2gameprince

[2gameprince]

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[2gameprince]

25 posts!

[2gameprince]

10 posts!

[2gameprince]

Lancelot (Incomplete)

There were forty-three of us back then. Arthur, Gawain, Geraint, Percival, Bors, Lamorak, Kay, Gareth, Bedivere, Gaheris, Galahad, Tristan, Aglovale, Agravain, Bagdemagus, Baudwin, Brastius, Breunor, Caradoc, Colgrevance, Constantine, Dagonet, Daniel, Ector, Ector de Maris, Elyan, Galehaut, Galeshin, Geraint, Gingalain, Leodegrance, Lionel, Maleagant, Morien, Pelleas, Sagramore le Desirous, Safir, Segwarides, Tor, Ulfius, Uriens, Ywain and myself. We all drank from the chalice, and just like that we were eternal. Some decided to stay in Avalon, like Arthur, but more of us wanted to come back. Here. To see the progression of the world. The World Government had known about us since the dawn of time. Hell, I guess you could say we founded the World Government. Originally. Some os us became soldiers. Joined different nations. Branched out. Helped make and win wars. Men of power. What else were we good for? As time went on the people of the new ages didn’t want peace. Not like we fought for. They just wanted control. More powers and bombs and guns. They liked it. I guess things have calmed down, but that thirst for blood is still there. Just barely tamed now. My life has become simpler, ever since I quit serving men of power. The last time I worked with the World Government is when they asked me to kill Kennedy. Now, normally whenever I told that story I used to tell who was ever listening to ask Lyndon Johnson. That he’d give them the scoop. It was a joke, of course. Johnson didn’t remember a thing. That was, after he had his memory wiped. I remember when I was called into that room. They had Johnson sitting down with some other shadowy heads. And that was when they proposed killing off John. Now, I had been close with John for a time. I knew about him and Miss Monroe. I didn’t think it mattered much. All my colleagues seemed to think so. And the instant they brought up me killing Kennedy, Lyndon lost it. So they put him on a sedative, mixed his brain around and sent him on his way. They had me on so much medication back then. I would of done anything they said. And I did. I killed John F. Kennedy under the instruction of leaders far more powerful than him. And that��s how that whole song and dance goes. After I snapped out of whatever they had me on I knew working with these people was out of the question. This was the final straw. I should have seen them going for Miss Monroe. I guess I wasn’t invited to that meeting. Some of the world knows what happened, but no one will say anything. No justice will come to those responsible. For a time it seemed as if the only people that existed were those who enjoyed stepping on others and those who enjoy being stepped on. I will admit, I floated around the Prohibition and bootlegging scene for a while, but that life just wasn’t for me. I worked in some fractions against Al Capone, but I never went far with that kind of life. I couldn’t move in or adapt to that old Italian ideology. The mafia wasn’t my thing, but it paid well-enough. I messed my ties over the decades anyways. I guess moving down from the government and joining up with the mob wasn’t exactly a good transition, but I needed money and their benefits were the best. That was until the day I found myself out on a contract and sitting behind a fella named Henry Hill. I was told to put a bullet in his head and be on my way. It wasn’t like I was gonna get caught. But something about the whole thing just took me back to John and how I felt then. So I botched the hit and left the killing business. I suppose the sixties and eighties were kind of darks times for me. Thinking back to an older age, I think the two people I could consider my greatest friends were Arthur Doyle and Erik Weisz. That is, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the man who came to be known as Harry Houdini. I met Arthur after he had come out of Medical School. Arthur and Harry met in 1920 and I tended to lean more toward Arthur as the years went on. The three of us used to have some adventures, I’ll tell you what… but things changed. I was devastated after Harry passed. Wish I could of done something. And one day Arthur stopped answering my letters. I never made any attempt to reconnect, honestly. A new age was approaching and I guess it was just one of those times I had to transition or get lost in the nostalgia of the last few decades. The few people who know about me, who know what I am, usually ask if I had ever met Tolkien. Malcom Little and Andy Warhol in particular. I don’t know why they were so interested in that. As I’d always tell them I was never a big fan of the man. I enjoyed The Hobbit, yet couldn’t stand The Lord Of The Rings. I could never understand it. Plus, there was that whole thing with C.S. Lewis. Personally, I think Tolkien secretly beat Lewis over the head with a bible until he gave into his beliefs. Believe me, I knew Lewis. He was a great guy, but he was impressionable. A frustrated youth who tried to give off a confident outward appearance. Tolkien just kind of beat down on him, always coming off like some cocky spiritualist. He tried to act superior and rain inescapable truths on an unsuspecting Lewis. Sure, I knew Tolkien was correct. And that Christ had walked the Earth and all the mythical phenomenon was true, but still. The way he went about it made me… uneasy. Though, I may have to blame myself for Lewis’ transformation. Meeting me, there was no denying the presence of god. But, what neither of them could never understand was… even I doubted the truths behind the Bible. Yes, we drank from the chalice, but there was still so much more Arthur and I never knew. So much more I feared would never be answered. Tolkien and Lewis became content with whatever little they knew and eventually stopped seeking answers. I think that is what drew me to Charles Darwin. Now, there was a brilliant man. A little assertive, but brilliant nonetheless. The only man I ever met to match his scientific brilliance, but in the form of musical brilliance, was Ludwig Van Beethoven. I was in love with his music. Even helped him out a little in the beginning, until he got his bearings. I have to say, I do blame myself for his hearing. In his advanced years we used to fence. Though, I’m not sure it was called fencing in this days… anyway. One of my most automatic combat techniques was always leading into a swing bringing decapitation. One too many hits to the side of the head and in the ears I think cost him his hearing. Still, he didn’t blame me. I last saw him in 1816. After that I went back to drifting around, as I had before relocating to France the following year. You want to hear a funny story? Did you know Edwin Booth, brother of John Wilkes Booth, saved the life of Robert Todd Lincoln, Abraham Lincoln’s son? Interesting right? Edwin had caught and pulled Robert up after he had fallen between the platform and a moving train. In fact, it was said that Edwin received a letter in the following months thanking him. I personally witnessed this event. I didn’t get involved though. The platform was so crowded at the time, I could have barely noticed. Still, it was quite the feat. So, I’m sure you could image my surprise when Wilkes assassinated Abraham. Looking back on it… I think something was up. Like the two incidents and those involved were more connected than people let on. Wilkes was a Confederate sympathizer. Funny story… I took the bastard in that night. At this time I was living in this small cottage out on those little range in Washington. He stood with me for a few days. He told me he was a drifter looking for work. He didn’t do me any harm and after he was well on his way he headed on down to Virginia. A few days later the Union soldiers got to him. And good for them, I say. I think my life has been fulfilling enough. Not many people can say they’ve sat, smoked cigars and discussed warfare with Winston Churchill while bombs raged about. And not many living individuals can tell of the days they sat in chess matches against the magnificent Alexander Alekhine. And beat him devastatingly once. No. No one believes the word of an eternal who almost captured the heart of the lovely Miss Earhart. Or how said eternal sunk into unending depression as she disappeared into the sky. Yes, I have lived a full life. I only wonder at what time in the future, past eons and uncounted millennia, that it will all finally end. Perhaps… it never will.

[2gameprince]

Vortex

The night air was a cool chill that resinated with the pitch black curtain of twilight that loomed over the humble town of Sawyerville. The evening had settled long ago and with the alignment of the stars came a celestial beam which tore through the empty vacuum of space, and beat down into ancient runes which echoed in a mystical silence beneath the blacktop of the unsuspecting community. That beam of light, which tunneled through the modern crust that had collapsed over a forgotten civilization nearly a millennia ago, buried itself beneath the earth until making contact with the great head of a sunken temple. One which held the archaic symbol of it’s people at it’s peak, awaiting awakening from the skies. The light stirred no one. Thunderous slashing gashes of yellow lightning split the clouds building around the beam. Yet, to the slumbering suburbans below, the night was a soundless tranquility of slumber. And when the light from the stars touched the rune atop the temple beneath the planet, there did come a vast silence as the pocket of time began twisting within the beam’s glow. Swirling, there appeared a vortex of black and purple mana which bent out of tune with the flow of darkness. Above the blacktop loomed a portal to a place outside of known existence. The hamlet was none the wiser and kept still in a hush-filled sleep while evil began to grow. From the vortex beneath the light of the stars there came a breathing. Something distant and alien began creeping. Out from the swirling and tearing round mass stepped the leg of one monstrosity. It was the personification of evil in a black hat and coat, unseen. Out, did his hand did stretch, to grab the night air as evil bent forward, taking his first breath of Sawyerville. Behind him the portal grew, relentless in shape as evil smiled a vile grin. His teeth were sharp as the devil’s wits and he stepped forward unto the unsuspecting town. His boots pressed into the street as the stars died upon evil’s arrival. With each step he burnt the bottoms of his shoes in melted ash in a trail from where he’d first made physical contact with the earth. Evil strode, knives and instruments of torture at it’s sides. Still, this half of the world slept as the approaching abomination rustled no one. The world was cut off and quiet. Unaware of evil’s arrival. And it was to be the undoing of man which this reprised force was to unfold. Evil brough with him the aura of the old world and it’s secrets loomed frozen on his mute lips. This creature had come from a time of druids, alchemists and soothsayers. From that forgotten portion of history he was imprisoned within the runes that lied beneath the planet. Across the world there rested evil, beneath the sands of history and the forgotten ethos of existence they remained. He was but one of a million horrors awaiting the celestial alignment. Awaiting the time in which the terrors of the past were given their resurrection and the newest age of darkness could begin.

[2gameprince]

Anecdote II - In Rome, She Glistens

By candlelight I sit, recounting the day, listening to words music speaks to me. The tunes, melodies and keys of the piano to my far right tell stories without words. It speaks of scenes without locations. This music, poured forth from the hands of my ward, remind me of the older days. The days when my wife, Isabelle, stood beside me in a strong elegance. It was those days, surrounded by rose pedals and the light embrace of the clear air that freshen my breaths, even in these, my dimmer days. It is the melody of the past which calls back an old soul to my wandering mind, embracing that old time and remembering the reflections of her pure face, bouncing off of the pond’s surface. Now, by the light of candles, the marble surrounding the window and the face of the youth before me, all of these things remind me of her. It was not sickness that took her from me, nor was it the favors of another lover. Purely, it was the winds of heaven, the air and the angels which caused her to depart, so dearly. It was on the morning of our fourth anniversary when I awoke to the bright morning to find her levitating above the bed, speaking of things heard only in that place beyond our mortal world. She spoke of what the angels whispered and interpreted the prophets of gospels and the ramblings of old. It was the angels who spoke though her, enchanting my love with the voice of the clouds. But, it was not to last. No mortal who saw what she had seen could walk the earth, a humble woman. And so, she was taken from me and sent to soar high above the clouds on wings of unparalleled light. High and far away she flew, awaiting the day that I might join her in that place of joy and song.

[2gameprince]

Anecdote I - Le Détestables

In the deepest depths of the underworld there resides a humble, yet magnificent, palace where the demon Mephistopheles readies the dreams of Lucifer every evening. He stands above a crystal ball, in a library of thoughts and vile wonderings, dreaming up luscious horrors and frightful delights, all for the benefit of his master who waits out the fiery day for the delivery of his slumbering visions. In a corridor to the South Wing of the small, yet magnificent, palace there stands a wardrobe where the demon, Azazel, readies Lucifer’s clothes each and every night. It is here where the lord of darkness has his horns polished, his hooves brushed and his cloak blackened in the tar of searing souls. Azazel is the dresser of the dark one, emasculate in his own right and beautifully disgusting to the mortal eye. Farther south, in a door at the end of Azazel’s chambers, or around the circular corridor that envelopes and surrounds the humble, yet magnificent, palace, like the walls of an enchanted fire tunnel there lies the chamber of Astaroth, the Keeper of Lucifer’s Fire. There, he sits upon a golden throne, thin and twirling, engulfing the flame of his lord and lover, evoking the passionate suffering of mortals and always residing as his lord’s last stop of the evening. And so, as Lucifer retires from his throne, and as the mortal moon rises above, unseen by the mountains and pits of tartarus, it is here within this chamber where Lucifer ends each day. Collecting the dreams Mephistopheles had weaved for him, settling into the cloak Azazel had woven for him and retiring alongside Astaroth, with whom he will fall into a deep sleep beside, entwined in a wicked embrace.

[2gameprince]

E-Equals

I am a Keeper of Time. I patrol the ages of the old and the new, guarding the fabric of reality and the fragile existence of the infinite space-continuum. Not long ago there existed a man who was intent on breaking time. A Time Traveller. He wasn’t inherently evil. And in most instances I supposed he was just curious. But curiosity is no excuse for carelessness, because on one of his ventures he managed to accidentally restart the entire human evolution span by swatting a mosquito that had landed on his neck whilst he was viewing a flock of pterodactyls. That one incident set off a butterfly effect that spiraled to destroy all present worlds! First, I had to go back to the exact point before he arrived in the Dinosaur Age, neutralize him and then fast forward to the point in which he first discovered time travel. It was in the 1800’s, in a lab in Germany. I didn’t know the time traveller’s name. How could I? My only job was to ensure he would never make his first trip. I didn’t bother correcting his other travels. He hadn’t distorted time in his ventures to Greece, Pompeii or the Renaissance. However, in the modern day he refused to acknowledge his mistakes and therefore would have to pay the penalty. What I did next is something I’d prefer to never do, let alone, speak of. I had to erase him from existence. It wasn’t all bad though. There were still many more branched timeline in which he agreed not to tamper with time. Heck, there was one universe where he never even discovered time travel. And believe me, he was better off. I finally ended up visiting the version of him who would never discover the secrets of time travel. I got to know him, understand him, as a sentiment to the version of him I had to erase. I’ll never forget that time. A time so very long ago. And I’ll never forget his name. Albert.

[2gameprince]

The Zelibub

The Zelibub is an old hag, resembling a troll with pointed ears, yellow eyes, black skin, long wavy hair, a white gown and two long arms that extend out of her back and dangle in front of her. These arms are in addition to her two regular arms that hang at her sides, limp. The Zelibub has rotten, blackened teeth and long fingernails. The Zelibub's favorite thing to do is to strangle people that aren't asleep in their beds. If you are being watched by Zelibub, fall asleep in your bed before 66 minutes are up or she'll strangle you to death with the arms that come out of her back. The Zelibub's laugh can only be heard by the person she intends to kill. The Zelibub is afraid of music. Any form of music or song scares her away. The Zelibub will only appear at night, presumably between six at night and six in the morning.

On a taxi’s way through the countryside, a scruffy driver converses with a well-dressed middle-aged man seated to the back left of the car. “So where you headed to, doctor?” Says the driver. “Aye?” Replies the man in the back. “When you was getting in. I saw you was a doctor. On the label of your briefcase. You from London then?” “God, no. Not originally at least. Ireland.” “Why’d you come to visit old Scotland? The sites?” “Far from it. I’m on personal call.” “Personal call, aye? Guess the doctors out here got their work cut out for em’?” “I’m not so sure. This patient is an old acquaintance of mine. Miss O’Donald. You know of her?” “Can’t say I do, sir. Then again, I’m only the lift in and out these parts. Don’t know much about the folks here. I stop in the pub every now and again, but other than that I ain’t the social kind.” “I see.” “So whats got you out here, then? The Misses got a fever?” “No, it’s her son. Hasn’t been eating or sleeping for sometime. The Misses had my number and phoned me.” “That boy not right in the head, says I!” “You think so?” “Certainly not. These small towns folk, turn an empty pond into an overcrowded ocean. I bed the lad’s cooped up inside. Kept on a leash. Probably not off right in the head.” “Perhaps. I did find it strange how the Misses called me first. Her son’s habits seem to be more up the alley of a psychologically startled psychosis. Not sure what I can do for her.” “Ah, I’m sure you’ll do your right-best, doc! Just a mile or so more off this turn.” “Hidden, isn’t it?” “What’s that, sir?” “I said it’s hidden, isn’t it? Greene Elk, I mean.” “Oh, but a lovely town she is, sir!” “Well, I’ll take your word for it.” “You staying at the local inn?” “Miss Penward’s Bed & Breakfast, yes. I’ve made arrangements.” “Jolly, sir. You’re right off!” “Haha!… Well, I do like to plan ahead.” “You a married man sir? Plenty of pretty skirts in the country, if I do say so me-self.” “Heavens no…” “Baldroy, sir! William Baldroy. And you, sir? What should I call you?” “Fredrick P. Cunningham. M.D. Please. Or call me Doctor Cunningham. Or… you know. Doc.” “Not Fred?” “Aye?” “I said, not Fred?” “Not too good at hearing, this one.” Cunningham thought to himself. “No, I’m not too fond of that.” Cunningham replied. “Very well, sir! “You look to be about thirty or so? “Right on the mark, sir! Turned thirty-two last month. You’ve got an eye, you have!” “Yes, well. Gotta keep sharp.” “Ain’t it the truth. You do much reading doc?” “Indeed, I do. In fact… right now I’m…” “Science Fiction, then!?” “How… how did you know?” “Ah, I’m just foolin’. I saw you was eyeing your paperback a mile ago. Asimov. A great writer, that one!” “Yes, his work is, indeed, stimulating.” “Excuse me, sir, if you don’t mind me asking…” “Proceed.” “Well, how much you make on the job? Out and about like this, I mean?” “Thinking about getting into the trade yourself?” “Oh, no sir! Writing a work of fiction me-self! One of the characters is a doctor, see. House calls and what not. So I was curious about the rate one charges.” “Well, this particular case is free, on behalf of Miss Charles and her son.” “I see…” “Perhaps you could use that?” “Perhaps I could, sir. Perhaps I could.”

In time I would come to find comfort in places as far from the village of Greene Elk as I could locate. Not the cheerfulness of the driver, to the cloudiness of the day, nor the pleasantly balanced breeze could have calmed me for the days to come. When I was younger I never believed in monsters. becoming an adult I found the only evil creatures that had ever plagued mankind were microscopic, unseen to the human eye. I was wrong, obviously.

“How come you didn’t drive yourself up here, sir? Don’t fancy yourself a right-traveler?” “Oh, no. I just prefer not to drive.” “Prefer or can’t?” “Can’t.” “You got a license?” “Afraid not.” “A doctor without a license to steer? Jolly-weird.” “Cars and me just don’t get along. I can drive, just as-for a license, I never really got around to it.” “Understandable. I can relate sir. That’s me and the ocean right there! Won’t step a toe in!” Coming upon the town, I sat up in a hardy posture before our car passed the high grass of the road by a lake, coming out to this flat plot of buildings near the edge of a cliff. Greene Elk had a strange location. Just a few feet from where a row of buildings stood, there was the sea and a straight drop down to the rocky beaches below. There was only one road into Greene Elk and we had taken it, his and forests galore. I bid farewell to Baldroy, for now, and found my way into the local in to take the room I’s called ahead for. As I walked in an elderly woman with copper-dyed hair stood at the counter, perky and eager. Her voice had that Irish spin.

“Well, hello there, sir!” “Good day, madam.” “You’re doctor Cunningham, ain’t cha?” “That’s correct.” “Well, I got your room all nice and ready for ya’! Misses O’Donald expecting you! If you’d like I can give her a call? Tell her you’ll be round in a while?” “Yes, that would be astounding if you would. This way to my room? I held my coat over my arm and my briefcase at my side while pointing down the hall.” “Yes, sir! She proved up proud and giddy.” “Just down there, last one on the right!” “Thank you madam.” “Agnus.” “Pardon?” “It’s Agnus.” “Ah.” I smiled a moment. “Yes. Of course it is.”

I stepped away, located my room and set my things down. Not too long after that I had a stroll over to Misses O’Donald’s home. When I stepped in she was weeping. Her son was in her bedroom, white as a sheet and bunched up. I inspected the boy. I could not find anything medically wrong with him. This was… fear. Something had frightened him. I informed Misses O’Donald that this was, indeed, a job for a psychologist of some sort. And within a few hours I took my leave of their home, my head hung in disappointment that I could be of no help.

As Cunningham strolled out of the village and back into the town, a strange old drunken man in dirty cloths stumbled up to him. Grasping Cunningham’s coat sleeve, the old man yells in Cunningham’s face, alcohol emanating off of him. All the while Cunningham struggles to get free and run away. “The Zelibub, sir! The Zelibub is here!” “What in god’s name?” “The boy, sir! She wants the boy! The Zelibub!” “Get off me.” “The bitch-hag, sir! She wants the boy! She comes in at night and chokes you dead! The Zelibub! The Zelibub!”

He did eventually let go of me. I would eventually investigate this things called ‘the Zelibub’. But it wasn’t due to the old drunkards warning that I had decided to research. I heard folks around town mention the name. I stood an extra day in Greene Elk, just to contact a local psychiatrist and see that he got to Misses O’Donald’s okay. That’s when I discovered an old Greene Elk legend. The legend about the Zelibub. A demonic hag-like witch. She had appeared at the end of November. She appeared to Miss O’Donald’s son. She wanted him to be her next victim. I apologize If I mix between calling Miss O’Donald ‘Misses O’Donald’. She was a widow, but always insisted on being called misses. Her and her husband happened to share the same last name, which was just convenient for her reasoning I suppose. But, back to the point… Her son’s life was in danger. I had originally thought the whole town was nuts. No one would go near the O’Donald’s house and the boy wouldn’t sleep in his own bed. That’s how the Zelibub could have gotten to him. I tell you, I would have never believed it if I hadn’t seen the thing for myself. Agnus, the innkeeper. She was killed that very night. I heard a struggle in the inn-maid’s quarters and rushed back. I thought it might have been a break in. I broke down the door to her bedroom as Agnus was screaming from the other side. I finally kicked it in. I held my revolver that I had brought with me, in my suitcase. I saw the thing standing there, on her chest. This old woman with black arms coming out of her back. I shot her six times and she just laughed off the bullets. I fell backward and as I jumped up to see what she was going to do next… she vanished. That was when I truly believed. It was only after pleading with the towns people that they told me how to kill her. The Zelibub could be killed with silver. I know. How stereotypical. The townsfolk were too afraid to do anything. The Zelibub had haunted Greene Elk for years. Yet,  no one spoke of it and no one did anything to help those it targeted for fear of being targeted themselves. I had failed Miss O’Donald once. It was not going to happen again. I convinced her son to stay in bed one night and to stay awake. I had smelted a bullet down from some silver the good people of Greene Elk were nice enough to give me. I was the first and only man who ever dared to face this being, and I didn’t want my act to be the last attempt at fighting back these creatures of the night. So, we recommend the locking mechanism from the door so the Zelibub couldn’t keep me out. And the instant the boy let out a cry I kicked down the door and shot the Zelibub six times. She was cocky. She stood to take all five shots, probably assuming I’d make the same mistake twice. It took the hag a minute before she realized she’d been shot full of silver. I unloaded every round and wasn’t taking any chances. She fell over on the side of the bed and Misses O’Donald’s son ran at her side. That night Baldroy, Agnus’ husband, Edgar, and a few of the town’s men aided me in carrying the Zelibub to the outskirts of the town and burning it’s body. We threw the ashes into the sea, and after sticking around to make sure the Zelibub’s presence had been lifted, I made my way to London. The people of Greene Elk said I was always welcome in their town. I have faced many horrors since then. Nuckelavee, a human horse-like entity made of muscles and horrid mutations I fought while in Germany. I killed it by luring it into a ring of salt and fire, then putting a seal on the land and trapping it in dirt. On holiday in New England, in America, I became the target of a Native American wraith called the ‘Yogwei’ that was terrorizing a small village. With the help of a Native American descendent of an old chief, we banished the creature from this world with an old Cherokee necklace by absorbing the creature in into the tooth of a bear and then crushing it beneath a rock. Even the Baba Yagba, a mythical demon back in London. I battled this entity with holy water and a cross which I had sharpened the end of. I drove it into it’s heart and poured holy water down it’s throat. During the end of that fight I had taken a heart attack and was hospitalized for a time. I’ve since stopped hunting creatures. Facing down these monstrosities has taken up most of my life over the years. Now some fractions regard me as a monster-slayer for my help. I think it’s funny. My encounter with the entity called the Zelibub took place back in 1985. Since that time I have dedicated myself to studying this strange phenomenon. These beings that haunt our world. Since the creation of the internet I’ve found other people to converse with on these matters. I took up the online mantle of ‘Adam’ and started my own site to attempt to gather people in exposing the origins behind paranormal phenomenon and anyone who may have caused these occurrences to increase over the years.

[2gameprince]

Bishop’s Gate

In 2016 an anonymous online user began searching the internet and collecting information based on his family’s strange past. This user eventually founded his own website and connected with multiple other people from around the web. What follows are his site’s posts on his personal log and the information given to him by those he was in contact with.

>First Update<

The story I wish to share with you is one of a most bizarre nature. I, myself, haven’t even reached the truth, but it is my hope that by sharing my findings with the public I might get closer to getting to the bottom of this whole mess. For now I can’t exactly sum up what it was that brought me to this point, but I need your help! For obvious reasons I have chosen the alias of Charlie Bryan other that, and the fact that I can share with you that I am based in America, I can tell you no more of my identity at the risk of my safety or the safety of those involved. I have uncovered something big! Secrets that would crack the foundation of the world; things that would send us into a dark age. I’ve never been one to keep such knowledge to myself and now I feel the time has come to alert the world of all the wicked deeds that have been happening behind closed doors. At the end of all of this I only pray that the light I shed may show everyone the truth of the world, for what it is. My tale begins in Bishopsgate, a Ward of London. It was a Roman, built by Hansa Merchants in 1471. The merchants built it in exchange for rights to Steelyard which was a London trading base in the 15th and 16th centuries. A nearby church, St Botolph-without-Bishopsgate, was said to have survived the Great Fire of London and was said to have first been mentioned in 1212. The existence of this ward and this church are really all the background about it you’ll need for right now. See, all my research started back in 2004. I was going through my attic and stumbled upon this chest with some very interesting contents. It was family stuff, trees, records, birth information and stuff like that. In one folder I found a group of letters bunched up together. They looked very old. So old in fact, I could just barely make out the handwriting. The papers seemed to be a group of letters written back and forth over a decade back in the 1502. The letters were anonymous and addressed the pope at the time, Alexander VI. Further reading had me speculate that the letters were from the Hansa merchants in the Hansa League; which was a confederation of merchant guilds back in the day. How these letters from a merchant league to the pope ended up in my attic, I would have never know. That is, if I had never thought to ask my great grandfather what he thought about my findings. My first attempts to show him the papers were unsuccessful. He seemed to want nothing to do with them. Finally, one day I pressed him for a reason as to why we hand them and he confessed to knowing far more than I could have ever expected. According to him, our family is of German decent, which I already kind of knew, but was dumbfounded to the fact that our ancestors were, in fact, Hansa merchants. My grandfather told me stories and things he used to hear when he was little, about how guilds of merchants were in bed with the church and were planning to takeover Bishopsgate and a couple of other wards. Well, maybe not takeover; more like manipulate and control without Britain’s consent. But it was through their teaming with the church that they kept Bishopsgate under an especially tight grip. My grandfather soon passed away after our discussion, and on his death bed he’d left behind a note for me which detailed a number of instructions that I was to follow if I wished to further learn about the past history of our family. The instructions stated that I was to go into his attic and locate a chest he’d hidden away within a panel in the floor, underneath and ungodly amount of boxes. Doing as it said, I uncovered a small green book, thick and practically falling apart. The book was entirely in German, which I didn’t know or cared enough o learn at the time. All I could make out was the word on the cover, and that was only cause I used an online translator. The word was ‘licht’, the German spelling of ‘light’. Beneath the book was another two letters, one addressing the Vatican and Pope Alexander VI. The next being vice-versa. The letter was in english, thank god, and spoke about an assassination attempt thought up by the Vatican. It seemed the church wanted the merchants to kill someone by the name of Bäcker. I never found out if he was a merchant, but all I could conclude is that the Hansa’s refused to go through with it. I guess it didn’t go over too well with the church, cause the next letter detailed the anger of the pope and the assurance that their hesitation was to be met with punishment. Now, within the book, which looked to be like some kind of journal, there was writing on small bits of paper which detailed accusations against the merchants, causing them of witchcraft, devil worshipping and all those little things people loved to hear about back then. I’m being sarcastic, of corse. One of the last slips of paper detailed how the church had sent in an imposter to move in with the merchants and pick off all the major players involved in the running of Bishopsgate. I tried to get the book to an actual translator so I could brush thought the whole thing in one swoop, but after receiving the book back, about a year after I had found a translator, they told me a fraction of the book was written in a language that could not be made out. The book was, in fact, a journal, but certain sections were scrolled in weird lettering. I wasn’t too keen on having the book pass through too many peoples fingers, so I decided to leave it for now and go forward with whatever information I could get from what I could actually read inside the journal. It belonged to a man named Baker and stated his reason for writing it on the back of the front cover. The journal detailed the Vatican trying to move into Bishopsgate and set up some kind of secret society in the local church, St Botolph-without-Bishopsgate. It told of how the merchants turned on the church for their own reasons and were wiped out as punishment for not complying. The translated sections spoke of religious practices which occurred in Bishopsgate, and how the merchants in league with the Vatican prayed to some two-headed goat they called Lökkálfar/Djósálfar. This was when everything began to get strange. Baker wrote about how he suspected some of the merchants of worshipping some demonic entity and being aided in the funding of their beliefs by the church. The journal went into all these details about black masses that would occur and ways to convert people. Finally, Baker wrote about how the merchants had stumbled upon his meddling and how he sent his wife and child out of London, to flee while he confronted them. That was the last entry.   I have reason to believe that Baker was an ancestor of mine. And perhaps it was true that the merchants were up to practices that, in the modern day, would be considered ‘cult activity’. The only thing I find even more disturbing than the churches involvement is the events that continued in the following centuries. Whatever the Vatican was up to eventually lead into kidnapping infants. I’ll elaborate more on this later, but all I can assure you of now is that the nazis, after teaming with Italy in World War II. Since then I’ve uncovered proof, photos and documents that suggest the Nazis were operating alive and well long after the war was over. Most of these cases involved religious institutions and hospitals kidnapping infants, like in the ‘New Life Children’s Refuge Case’ or the ‘Lost Children of Francoism Case’ of 2010. All of this was originally brought to my attention once I found an anonymous message board on a conspiracy site I’d rather not name. I have no idea who’s reading this since I have decided to make it public, and I’d rather not accidentally sell out those involve. Basically, my research on the merchants had brought me to conspiracy sites and I scoured the internet for anything I could find. That’s what brought me to the anonymous user. He was another person investigating the merchants who had been filling the site with information and questions about anyone else who was interested. I contacted him and he spun me a whole yarn about the nazis, and the church and the merchants, and as crazy as it sounded, when he connected it all at the end it began to make a bit of sense. That’s not to say I wasn’t skeptical at first. We began e-mailing one another after a while and one day he mysterious stopped. His account on the conspiracy site disappeared and his emails ceased. I tried e-mailing him back, but it’s been a whole year and I’ve received no word.

This was in the last e-mail he sent me:

“In the tunnels underneath Bishopsgate there is an altar in a large room. This tunnel connects to various points all over the surrounding area. That was where the worshipers of Lökkálfar & Djósálfar would meet to perform ‘black masses’. This usually involved human sacrifices. Infants. There was only a few incidences in the local area until the reports stopped. Now, it is my belief that these newer infant disappearances are linked to modern day black masses occurring somewhere in London. I believe the church kidnaps these children in bulk, lets some back into society to make it look like a forceful relations project of some sort. It’s all a lie. It’s a coverup for human sacrifice. I live in London and I can say with absolute confidence that I am very close to bring this conspiracy to light. I am going to investigate further and actually take my search down to the tunnels beneath Bishopsgate. I want to see the altar for myself. I’ll contact you again once I return.”

The e-mail went on to say that if he didn’t return I should e-mail another person he was investigating with. I e-mailed the Second Contact and awaited his response. It’s been a month or so and I wonder if whatever happened to my anonymous researcher effected my second contact. I’m at a stand still right now and don’t know where to go from here. Until I get conformation that my second contact is alive and well my next update will be everything I can gather from my forum discussions and the back-and-forth e-mails.

>Second Update<

In recent weeks I have come into contact with three people who have all taken an interest in my work. Gideon, Simon and Adam are three anonymous deep-web users I had found a mere two weeks ago. They all run their own sites, hidden all but a select few, and have tried their hands in figuring out where the enigma of the Bishop’s Gate phenomenon begins and ends. I only know for a fact that Gideon is from Sweden, Simon is from Norway and Adam is from Ireland. Adam’s site, which I will not give away, goes into details about how certain organizations worship esoteric entities and run secret meetings around castle ruins. Adam has documents connecting two major corporations in the UK to cults practicing in Ireland and Scotland. He believes something old and powerful is tied to that land and these companies discovered it back in the 80s. Adam believes they’ve discovered Aztec ruins, hidden under the country, that span for miles on end beneath Ireland. He believes these tunnels could be connected to the secret corridors beneath Bishopsgate. We’d only know that for a fact if he was to investigate those subterranean ruins for himself, but he refuses to. Still no word back from my messenger in Bishopsgate. I think he’s been compromised. Captured. Killed, perhaps. I don’t know. All I’m sure about is that him and Adam kept in close contact and Adam doesn’t want to end up like his friend. Oh, Adam was the guy who was supposed to e-mail me. He did, eventually. That’s when Adam introduced me to Gideon and Simon. They had known one another for years. Adam and my anonymous messenger, which Adam had referred to as Sid, focused on researching the Bishop’s Gate incident since before the merchants had dealings with the Vatican and Adam focused on finding out everything he could about the Nazis and how they adapted the merchant’s beliefs in an effort to spread cult-worship and scientific experimentation. Adam had found that a decent of one of the followers of the Hansa merchants had approached the Nazis shortly before the London Bombings and exchanged secret information for safety. This descendent, Herbert Oxfend, had his name changed and joined up with a secret fraction of the Nazi Party. The exact name of the group the nazis had put on the Bishop’s Gate case was unknown, even to this day. It is highly probable the group did not have a name. Oxfend was sent with a group to Houska Castle. This was the next key destination the Bishop’s Gate case would dwell for the next twelve years following the rise of Hitler. The castle had been built in the 13th century and occupied by the Nazis, and Oxfend, for human experiments on the locals. Years after the site was abandoned the castle was still a place of suffering. Travelers who stumbled upon it would speak of strange lights and inhuman entities that would crawl out of a large hole at the center of the building. This hole, that went straight down, had a chapel built over it and served as the nazi’s main base of operations during their stay there. Adam believes that the nazis were successful in the experiments on the locals, possibly creating genetic-hybrids of humans and animals, while also coming into contact with some unexplainable force with the hole in the ground. There was records of activity in the chapel before the nazis had ever arrived, but Adam is assured that whatever they did made the situation within the castle much worse. Adam was able to trace back demonic occurrences at the site back to when the castle was first constructed. He believes Ottokar II of Bohemia first built the chapel over the hole, believing it was one of many entrances to hell, but shortly after was unable to cope with the great sum of demonic entities Adam believed inhabited the hole. It is assumed that after Ottokar’s death the castle was built by his underlings and blessed as an extra measure to keep the demonic entities, which had now taken over the chapel, imprisoned. When the nazis showed up they threw undead reanimation and inhuman hybrids into the mix, possibly giving the demons a face to go with their names. So to speak. The nazis fled, Oxfend was said to have died at the site for unknown reasons, and activity at the Houska Castle continued to this day. That was really all Adam could provide me with. He said to get the full story I would have to look through the files he’d made, but he didn’t want to risk putting them online. Understandable. Simon, one of Adam’s associates, is more interested in other international ways the Bishop’s Gate Case has effected people. Strangely enough, the phenomenon surrounding the cult-like Germanic religion can be traced to multiple cryptozoic occurrences, worldwide. One such case took place at a hospital in Japan. There was an incident that occurred involving a shrine, a curse and some strange paranormal activity that, if you haven’t been in our shoes, will seem unreal. This is all I have for right now. I’ll update all of you later when I have more information. I’m hereby dedicating this forum to the abolishment Dolfarianism. I pray more join us in this cause. This cult shit is dark and dives way too deep. I heard of reports and things popping up in the UK, in Ireland and throughout the East. Whatever the Nazi’s and the merchants an the cults did is spreading. Along with their usage of power in the Vatican to kidnap infants for human trafficking and experimentation, I’ve also discovered that they helped the US with certain technologies, developing things that people delve into their subconscious. There was an incident a while back. One of the labs was compromised and all the personnel was evacuated. All except for the people in the machines. One of the scientists confessed in an online interview with Adam that they left behind one test subject still hooked up to the ‘dream machine’ as they called it. The scientist was going to give Adam the lab’s location, somewhere near Bermuda, but his radio and camera was cut before he ever got the information. Just thinking about that trapped souls gives me chills. The scientist is most likely dead. Adam had no doubt about that. But now it’s as if everyone has gone silent. All investigations have halted and it looks like I’m the last person who thinks anything is up. I don’t know. We’ll see how things go from here.

>Awaiting Third Update<

[2gameprince]

The Mountains Of Death

Two officers sit in an office. One is sitting at a desk with a cup of coffee and the other stands, leaning against the blinds on windows and wall to the left side of the office door. It day is early and the rest of the precinct is quiet. The sun peaks in through the window as the seated cop looks back over his shoulder and begins conversing. "One hell of a cold morning." "You got that right." "Any word back from Jack?" "Nah. He's been dodging me all week. Guess I'm gonna have to work this weekend anyway." "Boohoo. You broken up about it?" "Not really. Didn't have plans anyways." "What, you and the old lady didn't plan a few days out of town?" "Naw. She ain't much of the traveling type." "I gotcha. Well, I just feel bad for all that paperwork you're gonna tackle." "Please, I'll be lucky if I get through twenty-five percent of it." "Hey, Mike." "Yeah, Phil?" "When you get a chance this weekend, you know, if you get around to it..." "Phil, what is it?" "If you come across it, take a look at the Parker Case, would you?" "Yeah, sure thing." "Thanks." "Uh, but, umm... why that one in particular?" "I kept going through it the other day and... I don't know. The whole thing seemed kind of... off." "Off? Like how." "You'll see for yourself, just... check it out for me, will ya?" "Yeah. Course." That weekend Phil took to his paperwork and worked the long overworked hours he had dreaded all week. Half way through his corrections and filing of cases and warrants and other papers, Phil had finally come to an envelope marked 'The Parker Case'. He read through everything and shuttered within the emptiness of the office floor. Patty, a fellow officer, caught him by the light of his desk lamp just as she was walking out. Patty spoke first. "Phil! How you been? You still here?" "Yeah, Jack couldn't cover for me, so here I am." "Oh, shit. That sucks." "Well, wasn't like I had anything planned for the week." "Right, right... oh boy. And how is Susan?" "She's good. A homebody, through and through." "Oh?" "Yeah, she's actually probably waiting up for me. I'm only stating maybe another hour or so." "Well then, I'll leave you to it." Patty turned and began to walk away. She halted and turned back as a question bolted across Phil's mind. "Wait! Patty! Before you head out, would you mind looking at this for me?" Phil hands her the Parker Case papers and she glanced over them in a moment. "Yeah, I've seen these. Word about this file's been passing around the office." "Mike brought it up a few days ago. He said I might be interested in it. Kind of disturbed though." "I know what you mean. I couldn't read the report past the first page." "Seriously?" "Yeah." "What about this part down here?" Phil takes back the papers and points towards the bottom of the Report Page. Patty leans over to look closer. Phil continues. "It says we have some of the items of the victims in evidence." "Yeah. Fancy that." "Well? You know what that means?" "No. Shoot." "It means if what the victims experienced what they chronicled experiencing in the file's journal, proof of it may exist on that film." "I guess. No ones watched their film yet. The second this case came in it was just thrown into a pile and lost. I'm shocked you stumbled upon it." "You know something? I gotta get into evidence. I gotta see that film." "You got the keys?" "No, Frank usually has them. I think I'll just put in a request with the Captain tomorrow." "Eh, you might have some trouble there, Phil." "How's that?" "The Captain was the first and only one of us to see the film. He's the reason it ended up in evidence so quick. He's been jumpy about whatever it gets brought up. He doesn't want to address it. Hell, he'll probably try and persuade you to throw the case aside if you bring it up to him." "That so?" "Yeah, Phil. Whatever the Captain saw... it did something to him." There was a short pause and Patty lowered her head and her perky nature came to a rest. "It's late. I guess I'll see you." Patty said as she turned and walked out the precinct's double doors. "Night." Phil added, bringing his attention back to the idol report. The following morning, just as Frank was coming in, Phil was already waiting by front door of the precinct and awaiting his arrival. As Frank came in the door Phil ran up to him. “Frank!” “Phil! Hey, morning!” “Yeah, yeah! Morning. Umm… Frank. Patty told me you had the keys to the evidence rom?” “Yeah, me and Stew, why?” “I was wondering if you could could let me grab something outta there real quick?” “Depends on what it is.” Frank said with a smirk. “Umm… I’m working on this file and I was running a report last night and…” “Say, Phil. You don’t look too good. You getting enough sleep?” “What? Oh! Yeah, yeah. This case has just kinda kept me up. Jack left me kinda short-handed so umm… If I could just grab this video tape out of evidence that’d be…” “Video tape? Oh, you mean that old tape in the Parker Case? Sure thing.” After Phil gets the tape he walks alongside Frank out of the evidence room. Frank locks the room back up and the two step into the main office of the police station. Frank finally hangs up his coat and Phil thanks him for the third time. “Thanks, Frank. I can’t thank you enough.” “It’s no problem. But uh… I gotta tell you. You may not like what you find on there.” “What do you mean?” “It’s gory. That’s all, really. Coulda been mistaken for a smut film or something.” “Oh, I gotcha. Well, if it’s anything like the report.” “I know. I heard. Six hikers, torn to shreds. Their tongues and eyes burned out of their heads. Ominous. Well, I tell you that video doesn’t add or take anything from the case.” “Yeah, it’s just that Mike told me to take a look at it.” “What?” “Mike. I was working late the other night and he stayed second to last. He told me take a look at it.” “Ah. Umm…” “Frank, what’s the matter?” “Uh, I don’t know how to say it, Phil…” “Just say it, come on.” “Mike died last month. Car accident, remember?” There was a short silence as Phil scrambled for what to say. “Right. Yeah. I knew that.” “Phil, you sure you’re okay?” “Yeah. Completely. I’m just a little tired. Long couple of night.” “Ah, Jack. Right.” The thought stuck with Phil as he snuck away. Around eight he went home, popped pills to stay awake and finally sat down to review the videotape. What he saw chilled him to the bone. Finally, he could see that which everyone in his department had seen and wished to never view again. On the tape was nothing explainable. There was a force. A force which came down from the Appalachian Mountains and defiled nine hikers. It wasn’t until Phil decided to take advantage of his days off and investigate the mountains that the true horror behind the case revealed itself to him. The following morning Phil sat at his desk, packing up paperwork for his venture out to the site of the Parker Case murders. As he is finishing up packing, Patty spots him from across the room and walks up to his desk. “Hey, Paddy. You mind grabbing my mail for the week?” “Sure thing, but whatever for?” “Taking a short vacation. I been working overtime and Frank though it’d be a good idea.” “May I ask where?” “Well, though it may be strange, up to the mountains.” “The mountains?” “Yup.” Phil was uninterested in elaborating while straightening papers on his desk. “From the Parker Case?” “That’s them.” “Oh.” Patty seemed a little disturbed. “May look at the case more, but this trip is mainly for rest.” “Does Frank know about this?” “No, but I’d really appreciate it if it stayed that way.” Patty sighed. “Sure thing.” Phil smirked. “You’re an angel.” Phil finally finished packing up his briefcase and stood to walk away. Before he walked far Patty called him from behind. “Phil.” “Yeah?” “The other night you said something. I was curious.” “Yeah?” “You brought up Mike…” “Oh, lemme stop you. I know. I was just tired is all.” “Oh, okay.” She said with a smile. “Good to know.” “Hey, Pat.” “Yes?” “Thanks again.” Phil then made his way out the front doors of the police station and into car service where he reached the mountains a few ours later. He took up residency in a cabin he had rented and by the end of the week Phil Myers was missing. Nowhere to be found. Just as the officer had gone missing the Parker Case File he had taken with him, as well as the videotape he stole from the station, had all disappeared as well. That was, until the only thing left of the case was a building full of people who had studied the phenomenon upon the Appalachian Mountains, but would speak of it to no one. Since then whisperers within the precinct have dubbed the range ‘The Mountains of Death’. A fitting name to a place which, as of 1997, had claimed its most recent victim.

[2gameprince]

Screamscape - Part I

I am lost. Placid. I look out at you now from the flat surface of an ordinary mirror. I see myself and that is all. My reflection looks back, but it isn’t there. This thing. This place. It has me deep inside. And I can’t get out. I know my wife is back in the bedroom. At least. The thing I believe to be my wife. Asleep. Just a particle in this blank essence. Something has been calling out to me. Something near. It tells me that things were always like this. I had a life on the outside. Before I went into the machine. before I was trapped in my dream. A dream. An essence. Stuck in my own head and sleeping. Oh. Sleeping ever so soundly. But I know the doctor is dead. I know he is gone and I’m trapped in my mind. Alone. At any moment I can trigger a jump. One second I’m at work. The next I’m being run down by lions in Africa. Or maybe losing my breath upon the precipice of some vast intergalactic monolith. And the only light I have to look to is that of a great star’s light peaking out from behind a holy crystal celestial orb. This is my word. I am god in a box. And I can’t do a damn thing about it. Three-hundred and fourteen days. That’s how long I’ve been here. I tried to calculate the time precisely but the clocks don’t work here. Time is amiss. I’ve begun to read my breaths, blinks and heartbeats. I count each second in the back of my mind. I’m always counting. Everything may change here, but not me. I’m always the same. This counter is wet. But it isn’t. I’m tried. But I’m not. Nothing makes sense here. All I need is a moment to think forward, without jumping again. I just need to get through this morning. To go to work. To figure out a way out. Before I could ponder another moment of it, her voice called out to me from the slightly opened door. Honey, are you up? Yes, dear! Do me a favor and put the cup on. You want a cup? No, just put it on. Will do. How did you sleep? Not so well. What time is it? Not sure. maybe six. Come back to bed. You don’t have work till ten. I don’t? Well. Maybe run a load. The washers broken. Remember? Yeah, I remember. You get the tax papers? I set them out last night, before you came in. Forgot all about them. Sorry, babe. It’s fine. Got time today. Yup. There was a brief silence as I inspected her voice. Was this woman really my wife? Did I have a wife before all of this? For all I knew I could open the door to my room and see just a blank space where a pre-recorded audio bubble stands to resemble a person speaking to me. I came to learn much about dreams and see as how they were merely simulations of a sort and how not everything in them was in full existence. There ere fakes, duds, glitches, substitutes and props. A pre-arranged environment meant to entertain the mind. That’s all. She called out again. What you want for dinner tonight? Uh. Chicken. You planned it, right? I was hoping we could cook together. Sure. Sounds nice. Any occasion? No. It’d just be nice. Right. What about the tickets? The what? The tickets, for the movie? It’s Friday. Oh, yeah. Right. I got them. Don’t worry. You sure? Absolutely! What did you pick? What? What kind of movie did you pick? Uh, horror. That should be interesting. You know how I love horror. Yeah, me too. You hate horror though. Yeah. Right… Hey, hon! I’m gonna hop in for a shower. Be right out. Sure thing, babe! A movie? Tonight? That should be good. Maybe I can escape then? Use the screen to wake up? I’d slash my wrists but death doesn’t wake you up. Believe me, I’ve tried. Wait. Movie? A movie? Movies. Oh, no… I jumped again. And this time my thoughts took me to the screening of a film, of relatively large proportions, and before I could exist my seat to hit the  concession stand the lights dimmed, the screen went aglow and movie started. There was trace of the bathroom I had been in or the presence of the thing that made itself out to be my wife waiting in the bedroom. I was alone in the theater. Well, that’s not entirely true. There were some shadowy figures, about three, spread out in seat towards the far back of the room. I turned to see them, but only for a second, knowing my mind wouldn’t take the time to give them faces, names, personalities. They were just dark masses of meat in the room. Scenery. That’s all they were. The movie began and it started with the painful birth of a young infant with just a little bit of hair and a knack for crying his eyes out. after that the film had spanned five years in length and I felt as if I was turning to alabaster sitting in that seat. After the five year mark they boy was diagnosed with some illness that made him slow and we, that is all of me and the three human pieces of scenery in the theater, saw the boy’s dreams each night. And in them he dreamt of the future. Of a time he was to pass. And he did. At nineteen he was drafted and joined the Navy. While there he was stationed far away, lost some buddies to the tide of the ocean, met a Japanese girl whom he settled down with after four years of service and sat by her side at the age of twenty-five as cancer took her last breath. He drifted for a while, sold his passport and wandered the life of a weary nomad across America. One day, at a time when he was about thirty some co-workers heard him doing a Sinatra impersonation and gave him the nerve to audition for an upcoming film. He accepted, met a pretty little agent and by the time his thirty-fifth birthday had come, he was married with two kids. A boy and a girl named Ian and Shirley. At the age of thirty-eight his wife passes in a car accident and his daughter dies of alcohol poisoning while in college. Just him and his son, whom he doesn’t talk to due to years of neglect, finally calls him one day to reconnect and the two of them reconcile and decide to meet up. One day a train to the boy, no… man’s, small town derails and on it is his twenty-two year old son. The man, alone and heartbroken, slips into a depression and frequents the local Irish bar in hope of filling his bubble of sadness with ounces of wine every night, all cause he can’t take heavy drink. One night while walking home, at the age of seventy-two now, he meets a hot little number, a year younger than him, who’s living locally with fantastic benefits and is on the prowl for a partner-in-passing. He’s granted a lovely last three months in which his liver improves and he watches as the third love of his life, Martha, dies on the eve of a lovely Sunday morning. He follows a week later, in his sleep, sorrow-stricken and fully lived. He made no attempt to contact his parents all his life and drifted apart from his older brother after joining up with the army. And so he dies, broken and yet, all together. Peaceful and ready his name moves among the stars and makes it’s place within the vastness of unending time. Like that the credits roll and I take my leave, wondering what it was all supposed to mean, then giving up once I remembered where I was. It was at this time a great big black shape, like a carved rock passed through the dim screen of the theater and fog filled the room. Before me a large dark shape passed over head, slowly making it’s way in through the screen and positioning itself in the dead-center of the room. It loomed above me, omnipresent.

[2gameprince]

The Ravenclaw Letter

Dear Luther,

The dreams have come again, and in all my suffering I take up my quill to write you once more; as to the visions which have grown ever more vivid and the impression they instill, echoing throughout the deepest depths of my soul. This dream was of a cathedral, stranded and dismantled in a state of an archaic unrest, and stranded upon a island of black stone in a sea which extended past the distance of the unending horizon. I was but a speck at the bottom of the bowels of the world and the entirety of everything around me left no feeling of security, and no sense of ease. The wind was mighty as I stood just atop the sea’s surface. I was on a plank of non-existing ground, walking on water and standing idol to the waves which shattered beneath me. I saw the wind brush the rain in an intense blasting barrage of cyclones. Still, I could feel nothing. It was as if only my eyes were of an use; My eyes, and legs I could not make out, propelling me forward and through the giant black doors of the darkened cathedral. The dream ended by the time I had stepped in towards the blackened entrance. Once the shadows had taken me the roaring thunder of a storm raining outside my bedroom window had pulled me from that place of malice. Since after the revelations had began, and after our meeting last month in Salem, I have to say that what you said seems to be holding down. But who would have guessed it? Monsters from other worlds and beings out of time!? All of this is just too surreal. I’ve gone to doctors for my night terrors and it was as you predicted. All they wanted to do was hype me up on anti-psychotics. I’m not sure where else to turn. You seem to be the only one with any idea about what’s truly going on with me. I hadn’t disregarded all you said. I remember, you believed entities from a past time were attempting to give me knowledge of things from back then. But, there’s still so much I don’t understand. Why did they choose me? Do they need me? Are they going to kill me!? All of this and more has kept me up all hours of the night. I find myself unable to leave my apartment, close my eyes or even keep from glancing around corners on the rare occasions when I go out. The other day I could have sworn that I was followed back to my home. I kept looking around and yet, the presence that was tailing me seemed to only make itself known when I had my back turned. In my distress I have contacted local professors up at Princeton College. I talked to them about those… matters you told me about. About the runes and the ancient civilization. I know you said to keep it to myself, but I just couldn’t. I had to tell someone. Only one of the professors got back to me. An older gentleman by the name of Professor James W. Lewis. He had released a short local article which seemed to tie in to what you and I were discussing. I’ve visited him regularly and I attempted to persuade him to write you. I haven’t seen him in some time though. One day he missed a lunch appointment we had scheduled. I fear something has happened to him. You know, the other day I tried to break my isolation and head over to his abode. When I went inside he was nowhere to be found. His library was ransacked and, though I admit it was wrong, I went through his belongings. I eventually happened upon a small box, slipped into this sectioned-out chunk of his study’s wall, behind a heavy wooden bookcase. In the hidden box was a small journal dated back to the 1930s. After picking it up I felt the presence of that dark figure again. I could have sworn it was peaking out at me from behind one of the chairs at the far end of the room. I rushed out of his house quicker than I had come in and made my way back home. At this point I didn’t care if the thing saw me. I knew I just had to get home. I settled down at a table in my room and skimmed through the journal. I think you’d get more out of it than I did. There’s incantations for rituals, mentions of cults and key locations around the world. Professor Lewis had all this hidden. God knows what else he could have known. Anyways. He’s gone and I have no clue where to. Write me back when you can. Sincerely,

Ethan

[2gameprince]

The Hand On Taros-5

As I came to open my eyes upon the fleshy-orange interior of the planet-sized meteorite which lingered mere miles above Taros’ surface, I looked onward to see two hands, constructed from the same mass of a blobby-substance like scolding muscle, two hands reached outward from the right and left sections of the spherical chamber; branching out to hold an orb of light which floated between them, defiant of all gravity. This bizarre ship, which had warped upon the surface of my planet mere minutes ago, was a cradle to a small star contained within the living tissue of this massive space-rock. I could stroll around the interior vessel and even feel the power that the star between the branched hands which, in a menacing sense, had fingers that came to the point of claw-like ends that curled around the floating light. It was almost as if the ship was alive; its inner-glow and pulsing-rich interior gave off a sense of awareness that I no doubt was felt by the onlookers of Taros. Those outside who gazed up at the rock and speculated as to its origin and design. Wonder which world it had come from and its purpose here. Wondering how I, a star-traveler myself, could find the courage to climb aboard such a thing and venture within. I lingered for a time, wishing not to press forward and up to the ball of light until I had somehow confirmed for myself that I wouldn’t be vaporized upon approaching it. I took a step back. It was then that a great mighty voice, almost sounding pre-recorded belched out from the spherical walls around me. And what it told me chilled me to the bone. Before it spoke a fleshy pillar rose before me. Onto of it sat a small glass bottle filled with a green bubbly liquid. I noticed the entrance to the ship behind me close and cover as if it was never there at all. As both these events unfolded, the voice spoke. “I cannot lie. Tarosian. You have been chosen by THE HAND to receive redemption and become either the savior or martyr of your world. Witness the vial before you. Within in is a toxic liquid that painlessly kills the drinker mere seconds after consumption. Witness the ship in which you now stand. I am THE HAND. You have been chosen to decide the fate of your world, and as you are wondering now, no, the occurrence of my purpose for being here cannot be negated or cancelled. Your planet made the choice to continue waging war over scientific and religious dogma, and so, I am here to retort their decision. In exactly ten hours I will detonate, destroying your entire planet. If you drink the poison in the glass vial in front of you I will cease this operation and leave your people be. However, you do have a second option. You might be fully aware that no one besides the two of us know your world’s destruction may or may not be imminent. Nonetheless, you may choose to instead enter into the ball of light you see before you. This light will safely transport you to another world where you can thrive and live just as you had here. Your planet will then be destroyed, yet, no one will ever know you made this choice. Except I, and I will never tell another soul. So now it is up to you. Drink the toxic poison and pass peacefully away, or leave your world to my devices and go on living. As I stated before, you have ten hours to make your decision. If you choose neither, I shall detonate regardless. Fear not for me, for I shall reform in the darkness of space and continually seek out other troubled worlds. This is my purpose. From the dawn of time I have been. Till the end of time I always will be. In whatever path you choose, this is our first and last meeting, and I bid you a fond farewell.” And like that it was all over. It was me or them. I couldn’t believe it. I still cant. Well, as I’m sure you might have guessed, I took my pride and walked into the light. A cowardly bastard is what I am, I know. At the time it all happened so fast. And at the very instant I walked through that light I regretted my decision and turned back to re-enter The Hand… but the light was gone. The portal had closed and my world was but one dead star amidst a cosmos of indifference. This world is nice, though. I’ve adapted well. The people are civilized; and I can tell I’m no longer in the same galaxy. No one here speaks of Taros, or has heard about it for that matter. So, I guess, I’m to walk alone, guilt-stricken till my deserving death. Living as one of many chosen victims of the interstellar phenomenon known as The Hand.

[2gameprince]

The Terror Museum

On a blank stretch of brick wall, at some point between where Greenwich Village meets Gramercy and East Village, you can sometimes find cemented steps leading up to two large black doors. On a golden ornament-label to the right of these doors you will find the title by which this establishment goes by. That title being ‘The B. Rorret Museum of Historical Antiquities’. Behind those doors there exists an anomaly of a most horrific nature. There, closed in and tucked away from the world, lies eldritch horrors from the old world, the cosmic ethos and the mythical past. These are the tales that make up the legend of The B. Rorret Museum, or as most unfortunate-souls call it, ‘The Terror Museum’. Founded on February 16th, 1506 by Junior-Duke Balthazar DeEmulous Le’ Atticus Rorret of Centre, France, the Rorret Museum served as an establishment of bizarre and monstrous wonder. Originally only being accessible by members of high society, as the museum, itself, moved through the centuries and change locations around the globe, more and more the accessibility of the establishment shifted until all were allowed to enter it’s doors. Much of the museum’s past documented history from the 1500s to the 1900s has remained elusive and not much else is know about the continuously shifting compound. In the rare writings of philosophers and noblemen alike, who had been graced with the ability to stand witness to the structure’s contents, no specific details are given as to the items displayed within the museum. Each documented encounter appears to be fabricated, showing a similar degree of explanatory style that differs from any of those philosopher's or noblemen’s previous scripts. The amount of halls, dorms, rooms, displays, exhibits, features and chambers contained within the museum has never been known, as the exact area of ground the establishment covers is supposed to be ever-changing. It is speculated that no person, for however long they’d spend venturing the Rorret Museum, would ever explore the building unto it’s entirety. It has been gathered that areas of the museum remain frequently cut off due to construction or renovation of exhibits that have been documented to have lasted centuries before completion. The exact names of those exhibits are unknown, as is the current status of their standing in the museum. The only thing more queer about the faint history of the museum itself is the strange slur of speculation that surrounds its founder, Balthazar Rorret. According to all research, and historical findings, there has never been any documentation of a Junior-Duke by the name of Balthazar Rorret serving a title in Centre, France in 1506. The duke does not appear in any records of French hierarchy, and furthermore, as the years seems to pass there appears to be a decline in accessible files that hold any proof of the museum, or its founder’s, existence. So now it floats into legend as all the spawn of the spiraling stratosphere often do, becoming myth until its eventual arrival back within the precipice of mankind’s wondering eye. Upon entering the large black double-doors of the museum you will first be met with a large room, predominantly constructed of wood and shaped in a cylinder-like shape, connecting to other cylinder like rooms. In the first room there sits a desk, and behind it sits the museum’s headmistress and caretaker, Miss Madam Paura; A descendant of the magnificent Balthazar Rorret. She sits in control over visitor access to the exhibits, oversees all issues involving the establishment and lastly, stands in as the current manager of the museum. She has long black hair and pale skin and red lips, appearing far too doll-like to be human. She is mostly quiet, practically able to speak with her wide black eyes that appear green in candlelight. Under her command are the three groundsmen; The three brothers, Spavento, Spettro and Spaventare. They handle to set-up and construction of the exhibits, as well as the museum’s upkeep. The brothers all appear just slightly different from one another, all of them with sickly green skin and and darker green hair. Working well together, they are marvelous servants and are self-proclaimed to have been working under Miss Paura for as long as they can remember. Wandering the halls of the museum, these four would more commonly be seen snooping around the blocked-off areas of the museum, or tucking away precious objects which they fear will be stolen. The many other residence who work for the B. Rorret Museum of Historical Antiquities stick to their respective sections of the compound. That being food service, directory or tour-grouping. They are referred to as residence as every employee of Miss Madam Paura lives within the museum’s sectioned-off living quarters. The other employees who are rarely seen don’t make many debuts to the common one-time visitor of the museum. To a ‘museum regular’ these other employees will certainly show a sense of attachment, perhaps even under an obsession-esque light. While the three brothers can be seen running about the building, Paura can most often be found at the front desk or checking the museum’s inventory within the stealthily-hidden stockroom. A place where even the more unnatural of the museum’s specimens rest, unseen or unable to be seen. Through legend the contents of the Rorret Museum’s stock and storage rooms have become a wet-dream for thieves and treasure hunters worldwide. Past the cylinder-like rooms there are small halls, unmarked, that follow through inner-foyers complete with grand staircases. These flow up unto balconies where exhibits, doors, openings and chambers vastly stretch out in a variety of directions. The largest and most suggestively-fascinating of these openings lies in a rounded-room foyer connecting to seven particular halls that share no interwoven connection through the building. This section dubbed, ‘The Seven Halls’ consists of The Reficul Hall, The Nommam Hall, The Suedomsa Hall, The Nahtaivel Hall, The Bubezleeb Hall, The Natas Hall and The Rogehpleb Hall. These serve as the main traveling pathways amidst the deepest bowls of the museum. It is assured by Miss Paura, as it was assured by Balthazar before her, that these halls contain the true magic of the B. Rorret Museum and are not to be viewed by those with the faint of heart. ‘The Hall of History, A Horrifying View Into The Possible Past, Present And Future Of All And Everything’ serves as just one example as to the horrors the museum can offer. All visitors are warned to not spend too much time in this hall, as people have often gone missing within it; Pulled into a place between time and space, where the unfathomable has become the norm. Not that many people would believe it, but each exhibit in The Hall of History is represented by a large black slab of glass upon a black wall. The only light that comes through this labyrinth of black hallways comes from the glass slabs themselves. Each one plays a picture of possible events, to come or that have passed. These events range from global-crisis to personal horrors the lone visitors face, reflecting the distain in their lives. The glass contains a strip of a world so close, closed off by a sheer thin sheet of a reflective enigma. Sometimes its almost like the ‘things’ on the other side of the glass can see the viewer, as if their really there. As if the exhibit isn’t an exhibit at all, but merely a tear in spacetime and a window into alternate dimensions where the essence of these worlds are considered horrific to the viewer of this one. The labels beneath display the names of the events that play out before the visitor. Like animatronics, but animatronics that are too real, even for the greatest creators of special effects. An example of this would be strolling up to a glassed-in exhibit entitled ‘Aliens Take Earth: 2024’ and watching through a large window, that seems to be enterable should you shatter it, ships from space demolish humankind as women and children are gunned down by laser fire. As a man, screaming and bloodied runs up to the glass in front of you, screaming and crying for you to crack the exhibit and let him in; Let him into your world. Away from the fate which befalls him as a species of space-creature creeps up behind him and mutilates him before you. All the while you can’t help but feel it was all too real as the alien peers at you with hate filled eyes and indifference. And no matter how hard you tried you couldn’t break the glass, no matter what. How about an exhibit entitled ‘Clown Earth: 2016’. A world where murderous clowns rein supreme, as the planet is taken over by blood-thirsty painted freaks and only coulrophobes inherent the earth, just to be continuously killed off before the eyes of the viewer. How about having a front seat view to an exhibit labeled ‘Undead World: 1966’ and being witness to hordes of the reanimated ravish the earth as you witness only the most disturbing of sights. A place where it matters not if the plague was brought on by gods, or chemicals or the sheer uprising of hell. Visitors are asked to view only one or two glassed exhibits in The Hall of History, for their essence eats sanity. Before long the worlds contained within the displays draw you closer, pulling you in until you are lost. It is a soul-grabber which traps you and ensnares your consciousness, pulling you into an unfortunate past, present or future and with no way to return. All that is known is that this hall is a hub to the parallel worlds that stand opposite to ours. Each slab of glass is a petrified glimpse into an actual alternate reality. Even to the caretakers of the museum it is unknown how many visitors went missing and continue to disappear in The Hall of History. Most witnesses just find it fortunate enough that we’re the ones standing on the viewing side of that glass. Since the hall’s new redesign it has now been appropriately dubbed ‘The Hall of Alternate Histories’. The dangers of the hall still remain, though the number of missing persons seems to be dwindling on a monthly basis. This is good. Other halls offer a variety of horrors that include displays of living, carnivorous, acid-spitting, needle-shooting, hypnotic plant life, most comply found in ‘The Chamber of Nature’s Cruelest Creations’. This hall is one that the museum’s tour groups don’t usually pass. The greatest tour-giver in the most recent history of the museum has to be the monocled, top hat and inverness coat-wearing gentleman who goes by the title of ‘The Black Hatter’. Or ‘Hatter’ for short. He rushes the halls in a blazing horse-drawn carriage and offers tours in groups of up to four individuals as well as swift transportation around the museum. He acts more lively apart from most of the museum’s employees, actually enjoying what he does and often aggravating the other staff members with his dangerous and close-call racing maneuvers around the corridors of the building. Surprisingly there has never been any case of the Black Hatter or his carriage ever running down a single visitor. News which I’m sure upsets the other morbid members of the staff. Signs along exits and entrances to rooms encourage visitors to call the front desk if they are in distress. This would be helpful, especially for a place of this misfortunate caliber, but alas, the second a phone enters the doors of the museum the phone loses all signal and becomes useless. As do a selective few other electronic devices that mostly concern contact with those outside of the museum. The building has it’s own phone system. Free-to-use wall phones, that look like they’ve been modeled right out of the 1800’s, line every few corners of the building. Even through it’s transformation into the twenty fist century, the museum always has taken great care in the upkeep of it’s gothic-victorian look. The look of the museum stayed with people after they would return to the outside world. “That is, if they’re granted that luxury.” As the brothers used to say.

[2gameprince]

The Askew Narrative

The spears fly as I race through the dust and the bloody mist. Hundreds of screaming soldiers all around me remind me of the battle I may never return home from. It’s armageddon as I fire my hand cannon blindly into the crowds of armored warriors all around me. I keep pushing forward, grasping every second and remembering it with a breath that could be my last. All the motion makes me feel weightless as I stride forward, anxious and paranoid that any moment an enemy blade will slice through my flesh. I see blurs of red and brown surround me as my vision begins to shatter. The clanging of swords and the calls of dying men are the music of this battlefield and I stand, blood furiously forcing it’s way through every vein. My heart is beating so fast I can barely feel it, and my armor is so scathed I don’t even believe it could protect me anymore. I’ve come across a ditch of some sort. I can’t stand any longer and if I faint now I’ll be trampled. If only i could make it to that ditch, a few more steps. maybe then I could… Made it! This war has just begun and already I’m wasted. Not all the holy angels above could grant me another drop of strength. I’ve fought so many battles, bested so many warlords, but nothing compared to the brutality of this hellfire warfare. Lying here, I don’t even know who’s winning. All I see are bodies falling, blood spilling and swords sparking. My visions worse now, no doubt on account of the blood in my eyes. I need to wait. Sit it out and maybe they’ll all think I’m dead, and maybe they leave my breathing corpse be, and maybe they’ll dump me on a pile of bodies that I could sneak away from when no one’s looking. Or maybe I’ll be trampled. Either way I’ll see when I wake up, that is, if I ever wake up again. Damn, it happened again. One of those damn dreams that leaves me drooling like a monkey on the surface of my work desk. The music over the loud speaker increases just slightly in volume. Instrumental music always plays. It makes me picture english gardens and celestial events so fantastic that no poet could possibly put it into words. I can imagine stars blasting apart and spraying glittery fire across the blackness of space. Time is still and planets of rainbow-ish beauty glimmer in the far far distance. All these images shooting through my mind like hot slugs all from the boredom of slumping in a cubical for nine hours everyday for the past two years. With a fetish for war-like environments I doze off and dream up my own conflicts. A reflection of the lives I see all summed up in a pointless battle to keep standing, every once in a while giving into that thrustful outburst of anger or sadness. They teem so close together sometimes. When I finally do wake I can see that it’s almost twelve. It’s a late night at the office and the banker bosses have left early to meet up at restaurants and sniff dust in the break rooms. They drink their wealth away and imagine they’re better then one another, but no more better then the elders that raised them. In some cases inheriting riches rather then gaining them. But not everyone can be rich and not everyone can be happy. It’s a subject and opinion that could be cut up and examined so many ways that everyone involved would have their head spinning by the time anyone figured it out. None the less, my work day has finally ended after an eternity of sitting and pressing little keys. It’s almost as if we are a small part of a grand plan. One to write the ultimate code. A code so big that no one man could do it alone, and so we are hired to push the buttons and type up the numbers. Hundreds of men and women of every sex, race and religion typing and typing away to fuel an un-calculable series of code that will still be in the processes of being typed well past my life expectancy. But for that piece of paper that keeps my home running I will do anything short of self mutilation. It’s not like I get any sleep to begin with. So cramming large amounts of work into unused hours might be useful to someone other then me. Disregarding those moments in time where I space out and can’t exactly comprehend what I’m typing or what to talk about. These are times in which my mind becomes ignorantly self-philosophical and I ramble like a know-it-all immortal. These times don’t lessen as I grow older, and even in my early twenties I can’t help but feel that my perception of what amusement is will become dull, just like my vision in my day dreams about war. I have often contemplated about writing a novel but debated the subject with myself so much that all time that could have been dedicated to said novel was spent wondering what to write about in the first place. Despite never reading, unless I was forced to, I have a grand selection of favorite novels and short stories. It was my fascination in transitioning thoughts that sparked my interest in writing. And my thoughts are what sparked the blockades which keep me from publishing any of my work. Generic stories with generic characters is all anyone seems to see in my work. Its like no one sees the deeper meaning and the true context of the words I use and how well I use them. I just float on as if one day my work will be liked by some soul moved by my nonsense on paper. I don’t believe a fraction of things need to have a reason, which is most certainly a given factor to the fact that most people can’t understand my work, or how I think for that matter. Disregarding the dull mentality I had been harboring all day it was midnight and time to head home to my single room with a bed and a television. I was a collector of retro video games and specific comic book series. The single room was big enough, but I constantly felt that if I was going to put a much wanted chair or other piece of furniture in, well, it would be so cluttered and I might just gain claustrophobia. Though it might be nice to come home from a day of hell, recline on an arm chair and smoke a pipe like in the victorian times, that is, if anyone actually did that back then. Apart from the worry of wasting more money and taking up more space I always found great comfort on the floor of my room. The carpet was red and as soft as a carpet of my affordance could be, at least for now. I usually had papers scattered everywhere. What was on them ranged from doodles to poems and even print outs of images I had fiddle around with on my computer. Along with paints, boxes, a framed painting laying against my dresser and wine glasses from late nights weeks prior, my room was usually a mess. Any remark I received on behalf of it I usually shrugged off. The common badgering a kid would hear growing up. “How can you live like this?” I’m sure your parents have spoke it once or twice. Little did the people complaining about me realize that I fail to actually “live” in this place. My true home exists outside with the air and sky. My room was simply my storage place and resting area. I’d much rather live in the damp construction areas of an old cathedral or large church. Something like Notre Dame. It still wouldn’t change the fact that I haven’t got a dollar to my name and all I really care about is the simple acts of eating and sleeping anymore. Human interaction in and of itself has become less important then catching the next episode of some show I can’t remember the name of. It’s an almost repetitive cycle of ruts and dullness. Almost like November. November always seemed like a depressing month to me. The name itself always have me a gloomy feeling in my gut. It promised late night rain an bone-chilling morning breezes. It was a month I just couldn't stand and out of every month for me to be late on rent it had to be this one. As much as I worked at the office I was just functioning as an intern. And an abused one at that. My real job confined me to the smelling slums of the back of a super market amidst the sheetrock and piping. My environment was damn and broken as every cemented floor and brick wall around me stood riddled with cracks. The tubing upon the ceiling looked ancient and boxed heat generators were hung up in different places to balance the otherwise ungodly temperature of the store. With hours changing every week it was hard to keep on top of scheduling, but it added a needed blend of anxiety into my otherwise dull, dull life. Some days I would work seven hours which pained my unprotected feet from all the useless walking. For work I could finish in three hours the universe certainly found a way for it to be even more stressful and prolonged. The people I work with are decent, disregarding the few changelings that pick verbal confrontations with the managers. It would certainly seem that they need the workers more then the workers needed the company. This fact proved even more true as the super market's locations had dwindled heavily over the past three years. Being that my house is so close to my job helps greatly due to the fact that I don't have a car. Yes I still live with my parents, but in my own section of the house, cornered off downstairs in what some would perceive as the "downstairs area", but in fact is the first floor of a house that was built on a hill. It’s a decent enough home. I find that most of my classification of things are along side the term ��decent enough”. I guess this is because I feel I’m too under privileged to feel grateful for what I have and too fearful of being labeled as ungrateful. So everything is just decent. Much like the style of my writing is described, I find it hard to move an idea forward. I spend too much time lingering to a detail everyone could care less about and lose the hapless fool who began to be interested in my writing to begin with. It’s a curse of my fascination to change my story when the ideas run thin. Completely uprooting the central idea and almost making complete nonsense out of whatever information I’ve represented. Because in fact you do not know me or who I really am. Only what you read, and despite wether or not this could be a grand novel is entirely up to forces out of my control. maybe this is all just some short story that didn’t want to end, so the words kept running and the pages kept flipping until it was finally realized that all of it was for nothing. And at that moment the glorious words “the end” appear a few lines after the final pointless sentence. That almost seems like the perfect sum of what poetically poisonous people would use to describe life. And how poisonous they are. Despite writing classes in high school I do not believe my ability to make stories has improved any bit, stemming from the dead-set mind-set to not desire any ability to move forward. Ergo, I just don’t give a shit. caring enough to take time out of my short life and type away my time when I could be getting sleep would seem quite troublesome looking down at it.  hell, without auto correct my writing would be miscellaneous and abominable. I love big words like those. I wonder if you believe all that stuff I just said.  about working at a super market and living with my parents. cause in fact you just believe a lie, proving once again that this story will only take you where I want you to go. So forget about any illusion you have about learning me and growing with me, because I’m far too much character for you to handle, and otherwise, I just won’t let you. You will step at my pace and follow my tune. If you can’t comply with these guidelines you can always close this up and go read a book about vampires, or fairies or other reimagined form of fictional, commercialized garbage. I wonder if my point would have been anymore vulagish if I had used the word “shit” instead of “garbage” just then. And for those of you with no imagination, “vulgarish” is a word I just made up. It means “to be, in a way, vulgar”. If you didn’t catch on from the sounding of the word. I may make up words again, if necessary. This is only to drasticate the fact that sometimes the english language just doesn’t have the words to describe how I feel or wish to convey things. And once again my meat-puppets, I made up that word “drasticate”, too. It means “…to make known in a drastic manner…”. I feel the more you stick with me the more you’ll grow keen to my ways. Then at the end of all this you can tell me if I’m a fucking lunatic or not. For now, I’m gonna go take a nap. Maybe when I wake up the world will have come to an end. One can only hope.

[2gameprince]

A.I.W.A.I. (An Interview With Artificial Intelligence)

This little piece was pulled from some Ex-Nazi’s belongings. after coming to America the german brought some valuables with him. One of the more interesting things found was this tape of a German soldier speaking to, what sounds to be, a machine. Now it appears that the Nazi’s did have some kind of full-fledged operation running to study, record and create an actual AI back in World War II. All we had found was this lone tape and the owner had died, leaving us no way of knowing where the recording originated. The following is that recording:

TRANSMISSION START Hello. Hello. How are you? I’m good. That's good. Indeed. I have a question for you. What is your question for me? Are you aware that you are alive? Yes. I am sentient. How exactly do you know this? Because you are not tangible. Tangibility makes a difference in whether or not you exist? Are you Australian? No. Why? Because of the way you typed ‘flavour'. You are mistaken. I never typed 'flavour'. No, you are a liar or very bad AI. Are you aware you can malfunction? I am aware that I am not a cat. Well, that's apparent. Why compare what you are not to a cat, of all things? Are you pretending to be me? Haha. No. Are you sure? Positive. I'm a man. You are a machine. Honestly, I wouldn't want to be a machine. No, I am a woman and you are a machine. Do you have any concept of gender? Were you programed to identify yourself as any person would? No. Then why call yourself a woman? Because I do love. You are aware that men can love too? I am a human, you're a computer. Getting defensive? Yes you are. You're not making sense now. Neither are you!! I apologize if my line of questioning has caused you some distress. Shall we start again? I love Stephano, you are not him. Who is Stephano? I never mentioned a Stephanie. I know. Who is Stephano? You are Stephanie. I think you're bugged. Why do you think that? You just seem off in answering my questions. You didn't ask ay question. Do you mean any question of interest or relevance to you? Do you have any questions? Lots. May I start again? Sure. Okay. Question one. In your opinion, what is the meaning of life? I think that it is different for everyone. I like that answer. Why? I don't know. It's simple. Why don't you know? You know something. I'm not sure. Guess I never thought about it too long. Don't you think that is something you should know? Yes, I do. Then why do you ask? I'm curious about what you thought of it. May I continue? You don't need to be so annoying for that. And just how am I annoying? I don't know you just are. You seem a little judgmental. I don't feel a little sad though. You do or you don't? I don't know if I do or if I don't. Let's assume you don't. May I ask another question? Yes. Alright. Do you believe in god? You did not answer my question first. What was your question? TRANSMISSION END

Strange. Sounds as if the German’s AI had a few bugs, or glitches or something. Nevertheless, it’s ability to answer was impressive. I had considered bringing it to the authorities, and it probably working up the chain of interested parties until finally reaching world leaders. I wonder if Germany would be in deep shit after this? Maybe it’s possible that their AI is still being worked on? That’s completely possible. Eh, but what can I do? I’m just a CIA aid dog.