter a word.

I turned away from love, imagining it a dirty feeling. I spiralled into apathia, returning only briefly in several years. Suicides that never got any way because the gun fired blanks, apartments flooded because I tried to hang myself in a water pipe and I never really learned how to go all the way down the road. It was after one of those sessions with a bicrazor that I woke up on the bathroom floor, the blood hardened just outside my veins and I'd grown so used to seeing some sort of light at the end of a tunnel and then it hit me like an ofcourse.

I couldn't die because I had a purpose. I had a destiny.

And it wasn't on some dirty floor, it would be glory on a gory field stained with blood and everything.
But now I wasn't so sure anymore. I was still alive but was it fate? One of the big words? Or was it something else? Or was this completely uninteresting?

I went for the last option and lit a cigarette.

--
This was something I had to get out of my system and is not a part of the book seeing as it's weak and generally quite shiet. :)


On a publishing note; Impossible to get this published in norway seeing as there is a nationalistic trend going on at the moment. No english whatsoever so I reckon if I ever should edit this and send it to a publisher I could use some eventual help from someone that knows something more about foreign systems than what I do.  Heh.

Chapter Four: Officer, does it matter?


It hits when we see the sunrise. We've only seen clouds sofar, but we can't really remember, but it's gotta be two weeks that we've driven around. No real weather. Limbo. When we saw the sunrise, we knew. Something was quite fucked up. Every pulse fired from the sun throbbed in the air and we heard the grass sing. The paint on the barndoors joined in on the chorus and we had to stop the car to look. We closed our eyes and we saw the throb, all of it, we were the throb, one of tim leary's mixtapes, we were newage sewage tibetan music, squarepusher at 1800 bpm, elvis rapping and the soviet army's choir beatboxing. Slampoets versed us in wastelands and desert lives. god himself played the bongodrums and we were all the childrens choir at a catholic black mass. It felt natural then to scotchtape eachother and drinking gatorade and grapefruitjuice. We were on so many drugs.

Next followed the ride, we took the highway and cut off, jumping through fields, picking corn on our way over, like children drinking lemonade that tastes like piss but we're smiling because this is bliss, everything is happening all at once but they're not, drugaddicts should shut the fuck up because what they see is for themselves and not for the world and people should become smarter to see who's fucked up beyond recognition and not label them as prophets, because we've had enough of that, we're tired of them because they mostly speak bullshit anyway like most of the world's population so we shouldn't reward them for it atleast and fuck them, fuck them really hard, the agony you've cause but we won't follow through because life, god, death and everything itself is nothing but a huge trip and I think I've got it now.

Peter speaks violently, furiously fast, almost in tongues, me and mary hear the same shit anyhow but our minds are racing aswell and we think he may be right before we know he's right when he shoots himself in the ear, missing due to the fact that he moving his jaw at fivethousand miles per hour and he's crying, salty streams headed for nowhere in particular, but they're there and I'm reminded why people cry and that people can cry and the whole aspect of emotions open up again but I harden on because in your own words Peter, they don't need you anymore and I'm stonecold when I blast your skull and nail it to the inside of the door.

We stop the car and we know we can't bury you. That's what they told us to do and all our options are something they have said so we sit down to think of something completely new and we spend weeks until Mary finds the answer, and we leave you before we're headed for the horizon. We hear you ignite when we leave and we've got the nastiest feeling that we were wrong because someone were obviously right. There's a phoenix somewhere and it's burning us all away so we gun the engine, we think it's time to change course, our hive mind feeling diminished but it's stronger. We've been reminded about the things we should have forgotten and we turn away from the road to Salvation and head for Avalanche Hill.



--
Gni trynet til noen bortover en ruglete mursteinsvegg, sliter hodet av, lille lag for lille lag helt til man sitter igjen med en r??d strek og litt gugge.

That last paragraph, ... damn

Chapter Five: Do you need someone to walk into-


I don't know about time anymore, time's fleeting yet at the same time it isn't, it's like when you stare and stare at a brickwall long enough and the bricks sortof move, but they can't, cause there aren't enough space, but still they move and move and if you blink you'll miss it but you won't blink and I'm not blinking either because suddenly, time's gone.

I've had a smoke in my mouth for a long time now and I can't seem to remember when I took one of the gauloises out of the pack and lit it and I can't remember the last time I bogarted one of them, it's like we're out of the loop. We aren't affected by time, we're only affected by time in the sense at which our brains take it for granted that we are affected by time. We haven't stopped and thought things through, now, have we? I check the shotgun side but he's still dead on the road miles behind us and Mary's shivering in the back, not liking the thoughts we think. This isn't a controlled mission, this is a suicide plunge from the space station.

The road to the hill is muddy and in poor quality and I guess this is where the taxpayers' money should have gone but then I remember this country of mine and I start laughing. Mary isn't. There are signs signalling the sale of eggs, bread or gloryhole blowjobs but we speed on, up up up up, to Avalanche Hill, on the foot of that mountain and it looks demonic and it almost looks like Mount Rushmore as Rushmore did when it was a sacred place to the indians and not a sacred place for head. Bats are flying out of the noses of the presidents but they aren't sneezing, no longer human from years and years of petrification and these are the fathers that watch over us. Silent and petrified, these are our Gods.

I grab the ether in the front and hand it to mary before I'm shouting my brains out and waking every dead spirit in this place but for someone this would make perfect sense, for me, no, but after all, this is bat country.

excellent as always, except for the last sentence....I don't know why, but somehow the reference in the ending cheapened it for me...I like your work a lot, and I think you don't need to use anyone's words but your own....[/pretentiouscritic]

you did say that you wanted honesty.

8)

I know. it would never survive an edit, the reference would be there, but much more obscure and only understandable by me.
been doing too much thompson stuff thinking lately so it gets mirrored in what i gotta get out..

thanks by ze way.

Chapter Six: Time? Yes, it's time.


The climb becomes steeper the more we're nearing the foot of the mountain and I gun the engine making myself feel at one with the car, a humming bee covered in sleek chrome, headed for an unknown hill. Our speed increases in pace with the spelling errors on the roadside signs. Egs n chikin. The smell of burned inbreeds fill our noses as we stop infront of a caf?©. Caf?© as coffee and beef jerkies.

It's built as a saloon and thought strikes me. Everything important, every monument built to express the marvel that is the united states of america are miles away. They don't do any good anymore, they're far away, and me and Mary might just be the last humans alive. The phallic symbols scattered across the globe have no significance anymore. The theorization of the existance of the illuminti, big foot, the yeti, nessie or an intelligent crowd of more than fifty people aren't important anymore. From now on, we view ourselves as excavators, archeologists. We're here to determine what's what and we still haven't figured out whether it's us or the world that's on a permanent acid trip.

The saloon is what will be left in our minds regarding the status of usa. It's fair, we think, you wanted the cowboy image so now you can have it when you're in your shallow little grave aswell. We find water on bottles, a big pot, two mugs and coffee. There's no electricity so we set fire on the shack. 'Last coffi bifor avalanse hil' goes first.

We dance around the bonfire, waiting for our coffee to finish, dancing tribally as we imagine how the tribals actually dance and it feels like I'm on e again and it's some crappy goa on the speakers and the only thing keeping me from vomiting is the drug, the drug is keeping me alive and it hits us and we don't know if it's a thought or if it's a voice but the drug is keeping us alive. Adam and Eve, dancing around a burning coffee shack, high on acid and ecstacy and I can't help myself and we laugh and we think of the small martians, watching us.
We drink our coffee and smoke our cigarettes and it's starting to blow again, it's a bleak voice shattering through, to us, to anything left on the face of the planet. The coffee is bitter and it feels right. If the setting would have been different we would have called ourselves pretentious whores, but this is actually it. We're the only ones alive so we take the names adam and eve.


Adam and Eve leaves the burning shack laughing. They wonder if this is what the prolifers thought about or if it's too obvious. They proceed to laugh even more. It's a heartily  laughter as they head towards the little town. The shadow is moving with them and the Mad One steps forward and into the bleak light of this postapocalyptic world.

intellegent crowds of 50+ people? Now that's a heresy.

Chapter Seven: The fabled femme-fatale

He doesn't speak. The words leave his throat through a smashed bottle of whiskey that's been smoking cigarettes made of pure tar. The drugs wear off when we enter the basement.
We came into Avalanche Hill and stopped on the town square. From one of the smaller shacks around here, smoke arose from the chimney, black and it smelled like the ground around auschwitz when it rains. I left my bogarted cigarette in my mouth and picked up my handcannon, mary picking up one of the jdbottles that wasn't really jd's but poor quality russian vodka coloured with caramel and pissed in. The Hill was a dysoptian place. It was dark and it seemed odd that tom waits wasn't sitting there singing and playing the harmonica and had a little freakmonkey on a leash.

The air was filled with music. Not the apparent rightaway to the ear music but when we sat down on a bench near the dried out fountain, the rushing of the wind and the beating of the panes made some sort of music. For the first time since we could remember we did something remotely normal, something remotely safe. We sat on the bench, drinking coffee and redwine, eating crackers and brie. We'd switched our cheap french cigarettes for cheap french cigarillos and we simply sat there.
We knew there was no point in talking because none of us knew more than the other and the cookies filled with gloom and doom and we foresaw our silent future, not even talking or exchanging lines when we die.

Then we headed for the smell, wet burned up death and we found a man that would have been warriorking centuries ago but nothing more than a simple grinder now. The basement was dry and the dust felt like cheaply cut cocaine, burning and making us sniff and sneeze.

He breathed words but didn't speak. He was a bonegrinder, following his shamanic legacy in the only way possible. Only way they would allow it. He hadn't been out for weeks and hadn't eaten either. He said he didn't need any earthly goods to maintain his life and spirit and we believed him.

He sat down with us at a small table and there was a loud knock on the door.

I was waiting for dow jones to soar, they said it'd be today. Star spangled banners and a bald eagle flying overhead singing amazing grace through megaphones and nothing would be rusty anymore, it'd just be 1950s america seen through a nice and shiny chrome plates 8mm camcorder and all legs and all arms would move in synch, for the dow jones would soar.

Chapter: Mental intermission


"Are we the last living souls?"
-Gorillaz


So I take her arm and I move, circular, making something in the progress, unknown, like all of it is and he's there I see him there in the threshold and words have double meanings again and it feels like i've been drugged with key23 and it all makes so fucking sense but I let it slide for sense was never my part to play in this world and he's standing there and like the end of brave new world, this is not the monster, this is not the monster and we're headed for him, his eyes, the piano dies and the strings reattach themselves and they're making a tune for us, they're playing for us in this action sequence when we dart away, we're the last of all humanity and there's a mad bonegrinder and a mad arab who doesn't really exist and they possess the answers and we run away out of the room the dust of knuckles still clinging in our nostrils and there's suddenly sun there's weather on the outside and the dust is blowing and we're back where we always were we were always here in the wild west and it didn't change only our perceptions of it and we twisted it perverted it and we were those who hung him up on his cross.

We're in business and we're running, streams of colour linger for seconds before following us, we rocket scientists on crackspeedcocaine and we're fucking a mule on lsd and noone could catch us now because the strings move towards crescendo and it's in sight all of humanity is in sight and that's where we're headed, it's only us and the future of the entire planet and we're the new adam and eve but noone will ever know us as adam or eve or noone because here, gods will not be allowed to exist and we're in the garden of eden once more and litter's on the streets and everyone's dead and we love them for it and the violins are closing in this is where we're headed and we meet them and violins head up on it and about it and this is where we never saw it until it hit crescendo.

Chapter: What number again?


Pale light hits me on the outside, a moment to remember the sun and it's bleak. Dreary. This is the wasteland, this is the world as it always was but now the thin veil has been lifted. Or a heavier one have made its' entrance.

And I stand there, on the outside of that dark and demonish hut, on this town square. I am watching the sky, hoping for a sign, now that i'm the only human alive. All I ever wanted was a fucking pepsi.

I turn around, rustles of feet and there they are. Her, him and it, staring at me telling me things with their eyes and telling me that they are right and they know this and their lips move in synch and they tell me, we are the future. you are the future if you want. They tell me that this is a tale, an adventure. They're telling me that they want to reprogram the entire human species, they tell me that I can decide it. I can return to a status quo and go back again or I can do something else, something never tried before. Erasing all memories from all humans everywhere. Creating something from scratch, they don't know they say how it would work. But it'd be change and it would be something new and different and their words chime in my ears and they are god and I--


-
That's probably it for the summer. I'll probably pop back to see who hoshi matched me with. And I'll revise and remake this story. SUMMER FOR FUCKS GLORY SAKE!

Have a good one, darlings.

::Waves so long to Sepia::

Thanks for ending the story so succinctly!

I'm calling it a barberstrike, a concussional fight to redeem myself and my tags and motion catches me off guard, snarling like a beast and a burden and now i'm the prey.

thrivers drive me far and then across before seeing and then redeeming,me, leaving it aside like a tear running through an ashen valley of tormented bees trying to find their hive

but

it's


not

left



anymore


and the future seems dreary because all that was ever left was the last fifth and it's gone nowhere but it's not in my belly and the sand and the dust and the shit makes me wannahave a drink so i'm downing imaginary shots of polish whiskey and the caramellic flavour makes me want to drink: water.

and I stepped up and over to him, the man, sitting there, the man, sitting there with a can of gasoline and a book of matches, outside an embassy and the people, the guards, toting mp5s with no security and they won't fire blanks on this day because the bald eagle will weep for all of us, yet, the mouse said to the owl: they stand.

a motionous blur torches the man with a towel for a head and he's serene and the jocks with the mp5s are suddenly in the company of some head of state and they're laughing


serenely


of the man who just doesn't get it, there, draped in flames and violent emotions.

then there is nothing left of the man only tears in the ash and it's the guards, they're laughing still of the man on fire and the cry and their laughter and they cry and it's their laughter and the tears laugh.


meanwhile, someone snuck in.

Everything is still nothing as it changes.

Two small punkboys stand there, the blitz rains and they're trying to be like they used to be because that's what everyone told them, be yourselves, and they think about the time when they started a band, ages ago, in some garage with nicked equipment and all they ever did was being angry.

They tattooed themselves, got drunk too many times to count with half a brain, pierced themselves, did stupid things but never stopped to think it through. Why did I slap her? Why did I smear coke in her cunt when she didn't want to fuck me?

These items were written off as 'stupid things i did when drunk, they happen' and were repeated. So they stand there, in the blitzrain, celebrities because they've raped their way forth.

Technically, a judge said, if a woman is loosely dressed and passes out, it is her own responsibilty. The flesh and desire is indeed powerful.
Standing ovations from people who didn't know, didn't want to know, but were trapped in the courtroom for the day because of a job or something quite similar. These people didn't care, they did what everyone else did and everyone else was just like themselves so they cheered. It is easier to cheer than to critisize. Then they went home to their cliche homes and leftwingwriters told yet another cliche story about the white methaddicted trailertrash that married their sisters said oh golly and interpreted the amendment regarding guns as their own personal right to maintain an integral state of their own in their trailer.

Then, as the boys strode along the reddish carpet and the blitz rained and they were themselves, small and innocent and angry and far from intelligent or with a passion or a soul, a leftwingwriter could be seen, jumping over the policeblockade with a pen in his right hand and he stabbed the two members of the band, repeatedly, before a should-have-been-dead moviestar broke his arm and said 'that's how we bring 'em down texas style' and the writer laughed.

The police asked why.

The writer politely and as calm as a sheep answered: I'm tired. I'm sick and tired of stereotyping these bastards and then suddenly I realize I'm not. Many of these are glorious people in their own ways, but all humans are golden. I can no longer tolerate the men and women of this country that does not wish to fly like icarus flew. I can no longer tolerate the lack of innovation.
I grew up like them. I'm trailertrash. I've been there and I respect no man that can't get out of it when I could.

And this is why you stabbed the singer and the bassplayer of a popular punkband?

IT WASNT A FUCKING PUNKBAND. Punk died when the first time someone thought let's make money outta this, it's not about what the fuck you wear, how much of your skin is pierced or mutilated or burned and the fuck not anything about the body. It's in your fucking head. It's a mindset. It doesn't change, it evolves. It makes something out of nothing. It's like everything else.
Many people say the hippies betrayed their beliefs, but they weren't hippies. The people that strolled around naked and smoked their fucking minds out with ganja weren't hippies, or, they were, and the others were something else.
There's followers to every cult and sect and sometimes it becomes a fashionobject and people with power are always incompetent.

There's a smokescreen. Someone says 'oi! dirty hippie' and you know what you look for because you are prejudiced no matter how welleducated or welldrugged you are.

You're fuckall and you too. Now, take me to the chair.

As he was lead from the precinct house to the van that would transport him further, the blitz rained and he bathed in the radiant sense of universal irony.

Rah.

TCT would also say Rah.

Just predictin'.

Quote from: Sepia
IT WASNT A FUCKING PUNKBAND. Punk died when the first time someone thought let's make money outta this,

A punk-elitist.

Now I've seen it ALL.

Sepia, my boy, you are truly a fine human being. I truly hope that you manage to hold off on raping and killing your way into incarceration until after I've moved to Sweden and we've had a proper chance to get drunk and doped up and catch an INC show.

8)


p.s. Roger: does your cynicism know no bounds?

Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger

Quote from: Sepia
IT WASNT A FUCKING PUNKBAND. Punk died when the first time someone thought let's make money outta this,

A punk-elitist.

Now I've seen it ALL.

Damn, you're right. And thanks for pointing it out rog. Further!

still thanking for the kind words.

Quote from: Tomorrow Comes Today
p.s. Roger: does your cynicism know no bounds?

No.  I almost disbelieved myself out of existence.

TGRR,
Will achieve that, one fine day.

Quote from: Tomorrow Comes TodaySepia, my boy, you are truly a fine human being. I truly hope that you manage to hold off on raping and killing your way into incarceration until after I've moved to Sweden and we've had a proper chance to get drunk and doped up and catch an INC show.

Now why would you want to move to Sweden? Not that I think it might be a slight improvement, but still...

I'm scared. :P

teh enlargened chicken breasts of course.

Sweden is one of two civilized nations left on earth.

especially when you consider bestiality a hall mark of civilization.


that being said, it can't really be any worse than the rest of europe, sexually deviance wise, and umm, at least the got the swiss army!!! or is that switzerland. fuck :/

all the enlargened chickenbreasts I ever saw came from over there or eastern europe. I had a blueberry the other day that was almost the size of my fist and weighed over three hundred grams. it was called 'american blueberry'. it tasted like watermelon but I was giggling all the way down to the throat.



"ontopic" though; I've been revising the story and have added some stuff but I'm in doubt this at the moment:


I think I want to add even more to the feeling of timelessness and discard newspapers, current politics or exactly what kind of drugs were taken. I want it to happen in a more mythical america, I think, but have anyone thought anything about this or have something to contribute regarding this?

And for everytime I push down a pedal, the hillman screams, guttural, gargantuan, pain. It¬¥s us two now, the car and the chauffeur. The car feels oddly connected with me, like an extension and I knew where I was headed when I first gunned this engine, miles and miles away and I know it¬¥s been a weird trip and I know it¬¥s somehow been important  but I can¬¥t for the life of me remember how or why, there are glimpses, temporarily bouts of sanity or insanity, places names signs objects, inanimate aswell as animate, feelings sensations and somewhere there is a dark guttural drawl that would put my hillman to shame that started it all, I feel there was a plan at some point, a beginning and a curious wish to end it, whatever it was, I¬¥m wading in my subconsciousness and the door on my right rattles and I let it, because, hey, this is supposed to be a free country so I feel free to drive among rocks and trees.

This is where I begin. I know it now and I know why it was fitting. Vineland. The first time one of our kind sat foot on the continent of freedom and I giggle and laugh and throw a hysteric fit before I´m back on the concrete, lines dividing me and everyone else. People told me that marketing and advertising was a crooked business and I remember not caring because there was something important behind it, the schemes, the smokescreens and the hard labour to create a perfect illusion and I remember myself telling these warnful people that it´s only an illusion if you want to buy into it. I told these people that in an open office landscape. Why would I work in an office?

The air is salty and the sea is close and Leiv Eriksson is only a trip away, but what trip? I check my eyes in the rearview mirror and they´re almost all black and my head´s spinning but I sortof expected this. When did I get on the trip and what did I take? And why did I take it?
I stop at a diner up the road and sit on one of the stools by the counter, ordering coffee and a bee ell tee. There´s a book in my pocket called something Dexter Ward but the book´s torn and old so I don´t know but I begin at page one. The words hum to me, sortof alive, trying to catch me where I sit but I don´t feel like paying attention to I end up sitting there, staring at words, sipping coffee and glancing at the fat lady that makes my blt, she´s talking with someone else, also female, she has that same uniform aswell and they giggle, laugh and aren´t very discrete. Then I ask myself, what am I reading for?

The supposed blt arrives, drenched in fat and grease dripping off it, a thick layer of mayonnaise makes it look like a acne shoved along with old tomates and sickly-looking lettuce of some sorts and the bacon is just black but I´m hungry and I knew it would taste like crap the moment I sipped that black tar they called coffee and the only reason to drink it is because it´s caffeine in it. I should have ODed on amphetamine instead. It would have been more pleasant and the effect would last longer.
I have a fear of sleeping now, my mind is somehow cleared, everything seems fixed and not a large chunk of chaos sitting behind my eyes. Will I remember this state of mind if I wake again?

I finish my blt and light up a cigarette. The fivehundred pounds of flesh hurtle towards and puts forth her fatfuck sausage fingers. Her eyes are dull and I already know what she´s going to say. Then she says it: You can´t smoke in here. And I ask: Why? Because you´re bothering other people with your addiction. I look around and there are noone here save the other waitress and I say: I´m only bothering you and your friend over there. It´s against the law she says. Because it is unhealthy I reply.
Yeah, she says, with a face glowing that she´s somehow won something, like a sick puppy to win the sick puppy contest and waiting for the sick puppy trophy. Well, ms. fatfuck, you´ve just poisoned me and shortened my lifespan by probably five years because of your fucking addiction to fat. I wouldn´t be surprised it you used that bee ell tee to cleanse your clogged up arteries.

And I left it at that.

me <3 horab

Quote from: Sepiaall the enlargened chickenbreasts I ever saw came from over there or eastern europe. I had a blueberry the other day that was almost the size of my fist and weighed over three hundred grams. it was called 'american blueberry'. it tasted like watermelon but I was giggling all the way down to the throat.

i knew it!  :shock:

The rain¬¥s on outside. Some people say they feel alive when they go out into the air, they defy the weathergods. They scream and shout that they are alive and they do something constructive. If you¬¥re alive, shut the fuck up about it because most of us aren¬¥t. We don¬¥t need suburban family fathers in goretex outfits to tell us that they are alive before they burn their own worlds in alcohol. Let¬¥s celebrate so what we possibly had tonight is gone tomorrow. The dawn will be hours and hours away, redeeming and confessing to a priest on a barstool, tellling stories from the old country and sipping whiskey, so that he, the priest, can tell his stories without being one. My skirt clings to my balls and my thighs after  three minutes out here and I know I¬¥m cold but the drugs are good to me, like they always are. There are salvation army people out, preaching, giving away soup and bread but I never accept it. They¬¥re just furthering the problem. They let the beast live and feed it enough scraps to make it hungry all the time. One day, the beast or the chains holding him will go away. We are frozen in perpetuality, we are all decaying and we are all wanting to die. Not prolonging life to live a dream once, but to die. No glorification.

A man stops me, touches me and I smile the smile they expect to see upon my face. He smiles back, he´s sure of himself and I hate him. His well-formed body, his striking face and the big cock that´s throbbing on the inside of expensive linen pants. I feel sick and play it silent which doesn´t matter much because he´s happy if I nod or say yes or no and already I know he wants the porn act. He´s after a school uniform and he´s got no balls to himself to rape a child so he´s stuck on the street with me and I feel even more sick. It ain´t the drugs and it ain´t the trade. It´s him. Smug man. Probably made a name somewhere for himself. Doing something with a good reputation, he´s spending hardearned cash. If he had less taste he would probably wear a wifebeater and some prewashed precut shitlooking jeans with fake fake fake fake cowboyboots and smoke marlboros. It´s the way he touches me.

He ain´t quick. I was right about the hard earned cash. He wants every penny to have value, every cent is to be part of a dream realized miles away from his respectable business. Banging down a hooker with a penis.

And I howl together with the hillman, making ourselves known to the suburban sprawl that is new america. Once, shortly and briefly, this was a state of dream, utopia. Then the political trends shifted and it was agreed upon that utopia was to be the fantasy fairyland which we would all dream about when silently contemplating suicide. The land-of-dreams would be the-land-of-work, disenchanting and destroying all magic that was left. Other people however, who still dreamt of america would get together and form a new type of magic to be used within it's borders to preserve that which was once pure and a glimmering star among dull and dark nations. They called it magick and from magick was born the perfect illusion, the grand entrance and the escape artist's escape from under chains fifteen feet under water.

I'm driving through cornfields and everything's out of a stephen king flick from the seventies. The colours are dry and the wind blowing is bleak only making the rows of corn waver childishlike. There's thunder over the next ridge and far away are lightning streaks torching cattle and barns. Why do I always get that feeling on acid? That everything has just been the arranging of domino pieces and that this is the exact moment. I can feel a finger making a sudden movement to topple it all. Fate seems inevitable on acid driving down an old highway with dark weather and dark winds.

The fields are screaming along with us and I only catch one glimpse of him but there he is, standing lonely by the way with a grin and sickert.

They were my wings. I knew it as things like that are known the instance they happen. Like when stressful people die there's a sigh of relief followed by the guilty conscience and then there's the mourning but it all goes away in liquour as it always does when people say something serious has happened and all you have to do is play along and then you're drunk, quite free and with the same amount of bullshit you have to shit out of your mouth to get to that point but there's a difference because now you can hone your skills in other areas than 'o really did he buy a tv set that cheap thats genious sorry mate i only got ice in mine yeah thank you ill have whatever you have oh? i had a one of the cuervo, yeah that bottle thats been collecting dust for ages and is better than any whiskey youll ever taste cheers but look i gotta go talk to auntie aunt because i havent spoken to her for SO LONG'

anyhow. they were wings. earlier, ive only imagined them. when i was quite drunk and hate would be the recurring emotion for the people around me. i would imagine them to be like tyraels, whitehot and smiting anyone nearby. they werent smiting. they were there however and people started looking at them and i was kindof freaked out because i had been on speed for a few days because people were demanding all manners of steaks at the restaurant and the chef hadnt chilled out for months and i couldnt burn myself again to go home, disfigurement.

so i had wings. and i wasnt drunk this time. and i was headed somewhere, the heart of the country. the black heart of life itself.

Bumped for greatness.

fuck yeah.

wouldyaknow, it's back again.

This time with a POSSIBLE ENDING!!!! (It's only been through the mill once and I haven't weeded out grammatical, spelling or other errors, still working on STYLE and possible implementation)


This is it. Don't you remember? We're in your dreamcountry now, we're smiling and smoking marlboros and we're not talking about it. Can't you remember?

You had a friend and he went to artschool, he called himself a videoartist and you watched his stuff and laughed at him behind his back. He soon became the artfag because you had this wonderful ability in your brain, to put two and two together, they learned you that in school. You were never a stupid kid, you got decent grades, decent enough grades for you to get an engineer's degree and you got to play with trains, the real ones from your childhood imagination. You still contain the glee you felt at seven when you're on callduty because they had to lay off or how they put it restructurize the organisation.

You know what happened to the artfag but you don't speak about it. When someone did mention it, there was this lurking omnious silence until someone said I saw Joanna by the mall today and boy has she grown huge and you laugh and snigger and ask who wants a cigar or some of your homemade bourbon and your wife enters, smiling with a tray of club sandwiches and leaving the room with You boys behave now and you know she's in the mood and you'll get a spanking later and you'll enjoy that but you can't really tell any of these people, your friends whom you've gone hutning with, travelled to tijuana and visited texas with. Bar the blood, they are your next of kin but they wouldn't understand.

Artfag ended up as many other artfags, working doubleshifts at 7-11 until he shot himself infront of a customer, repeatedly screaming YOU WONT FUCKING UNDERSTAND BITCH to an elderly woman that had asked regarding the availability of a new softdrink marketed for the 18-26 male segment.

What did we ever do to our heroes? How many of them died penniless, unhappy and unfulfilled because you were too fucking busy studying, working, looking for discounts on lawnmowers and building trains in the garage.
No action is still action you once overheard some kid outside your mall, he was perhaps fourteen and was dressed in black and filled with logos of bands, pierced and smoking cigarettes which you know he stole. You held him by one of his arms and smacked him in the head, dropped him and drove home to finish that last stretch of train and you felt this glow inside you, earnest and with no need to call forth happy childhood memories because you've always had enough of the unpleasant ones but you never really talked about them but you vowed that your kid wouldn't grow up with scars from a beltbuckle and you never hit him, you never touched him when he played that music loud, never kicked his shit when you found him with a girl of what you saw as questionable ethnical background. You built for him a larger prison, a more important prison yet only when it has been observed or destroyed.
Do you remember the last discussion you had with your son? He was home from college and he came down as you sat and saw the news on the cnn and he asked Hey dad, what's happening in the world and you replied with The same goddamn shit happens everyday and he said Well, why do you watch it then and you said without looking away from the tv, to stay updated, to know what's going on, you know that, that's an important lesson and your son sighed as he grabbed a milkbottle and you took your face away from a vice president or something that killed someone and you said Now what do you mean by sighing that way and he said Nevermind dad, you won't understand.
You didn't understand when he told you, it was like babble, it was something the artfag could've said while clipping his ridiculous movies about a violent dad with a beltbuckle and an american flag and sex pistols' anarchy in the uk blaring over and you built him his last brick of prison just as your dad did when he said he was proud of you on graduation day.

This is it. Don't you remember? We're in your dreamcountry now, we're smiling and smoking marlboros and we're not talking about it. Can't you remember?
There is much you should've understood come the apocalypse but it takes years to train a brain, just like it takes years to get an education or foster a child or not asking anybody out. You had time but you were doing things, you let control go because you knew someone would pick you up. You followed the news and put your trust in them, you saw shit going from bad to worse but there was this prickling sensation in your stomach that someone would pick you up if push came to shove, someone would help you, rescue you. You always were a good citizen and took pride in that, folding the flag the way you learned in the navy and didn't even drive drunk. You voted with your heart you said when someone asked you what you voted for but I'm sorry to tell you now that you're dead, you didn't. You voted for reasons I won't ever understand. You voted for the sensation in your stomach that when you stood upon a shore one night with nuclear winter happening around looking across an ocean and wondering if there stood a mirrorimage on the other side. You voted for help, for insecurity, for fear and the shit that made the news be the same goddamn thing every day and the worst part of it was that you thought you did it out of love but then again, you never read Orwell dad.

Now we're here. The final curtain. Frank Sinatra singing in the endtimes and we hum as we walk along a corridor of the darkest light I ever saw. We're terrified as fuck and we don't know what, where or how to do this. You did what you did for our sake and now we'll do our part. The sum of all the knowledge you instilled in us along with our own interpretations are what we'll carry with us. Who were you and what was the sum of your knowledge? We will baptize the end of this the same way you baptized us, by force and ignorance and your own ideals of right and wrong. You believed that might makes right and we will honour your ideals. You believed in a heaven and a hell and we'll send you where you always wanted to go. You believed in order and it is in the name of order we still walk down these corridors. You believed in heroes but never what they did, you never mimicked your heroes other than quoting them to look smart, to look cool, a part of the herd or a part of something different. We are walking to the crematorium and the dead fill the walls with their screams and the smell of roasted human flesh is in our noses but we don't feel dizzy or vomit now, we've been in this corridor before. We are burying you now and we bury ourselves alongside with you. We will join the fold finally, isn't that what you wanted? Homogenity is good and diversity is bad and Donald Ducks three nephews were Huey, Dewey and Louie. We smile as we follow your principles, your ways of life and beliefs. We follow you to the halls of compromise and in our leash we have the worst hound of hell himself, hound of blame and we call him quitter.


This is it. Don't you remember? We're in your dreamcountry now, we're smiling and smoking marlboros and we're not talking about it. Can't you remember? Try to remember.

I like this quite a bit. Thank you!

shit...I'll have to read this later when I have more time.