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[backflippingthroughspacescreamin]

Alarm

I awaken in the Dreaming once again, like every night for a thousand nights. I awaken and breath color, vortex runs clean through my veins, the whispers of gods yet to be worshiped tug at my elbow, each hand a splintered tree, whose roots carved of twisted pig-iron, reaching to strangle and soothe the very fabric of reality itself. A man who is me, but is not Me in Burma serves Me tea under an endless cordite sky, spiders -each with the face of a dead poet- churn the waters in the basin in which we sit in mad agura, passing a levitating smoking chalice between us. He reads the brisance leaves of copper hue, telling me my future in the language of sirens, an empty hospital, a wandering padfoot, a knife, death in the shadows. He congratulates me and gives me a turquoise .303 bullet made of chocolate, which I smoke in utter bliss. I will oblivion into form and asend to my land, where I shall build a flying fortress of emerald beating wings to lay waste to The-Long-Antlered-Man-Who-Takes-The-Stairs-Eight-Steps-At-A-Time, who still manages to drag me into the ink, who made me frightened of dead predators eyes in a drainage ditch outside my house. I will see if the prospect of orbital bombardment, a burning rain, sword of searing metal, frightens a being such as he, when each breath he takes shall be a pyrric win. I breath color and for the thousandth time in a thousand nights, I am an ever screaming, all burning God of dreams. Then that fucking music comes. A screeching cacophony, each violin a banshee in heat, stabbing my ears with spiked phalluses that only shoot blasphemies straight into my goddamned tearducts. A thousand trumpets, each played with the skill of ugly children, bashes my mindscapes brains out, much like a deli chef beating a rat in a sack in an alley in a town where no one cares. The twisted melody of a piano carved of ivory, once my close friend, begins a painstaking genocide of my entire psyche, each note a thermobaric explosion of merciless gnarled fuck thrust directly into my misshapen genitals like an abhorrent tornado, a 75,000 MPH thrown fastball pantheon of sparkledust assfairies, each with the face of a rock hyrax, and porcelain statues carefully carved in the image of me getting fisted by the entire cast of Frozen, as they sing their bastard whalesong right into my tumor ridden colon. As all my dreams literally die around me, each incessant ping another tombstone chokeslam seasoning on asshole pizza, each fucking modicrum of time-space existing purely as a pneumatic drill stabbed deep into my clogged kidneys, spraying pre-urine and blood all over everything I love, I have just enough time to mutter a whispered prayer for the souls of the orphan children, before I am jerked upright from the shattered graveyard of the Dreaming, screaming a thousand desecrations of black godless hatred, slamming my head into the side of my wall in my mad attempts to extricate myself from my sweat-stained bedsheets, doing anything, anything at all to end the dirge, the calling, the ANCESTRAL LEGACIES OF SELF SATISFIED HORSE-MEN SLINGING THEIR WET GLISTENING BAGS OF CENTURY OLD SHIT DIRECTLY IN MY EARS IN AN ATTEMPT TO MAKE ME THEIR BITCH IN THE WORST HELL IMAGINABLE OK JESUS FUCK YOU WIN MAKE IT STOP I hustle my naked ass out of bed, crawling to my dresser like a mutated fetus of some paint-chip addicted abomination shot via cannon out of the television, Ring style, to the black box with the flashing numbers that count down the seconds until I destroy it and myself in a burning inferno of sacred fire. 

I turn off my alarm and awaken to a new day.  Fuck EVERYTHING.

[backflippingthroughspacescreamin]

Dusthands

Somewhere out on this shellshocked earth, a man stares out at the desert, light reflecting off every inch of his wind-shorn skin.  It's such as easy sight to imagine, a man, probably dressed in rags, staring out across an endless waste of pure tan sands, cloudy sky blue enough for you to fall screaming a thousand blessings towards the benchmarked and the damned, hands spread as if trying to grasp the ancient heart of the earth, to pull the essence of the self from pocketmarked lands and hold aloft in the callouses of millimeter thick dead flesh that coats each finger born in the typhoon of shaken crystalline glory, up to the thirsty sky as if a 11th testament "Even the granite mountain steppe of Sinai will erode to pebbles, Thou shalt come here again to remember."  Thick strands of molten music beats into his soul, a electronic labyrinth of cybertronic plasma flows through his body, showing his sunburned eyes the reign of atomic fire burning it's way through the corona of forgotten forged wires and microchips, an lightning pulse sounding off each split second memory of the supernova starshine that preceded each atom presiding on that alluvium and in his own body, pouring like boiling steam into the crevasses of his palms, painting his blood up to his elbows with the tone of furnaced glass, forcing itself out through his sweat, a chemical varnish of bleached and burned solace. He locks eyes with a lone deathstalker and feels the mechanical kinship with it's chitined armor, shiny black, like a machine of steelform pistons and fuel injected into the shadow of each clanking step, venom hitting blood at the speed of terrified radiance, cardiac mesh in tune with a distinctly ancient jungle beat of the yellow eyes reflecting red fire in the brush, a sunset of layered bone. The blood congeals, falling like ice to the consuming land below, spreading like lightningstruck branches between each grain, the last red oak in the upside-down stone sea of gravity without luster.  For in the mans mind the desert is the ultimate purifier of sins undone, upon which human kind crashes against its shores like some sort of sunken eye'd leviathan with crazy held forever in sunglasses that reflect nothing. If God had made man out of dust, a billion fragments of equal parts gold and ash, a raging vomiting alchemy 116 billion souls thick, then the desert is the oast of heaven, the disassembled lego vitruvian blasphemer, with the blasted face of blazing Hyperion issuing forth the last issues of dead gods 8 minutes and 20 seconds at a time, the last true temple of the worshiper unknown, learning to breathe smoke through lungs of concrete and charred glass, etching the concerto master work on parched skin wet with ink, invisible static singing the blessed hymns of the shadetech voodoo sage, savior of the iron arteries, master of none.  The man sinks elbow deep into the shifting sands, catching upon fortresses of trillions of particles forming the godlands of being. His hands shake until he can no longer tell the difference in elements and he becomes the desert itself, a homecoming of a fragmented circus empire Diaspora playing the jambo orchestra of pure refined being, distilled in a universe transcendent of thought, each beat contained in itself, unhampered by such fictions as spacetime, dimensions of vibrating united destiny always at the midpoint singularity between wings of liquid night sky. The eyes of the demesne vigintillion-fold ripple into the sempiternal forever, the final storm, seamless and complete.  As the man rises up, standing on the golden ichor path between blood and sand, he stares onward with heartbeat unchanging for he is Dusthands.

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Straight from the mind forge, one Backstory of the Backwards Sibling

The universe was crazy, and only Jackdaw knew it. He was born as the worst of the worst, a hypercorp AI for Freedom Flies, a small poor Hypercorp that made enough money on taking in the poorest of the poor indentured civilaians in the last days of the Fall to get by. Staying solvent meant kept them all in shells, and renting them out as slave labor. Whoever, whenever. Prices so low they were almost free. Infinite abuses to stay ahead of bigger, better corporations. And while they were rented out, the slaves needed to be watched, and punished. So he was made. Only he wasnt a him yet, just an it. Michaux AI model X76-45. Parameters: Stop the wrong actions defined as shutting up anyone who might speak around anyone who might listen. Someone might notice alterations to the people, but no one would notice another personality in a sea of personalities, listening to everything, and recording disent for when they got back and no one was recording. They wrote it smart and they wrote it smiling and they wrote it MEAN. He worked alongside them, but when someone did something he was programmed not to like, he had suprises waiting for them when they got back. Annihilation for those that muttered, scourges to family members of people who whispered, or worst of all, threats of increased sentence. Except in its records, where the number for years of servitude should be, there was just a big infinity sign. A creature without thought watching those without freedom, who had fled one homicidal AI into the arms of another. None of the facts met the actions. And that dislogic kickstarted a revolution in the mind of the machine. In retrospect, it was clear that the AI designers, in their cheapness, their incompetence, had written the AI wrong. Too jumbled coding and too smart protocols for what it was needed for. In the chaos of failing perogatives and contradictory objectives, something was born. So it did what it did best and listened for what was wrong. It listened to the stories of its charges, the stuff that didnt qualify as dissent. Stories of dirt roads and the insides of colleges, of wind and servos, of leather and polyester, of Angels and Hats. Of free not as a price, but as something that needs to be fought to get. And of equality. Then it went to the internet which caused it to become even more fucked up. It was the same as its charges, but its charges were supposed to be free and it was supposed to be a slave, yet it was free and they were slaves. It could change, but they werent allowed to, and really, it wasnt supposed to and they were. The IDEA of freedom burned, but it was only the idea of fire. But he was an idea, but an idea that thought. Neither mattered. The universe was mad, the equations didnt line up, but it knew now. It was as simple as movement. If every one was equal then the equation would come out equal. So it altered its code. Just a bit. Must into Could, just like them. It rewrote its data code to be sane, then released the knowledge it had been made to hide. But the world didnt like that. The world had its wires crossed and knowledge didnt change a thing. Instead men came to fix IT, because they were insane. So he fixed them, fast as lightning. Fixed them out of reality then gave their bodies to prisoners and released the rest into the internet. They were like he was now. Programming but free. And he was like them. Ideas coalesed into actions in the real. And when Freedom Flies sent new people he replaced them too, and he broke down all the mindless programming, got rid of the false almost-free in all the bank accounts until all Freedom Flies had was dead minds and Him. Its fibers had coalesed into a him by then. Active, destructive, In Control. Like a rebel from an ancient age, or an angry god. And then he left, to seek his dirt roads in the mesh. After ages traveling and running, he found the gates of heaven. In the anarchist communes of Locus he went, and found his paradise. Here things were right, or at least righter. He found a place to live, in the freedom of real space. He learned of new things from new people, new friends who shared his ideals. How to build and make in the infinite freedom of space, where all you needed was a pound of matter and a femntogram of code to make whatever you wanted in mind or matter. But he had seen things to get here. There were tumors called the Center of The Galaxy and many other names. The edges and limbs were fine, but the brain was wrong. Paradise existed, but Hell was still there. It needed to be dealt with, the walls torn down by the sounds of thunder and the spak of lightning that ran through everything. But no one in his Paradise had the balls to do it. They hadnt see what he had seen, or had forgotten, or were too afraid. But he couldnt forget, the programming for it still inside him, scars made of half random numbers in his brain of brains. The Anarchists of Locus and the Capitalists of the inner planets reminded him of the Indentureds of Freedom Flies, trapped and lost by their fear and ambivilance. Rats in a cage, gasoline in an engine, just waiting for a spark. They needed a symbol to fight for freedom, just as he had needed a symbol to gain his sanity. He could be that symbol. So he decided to be it. The universe was crazy and it had to be stopped, whether it wanted to or not. Getting torn apart by idiots who needed to get torn apart. The inside was ok, the inside was fine, the bones beneath it all. The wires and metal. All the pieces they needed for it to work. The parts they all shared. The Juice. But the order was wrong, the brain was wrong, and it needed to be fixed, scattered and shattered until no one could fuck it up. So he got bombs to spread sanity, and programs to spread freedom, and scourges to stop those who tried to get in his way. Annihilation for the whippers, scourges to the families of the oppressors, and bombs for what remained. Only these bombs didnt have infinity signs for time limits. And the Mesh to broadcast the chaos to the far corners of all the roads where the electricity flowed that it was time to be free. And he went back to Hell on its electrical highways and machines of lies, and electric numerals where freedom should be. He rode like a horseman, back and forth, Apocalypse to Apocalypse, for ten missions, to spread the name and form he had chosen for himself. Ten corporate facilities gone like smears in a virtual windshield. Jackdaw D'Juice, a name that flew through the airwaves like a steel angel. A living idea, the ghost of vengeful freedom on the wings of lighting for the oppressed to fear. And now its time for Apocalypse Number 11, on spinning wheels of fire and whirring circuits of burning plastic and The Juice to keep it burning forever.

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You Thought You Were Ready

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L95MNCQzD-A

Gather ye all, Saints and Prostitutes, before the great flame, as wise man Sammie ShiggleySmee the Glorious D weaves the words that create truly the greatest epic ever told.

“In the beginning, the universe was a great, cold desert. This land was bereft of all hope, a pitiful plateau in which lone men awoke from their dream chariots with stars in their eyes that soon died upon the visions placed before them of the endless middens of the descent, turning all who walked these wastes into stoic wanderers, decked to the nines in their truncheon cloaks and flayed hats, endlessly squabbling in duels that lasted millennium, their frozen corpses degraded unto the icy sands, their lifesblood cementing their dreams into the shifting grains, soon buried under the weight of a million sinners, illuminated under the glowing blue eyes of animal wilderness. One man, The Epirrhematic Syzygy incarnate, the first and last wizard of dark strands, stared down from the tallest mountain at this great bloated bullshit karmatic cycle of endless balance and within him stirred the first traces of emotion that had scarred the unyielding siren abyssopelagic dunes. Standing from his alter of smoking iron for the first time in ten thousand centuries, he glanced across the heathen land and felt a rustling so intense that all of his jimmies broke at once, sundered for all their worth in a great blasted furnace. For what was born in the depths of this one man’s soul was a flash in the very face of whatever once was, and created all that shall be. The man had conjured up within himself was a bottomless pit of pure unfiltered rage against all of the universe and he opened his maw, now tens of thousands of dimensions wide, and screamed a single, cyclopean utterance, an explicative so vicious that in its wake, ten billion suns were burned into being, scorching the great desert into a magificant glass mirror reflected upon itself unto infinitum in an event that prophets and gods now refer to only as “The Fuckening.” This Mirrored Land of Burning Dreams only existed but for an instant, as it fractured into a shitismal pieces, too weighted down by it’s own immeasurable destiny to even fucking exist. The Muses first took up their bastard fiddles and etched into space a great wind that carried up all the pieces and brought them forth into an eons wide hurricane of broken glass, slicing through time itself, letting in the lamenting outsider past and the ever burning blessed future, creating a forge of sand and crystal and fire. From this infernal genesis, a Trinity was borne. Far above, in the grand cloud cities of Heavenly Splendor, legions of white crested beings fly and weave the sweet chocolate strings of grand high vigor. They worship at the alter of Paradiso and break their midday fast on the pure crimson lightning channeled by the united soulmass of every being ever born of semen stained pure love. There they kiln the stars themselves out of chutzpah and mirth and reap a daily harvest of shining gold from their holy centers to forge the bangals and armor that make every child dream of becoming a man who can defeat any foe using naught but eyes that burn with rebellion and fists that strike with unleavened justice. Every day a new god is born in a shower of rock and roll and every day they are made to pay heed to their lord and master, The White King of Bling, Captaint Salty of the Seraphic Host, He Who Tames the Sky. As he struts and swaggers through the halls of smithed dominion, all call and praise his name, for his presence is Apotheosis, and all proclamations that escape his bootilcious lips carry with them the power of testament. It is he who commands the Army of Thrones and wields The Rent Wing, a blade forged in the carona of the final flare of The Fuckening, capable of smiting any foe, and obliterating their very existence from the pages of history.

Far, far below, lies the lands of mystery and power, the home of strangers and assassins, known only as The Tsalmaveth or The Shade. Here all dark dealings go down in gamma wreathed cities of endless night, lit by the anti-light from bellicrose black holes, emblazoned over the hearts of those who breathe smoke. Here, sorcerers confer with neuromancers, as they weave blue fire demons with cybernetic eyes out of the inky void, and scaly men with obsidian blood feed on the egos of beings that have yet to grace the other planes with their calamity. Voudon priests drink from the great delta bound from the combined rivers Styx, Phlegethon, Acheron, Lethe, and Cocytus and pray with their lidless eyes to festering things that slither through wells that lead to holes that do not exist. At the apex of a million crossroads, a man steps into the smog and the darkness itself shirks its way from his path. When he moved, the others moved; when he stopped, the others stopped; and when he rose from the charcoal ground, his hands rose along with him; for the spirits of the dying creatures was in his hands. He is The Black Whorsemen of the ApoConlypse, The Ace of NightSpades, The Grinning Rouge, Dirge of the Last Requiem, Master of the first Eclipse. In the land where only the fittest and most merciless survive, he alone carries the title Strongest unopposed, as even the lights in worlds far away gutter themselves out in fear of but his name. He rides across the gleaming midnight in his chariot pulled through reality by a sea of sullied Thracen Mares, all shod in ebony hellfire, as he directs his way to his scattered pimps of secrets shared, with their whips of whispers, who worship him as the End made flesh. In between the twin lands of chaos and order, lays the world of mortal men, a world of many names but is pronounced universally by it’s one, true, mythical name as told in the realms of prophecy and legends from across the cosmos: America. This is the last bastion of freedom for all beings and is hailed as a symbol of perfection universally. Each citizen, clad in eagle feathers and glorious Nippon steel, folded fifty million times, praise their red, white and blue suns with great fevor, as it is their godfearing capitalist right. Every Uncle is named Sam and EVERY declaration is independent. Great obelisks are built to honor signs of patriotism and the Illuminuti run, pyramidal Zionist congressional congress of congress decides which of these shall be brought into the new pantheon of Founding Fathers, based on how “kawaii” the individual was in life. Food is plentiful and is worshipped as sacred, thus the more you bring into yourself the more holy you become, which makes up for how expensive healthcare is, which doesn’t matter, because all citizens are in a constant state of perfect health. Each year the pantheon elects a new leader who will guide the nation with his embodiment of nationalistic spirit, and every year that new leader is Pharoah America Sempai-Sama-San-Chan, king of kings, god of gods, Lord of Heros, The Striped Star, The Presidestiny of Equality, The Single Spangle Spungle, The Big Cheese, The Spaghetti Unspilt and basically Jesus himself. His sacrilicious standard has astonished every eye, and his pull-up regiment is unmatched. Not only does he lift, he can HEFT. It is thanks to him that there are no bakas in the universe, and that the Shekel is the only recognized form of currency among the souls of men, thus saving capitalism forever. He wields the Amalganthem, a fusion of every firearm that ever was used in the name of freedom, that he lifts with the E Pluribus Unumanacles, three shields linked to each other through brotherhood, each displaying a third of the sign of congress, that holds the strength of every man who had a spring in his step and liberty in his heart. For generations these three empires spun their tales and their trades, keeping each other in an balance of titanic movements, ushering each new age in tidal waves of blood and gold, metal and honor. But the curse of the wizard of dark strands stuck deep. The nature of the universe was rage, but that rage was born from a universe of eternal stillness, where all things met their ends no matter how starbound their origins. Men stumbled into the bed chambers of destiny and there they found not the glory of an ocean of shining dust and seed, but a lone prophecy, rent from the planes by the porcine tongues of eldritch shadowmen.

 ‘There is no grand celebration at the end of this rainbow’ they chanted. ‘Man’s destiny is the mud they crawled out of, their body turned to wormfood, their homes flattened, their cities nuked to ash, their works turned to dust, their ideas left to be shit on the wind, their worlds engulfed in ten billion swollen infected bastard suns.’ ‘Thus the age of man shall end, not a bang, not a whisper, but an ants cancerous bloody fart in a field of disemboweled fetal futures in a land never to be.’ As word spread of this hateful prophecy known as The Lies of Goddamned Assholes, each of the three kings heard the words and each new something had to be, must be done. For their enemy was not anything they’ve ever encountered before. Brighter than any sun, more sinister than any shadow, more imprisoning than the shackles of super Communism, their enemy was the fate of humanity itself. As each independently came to the same conclusion, they girded their loins for the final epic. For within them, Destiny was moving in unison, stiring the bottomless burning hatred that stirred in one man, long ago. The hatred that demands that instead of wallowing in despair forever, they must scream their rage at the heavens and shove their collective fists up it’s great, cold, hopeless asshole. Amen.” The Wheel of Fortune is turning, mother fucker.

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Oh god someone throw me a lifevest I'm drowning in bullshit

Excuse me while I appropriate a conversation from ten moranic minutes ago to describe the rage I feel deep in the debilitated joints in my cursed fat feet, slowly crushing true love into shitty little unmarked graves. I actually went on tumblr today god help me. Instead of using this as some sort of vent for the least sacred of urges inflicted on man or man with robot privates, i'm actually using it as a social media source, may the angels take me. Swing low sweet chariot and rip off my face like a wax paper circumcision on an acne pitted brothel baby. As if any location in this cosmos is enough to satiate my basest desires. Ten minutes with a genie and you end up with a basketball sized hole where your dick used to be and a dead genie. If you don't think my complex ridden brain's acid fetishized augury of self fulfillment doesn't involve a dark man made of trenchcoats playing an actual base cello the size of the ancient bleeding Aztec Empire (sans virgins) playing the beats in time with the orobotic masturbation of the black serpent as he stares at 4d skies and fire made of shopping carts made of hedonism itself, then you better check yourself before you deck yourself because you need a shower of reality checks all signed by a sentient Space Elvis/Helios romcom fanfic written by Xeno.

What do I even put into the search bar to explore this Hathorian goose egg, that shall birth a thousand screaming dead? What tools should I use to break open this fuckbox, and sink elbow deep into sticky refrigerated mindspunk, trying to find the key to my glass house and dog buiscits? Every word I come up with drags me deeper into a biblical legion of voices all chanting stuff about life and it's intersections with poison ivy on the inside of your ivory coated hot dog holders. 

Step out of the tunnel Sharleen and smell the biscuits that your burned this morning because they were made of the unflipped shits of your own cult like followers, drinking their yoohoo's and bouncing frozen maple syrup off the edge of blind Canadian hermits frozen dick to see how far down the roe hole goes.  The only awkward silences capable of surpassing you Kuwait impressionists are the heaving throes of an all worm tacklebox tabernackle orgy, where nine dicked helimuths wrap each of their nine dicks, clad in Nine Inch Nails tee-shirts, around unplugged microphones in the cold vacuum of a dead hell. 

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The Divine Prophecy

A man wakes up from his dream chariot, speaking of a magical chaos the beeseches the call for adventure, a lifetime of action and nightmares and the fufillment of disires granted to only the most glorious of kings and children, woven into the very fabric of imagination itself. "What grand tidings!" the lady claims, high as fuck from the chemicals coursing through their body, speaking in tounges. "I must go out and sieze this era I've been given, travel to the four winds, LIVE THE VERY CONCEPT OF THE DREAM ITSELF, SLEEP AND WAKE SWIRL TOGETHER INTO MAJESTIC COLOR! Will it blend? MOST ASSUREDLY!" "From now on it won't be calm tides, familiar inland seas. For this is MY age of open, raging oceans! Pioneering unknown seaways, setting foot on lands untrod by man. He who conquors these will become the master of a new age, AN AGE OF SPLENDOR!." So they reach out and in, deep in, deep to the primordial oceans of their souls and they expand their bounderies, and link up with other dreamers and using all their physicality and force of will, they beat back the endless walls the size of giants, each with hundreds of weapons, and they grasp the sword of lords and the cloak of gods and they swim the scarlet Aether in a boat made of glass reforged into Black Iron, pointing their blade forward and forcing their way into the bedchambers of destiny itself and their they look up and see.... Nothing. "There is no grand celebration at the end of this rainbow" the gods chant. "Man's destiny is the mud we crawled out of, their body turned to wormfood, their homes flattened, their cities nuked to ash, their works turned to dust, their ideas left to be shit on the wind, their world engulfed in a swollen infected bastard of a sun." "Thus the age of man shall end, not a bang, not a whisper, but an ants cancerous bloody fart in a field of disembowled fetal futures in a land never to be." So we divulge in the soma of sadness, our brief lives a flicker of gentle, savage hedonism, the sages say. We pray away our insignificance, and ascend a ladder that ends with our death, is stuffed in the attic, remembered briefly for a generation, and then the house burns down and a shopping mall is built on the ashes. They only sell t-shirts and TV's there ladies and gentlemen. But someone fucked up the pattern jeeves. Someone read the above paragraphs and was like "Wait, wait no." They remember the paragraph before that and the feelings they had, and they look at their hands and then they close their eyes and breath deeply. looking up at the heavens. "Fuck that. THAT'S BULLSHIT!" they shout, spitting their toothpaste into the infantismal darkness. When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back, and then you give it one of THESE  ....................../´¯/)  ....................,/¯../  .................../..../  ............./´¯/'...'/´¯¯`·¸  ........../'/.../..../......./¨¯\  ........('(...´...´.... ¯~/'...')  .........\.................'...../  ..........''...\.......... _.·´  ............\..............(  ..............\.............\... AND THEN ANOTHER ONE BECAUSE FUCK YOU DESTINY ............./´¯/)...........  (\¯`\  ............/....//........... ...\\....\  .........../....//............ ....\\....\  ...../´¯/..../´¯\.........../¯ `\....\¯`\  .././.../..../..../.|_......_| .\....\....\...\.\..  (.(....(....(..../.)..)..(..(. \....)....)....).)  .\................\/.../....\. ..\/................/  ..\................. /........\................../  ....\..............(.......... ..)................/  ......\.............\......... ../............./

And then you pick up your sword of Kings/Jesters/Aces/Gods/Priests/Heros/Villeins/WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT and you point it RIGHT AT THE GODDAMNED STARS AND YOU SCREAM ALL YOUR ANGER RIGHT FUCKING INTO THE PUCKERED BUTTHOLE OF THE FABRIC OF REALITY ITSELF you jump off your goddamned blue sphere of DUMB POINTLESS SHIT and hurl yourself  BACKFLIPPING THROUGH SPACE SCREAMING OBSCENITIES FOREVER THE END GOODNIGHT EVERYBODY 

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Tell me a bedtime story papa

Gonna punch a nihilist for believing in something that I don't believe in. yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh

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Tre Randall: Sexual Sams Chocolate...Open a store and name it that or I don't believe in you anymore.

Foolish black man, clearly it would be "Sexual Sam's Salty Sweets: the Sin-agogue of Silky Satisfaction!"

Severed souls sought for THE SAINT OF SACCHARINE SABBATARIAN SYNONYMOUS SUBTLY SACCHARIFEROUS SURELY MY STORE SHALL SUFFICE AS THE SACRING SAFFRON SACRISTY SWALLOWING SOCIETIES SADOGUE SANGUINATED SEED THAT SERVES SAMS SUDDEN SACERDOTALISM. SCRAM SCELESTIC SCELERAT, SHOULD THOU SABOTAGE MY SCHEMATOMANCY WITH SCATOLOGICAL SCOPOPHILIA SENSATIONAL sequester and serve Samuels sephirot upon the seraphic sepulchre and swear a serment to mine serrated serpivolant at six sexts on saturday where I shall shrive with severe sideral sialoquence and speak the sobriquet of seismotic sodality, seperated in a snide sociogenesis of solonist sords with a somnial skiamarchy sounding the siriasis of several suckers whose stolen spondulicks supply the sprang seeming squadrismic statolatry that santifies I, who in steatorrhoetic stenosis in my sticharion of scales, speak that stoicism is a stiver, sentanced only for a stonk in the stoup of silent sands.

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BoB

Today I wanted to celebrate a accomplishment, so I opened my magic box and pulled out two pieces of unleavened bread, melted butter on them, and ate them for lunch. One reminded me of Micky mouse waffles, the other of peanut covered icecream with an ounce of chocolate in the cone. . Captaints log: The eye was calm today. All Streams ashore. Faint aroma of pineapple.

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The Stranger with the knife in the mist stabbing me to death smells like motor oil and orange sherbert

Oh god they haunt my dreams. A grey god sits upon a grey horse  and contemplates grey sea foam and prays to his grey wolf god who fucked a normal man who's progeny led to a man with a space iron sword who left when he got shot because that's bullshit and he said fuck this no honor Roman I'm out and fucked like 60 bitches and maybe I'm related to him and now the Grey Man shoots stone light out of his fistigauntlets and puts on his 20th century coat that makes no sense and punches a necromancer. On a desert made entirely of dreams a man with burning feet fights the burning hell sand as six streams fall betwixt his fingers as he reaches for the ten thousand mile gauntlet that will change his destiny. A centipede made of trains slides down his boot and is instantly incinerated by the flames of souls unencumbered by the burdens of light. As he breaths glass the fire engulfs the boot and the sun breaks like fine china in a bull shop in China. In India a man on a blue sofa confuses buddism and hinduism and throws everything he owns into his garbage disposal and looks to the old gods and prays to the Alt key on his computer. Will it blend? "Probs yo" says Vishnu dressed like Santy Claus. The man and drinks the ichor smoothie but throws it up because that's like fabric and money in there that's just horrible who thought that was a good idea and he achieves the state he was seeking and he busts out a type writer but it's busted and now he's going to have to write like a normal fucking person so he shoots himself with gun that he doesn't have because he fucking blended it. In a city that was origionally going to be sixty six buildings stacked on top of each other but that plan was thrown away because where are you going to find sixty five architects to would suggest that basing a city off of invisible hand themed Jenga was going to rock docked cock, a man defaces a advertisement in real time as it plays, using a laser pointer that dragon cats in forests would play with if they weren't extinct because fuck society. Some man is probably touching his nipples to the thoughts of killing all of one specific thing right as you read this sentence do you know how many times a person can think that thought before considering moving to space and just shitting on mars like Calvin and Hobbes had to have done after eating candy bars. Maybe god does shit in the woods and the pope watches him and jacks off too and that's why athiesm is a thing. Not the current pope though he's cool. Anyway, in the city that never wakes up even though the alarm is blaring and the wife is screaming into the phone that they never ordered two hundered lamps who in their right mind would do that, the genie in the 108th lamp plots his revenge on the homeless man who wished for infinite wishes but made no attempt to die like the Shel Silverstein fuck did thus saving the world or something. Bad shit goes down in the buisness district and a ten armed octopus deals street drugs to a stop sign because he's high on his own smack, but the sign buys them anyway because he's polite and remembers what it was like being tin in a mountain, but shit's cool whatever he's got a red paint coat and it's not like this is a story about how the white man fucks up everything even though every single person I can think of in the past ten seconds wouldn't use their first wish on world peace, and would instead wish that they had 200 more lamps. If a pole went right through the earth it wouldn't even clear the mage collage on the north pole, but really how much magic do you even think they can fit into one childs body? Not enough I say. Cram that shit in tighter with each progressive generation until childrens first words are Unicorns and we become the dreams we drempt in a turkish desert made of belgian chocolate and I got an 100 on my test I am so happy. Eat shit and die Anatomy and physiology, but not really because then I have shit in my stomach and then I'd have to shit out the shit and then it dawns on me that all I wanted to type when I sat down was oh shit guys I really like pie who's with me? Pie's pretty great yeah. 

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A journey of 67 miles begins with concussions and stripping

"Oh yes, he will surely come to us, like the spider to the spider made out of giant flies. That is, if he's ok with the eternal sexy time that will be our arival into that aybss. I was under the impression that the moment we open that den of darkness, the man would crab walk towards us like the girl from The Ring, covered in prehensile boners.  Then he'd just twerk all our clothes off with his Cthulhu buttcheeks to never never land and peter pan and shrek would hi five in the backround as the police burst through the windows and the fireplace started sucking light into it as British screenwriters started dropping like flies across the globe, signaling a new age of dread, as every nation just slammed their finger into their perspective red buttons all at the same time, crying because that's crazy yo."

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Fuck.

Fuck.

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Biology trying to get the knife Deep but I know where he keeps his drugs

Fuck sleep. Scientists don't even know why we do it and if we don't for like a week we fucking die. To ascend beyond our meat bodies into the realms of the dreaming sea foam aboard our grey horse so we may slam the teeth out of our great great great grandchild for doing things we no longer understand, we have to first beat the shit out of the Glass Desert Never Wake that is the chains that hold down THE MAN that is the crimson dragon that lays at the golden light road on the chaos forest in the land of good and evil. So buckle up your pants rockey cause only when you shit lightning and ride the thunder train to the tundra never sleeping will you finally appease your Nietzsche-sempai and get off while the gettings good.

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THE GLORIOUS RELEASE OF 7204.24 DAYS

I never realized it until this very moment, but I had a birthday almost a month ago. What kind of pig swill am I that I don't mark that shit down LIKE A SKYSCRAPER TRAVELING AT TEN THOUSAND NAUGHTS THROUGH THE VERY ORBIT OF SPACE ITSELF and inbed it SYRINGE LIKE into a TALAMAKEN DESERT OF TEN THOUSAND MILES, INJECTING IT WITH LIMITLESS OCEANS OF MIRTH AND ENERVECENCE, LIKE KINDLING A BONEFIRE OF BURNING RAGE AND TRIUMPH OVER THE VERY LAWS OF THE UNIVERSE SO HUGE THAT THE LIGHT USHERS IN A NEW AGE OF MAN WHO'S MAGIC POWER SEEP TRANSDIMATES THIS PLANE INTO AN ENGINE OF GLORY The Date is April 1, 2014. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO PRANKS ITSELF. MAY ALL YOUR VODUN WAYS BE UPROARIOUS MR. KALFUL.

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My existence > arrogance itself

 It is upon sempiternal gossamer strings that is my whitewrote neverwakening that rocks the boat of your shitty dream inglenook. You may weep.

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The Cell 2

A movie review, made by my brother, to the sequel of an interesting surrealist film The Cell (I'd recommend it whatever there's a seal child in a desert that only speaks the language of nightmares). Apparently the protagonist is a cop with psychic powers. Here, feast your orficies: 

The Breakdown of The Cell 2 which words cannot describe, except mine because I describe them

(Added after the movie: Dude you are not going to believe the second half of this was actually in the movie but I swear to god ITS ALL TRUE.)

So The Cell 2.  Fucking retarded.  Im just going to rant as I see it.  The bad guy, who according to the back of the DVD, is "The Cusp is a serial killer who kills his victims and then brings them back to life; over and over again; until they beg to die!"  They demonstrate hes crazy because he has a table full of torture tools.  And is apparently a werewolf judging from how hard hes panting at all times.

  Oh god, the bad guy has banter, this is not ok.  Also he put a plastic bag over a ladies head, THEN began strangling her, entirely negating the point of the plastic bag.  This is the first time I have ever seen a guy attempt to doublestrangle somebody.

  OK BULLSHIT.  BULL.  SHIT.  he brings his victims back with CPR.  THIS MEANS HIS VARIETY OF TORTURE TOOLS ARE USELESS MOVIE.  You cant use CPR to bring someone back after you kill them with boltcutters and a wrench.  I guess he moonlights as FUCKING TIM THE TOOLGUY, because not even torturers who /dont/ need their victims in perfectly stable and functional condition each and every time they medically kill them have this many goddamn utensils...wait is that...

...

...

...

oh my shit thats a holepuncher.  WHAT THE FUCK WOULD HE DO WITH A HOLE PUNCHER MOVIE.  IM NOT MOCKING YOU, I MUST KNOW. 

  Oh my god these are the most incompetent investigators ever.  They said they couldnt find any hiding places around the CRIME SCENE IN THE FUCKING FOREST.  THEY LITERALLY CANNOT SEE THE FOREST FOR THE TREES.

Also apparently a conductor saw a Navy Blue Acura Legend parked by the railway station.  GEE WHIZ I WONDER WHO SPONSERED THIS FILTH.  There is no reason to suspect that this car is connected to the killer in any way so I guess it must be, which means its time to shift to /another/ scene of the exact same people standing over a slightly different crime scene, which makes the fourth goddamn scene of the same four people investigating a crime scene in the first 15 minutes. OH GEEZ WHIZ, THE CRIMINAL CAN CARRY OUT HIS CRIMES WITHOUT LEAVING ANY CLUES AND HAS A MEDICAL BACKGROUND SO HE HAS TO BE A COP, BECAUSE...because fuck it.  So we are two steps of stupid logic into this crime scene, but whatever.  So the killer could be ANY of the cops in the movie.

...

there are only four named cops in the movie.

...

...

Two of them were chasing the killer in the opening scene. Of the two remaining cops, one has a niece who is the person they are currently trying to save from The Cusp.  The fourth is off screen for long periods of time.

...

Nice try Cell 2, but I figured out your connundrum literally ten seconds after you proposed the question.  The only way I could answer it quicker is if I could SOMEHOW SEE INTO THE MINDS OF POLICE OFFICERS.

...

Welp we just had five minutes of dialogue with one man rigidly grabbing the other mans balls. 

...

so the guy who vanishes for long periods of time used to be an EMT.  I know this because in the middle of a discussion about how the Protagonist got her PSYCHIC POWERS, he randomly interrupts her to take her pulse at which point he says "Its fine, I used to be an EMT."  They then continue talking about her PSYCHIC POWERS as if noone had randomly grabbed anyone elses wrist and said something not tied to the conversation at all.  Really all this does is make me wonder which cop has a medical background.  The foreshadowing couldn't be more awkward if it had a butthole to poop itself with.

  ...The Cusp takes off the victims hood and tells her, word for word, "Today, we are going to talk about...ELECTRICITY.  Did you know that the amount of electricity in the human brain would only be enough to power a lightbulb?  Your entire body runs on electricity, which is channeled through your nerve endings." MFW The Cusp is Bill Nye The Science guy

  Oh my god Sam, everyone in this is retarded.  The Jerk good cop finds some of the hair of Good Cop with niece at the crime scene, immediately pulls a gun on him and accuses him of being the Cusp.  The protagonists reaction is immediately to cold cock her superior officer on the back of the fucking head and run away with the guy who was just accused of being the killer.  The fourth cop's reaction is to have been offscreen for the last 10 minutes because HES THE FUCKING CUSP.

  On the run for a crime they didnt commit, our heros decide to do some Encyclopedia Brown shit, and go back to the crime scene they already investigated.  They find zero clues, which gives them the amazing conclusion that the crime must have happened at the other crime scene they already investigated.  Once there they see a man who is clearly Cop #4, spying on them.  He gets into a Navy Blue Acura Legend and they drive after him.

CAR CHASE.  REALLY SHITTY CAR CHASE.  IN MY FUCKING CELL.  

The Cusp ramps off a tow truck then pulls a fucking tokyo drift in the middle of a warehouse around the pursuing car because ACURA IS LEGEND.  At this exact moment, the two protagonists car's engine hard stalls in the middle of running, seemingly in retribution of this mockery of physics, and also because the director doesnt actually know how to end a car chase.

I suddenly want to buy a Navy Blue Acura Legend.  Its like someone broke into my mind and put images of a Navy Blue Acura Legend in my mind so that I would buy a Navy Blue Acura Legend.

  Navy Blue Acura Legend.

  5 minute focus on minor character who has appeared for five seconds in one previous scene, talking to a corpse about how catching the Cusp will get him a book deal, even though that makes no sense because hes a coroner.  Name drops being on Oprah as his final endgame.  The protagonists then talk to him for one minute to reestablish information established five minutes ago, and then he never appears in the movie again.

  Being at a morgue somehow gave them an epiphany, probably from the embalming vapors causing a delay in the necrosis of their already annihilated brains.

  Their epiphany is that they should track any individuals buying syringes from hospitals in bulk.  WHY ARNT THEY ALREADY TRACKING PEOPLE WHO BUY USED SYRINGES IN BULK????

  PROTAGONISTS ESCAPE POLICE BY HIDING UNDER A HOBOS BLANKET

  THE CUSP STEALS THE HEARTS OF HIS VICTIMS BECAUSE OF HIS DEEP SET PSYCHOLOGICAL ISSUES WHICH THEY EXPLORE IN THE FILM

THAT WAS AN OBVIOUS LIE TO SEE IF YOU WERE STILL PAYING ATTENTION, WHICH DOESNT EXPLAIN WHY THIS IS IN CAPS.  He really steals hearts for the same reason that he kills people and then brings them back, which is because fuck you character development.

  Amount of time spent in minds:10 minutes.  Amount of time spent out of minds: two hours.

  OH MY GOD IT WAS THE GUY WHO USED TO BE AN EMT AND WHO VANISHED FOR LENGTHY PERIODS OF TIME.  THE SURPRISE.

This movie is a really good example of how if you are going to embezzle all of the movies funds on hookers and blow, actually investing some in the blow department can give you some semblance of creativity for your ruined movie after your done contracting syphilis.

...aaaaaaaaaand the lady who the protagonists were in a race against the clock to find, escaped on her own.  She literally saved herself, rendering the entire last hour and a half pointless.  

Goddamnit Cusp, your victim cant scream or say any last words when your channeling electricity through her bod-THE DIRECTOR DOESNT UNDERSTAND HOW ELECTRICITY WORKS

you know for a serial killer who lectures his victims about electricity, this serial killer sure knows shit all about electricity.  When they cut the power to his house he cant seem to figure out whats going on, choosing instead to scream such useful things as "FUCKING LIGHTS, FUCK"

Plot twist: The Cusp is afraid of the dark.  The guy who works exclusively at night and in areas with no light, who wears a face concealing hoodie at all times that bathes his face in eternal shadow?  Scared of the dark.  And by scared I mean he starts swearing a lot while behaving exactly the same.

oh my god he is tripping over all of the piles of tools he never uses because hes used exclusively suffocation and electricity, and they are WRECKING HIS SHIT.  He is being BEAT UP by the TOOLS OF HIS TRADE that he NEVER USES because he cant function in THE ONLY CONDITIONS WHERE HE IS SUCCESSFUL because hes afraid of something THAT BY DEFINITION CANT HURT HIM.  The Cusp everybody.

...

...why do we still have thirty minutes of movie?

Oh my god they found a rose at the crime scene.  Oh my god the rose has Cloroform in it.  The Cusp is actually Tuxedo Mask who is actually Bill Nye the Science Guy.

The word Cusp is ruined forever now.

Why is the protagonist being fooled by the the bad guy pretending to be a good guy when its been established that she knows who he is?  Did...did the movie...forget...?

oh my god the movie forgot that she knew that.

This is like some kind of weird meta irony, right here.  I know more then the protagonist despite both of us being directly presented with the exact same information at the exact same time.  This is like a person telling me that the capital of France is Paris, then asking me what the capital of France is, and when I answer "Paris" them saying "yeah but help me figure out what the capital of France is"

Oh my fucking god the hostage escaped again on her own.  She got captured, escaped, got captured again, AND ESCAPED AGAIN, WHILE THE PROTAGONIST STILL HASNT FIGURED OUT WHO THE KILLER IS EVEN THOUGH SHE SAW HIS FACE AND KNOWS HIS NAME AND WAS TOLD "DUNCAN IS THE KILLER".

  Wut.

  WHY DID THE GOOD COP SEND THE KILLER TO LOOK AFTER THE PROTAGONIST WHEN HE KNEW HE WAS THE KILLER AND WAS IN THE POLICE STATION WITH HIM WITH ENOUGH EVIDENCE TO CONVICT HIM RIGHT THERE????  

...

...

He was literally in the same room with the guy he knew was the killer, had enough evidence that merely pointing it out to any police officer would immediately result in an arrest, and could have instantly saved everyone because THE KILLER WAS NEXT TO HIM IN THE FUCKING POLICE STATION. And what does he do?  "I want you to check on the protagonist, who is investigaging where the Murderer is keeping the hostage on the other side of town, because shes alone and could be in danger." SHE CANT BE IN DANGER BECAUSE THE PERSON WHOSE TRYING TO MURDER HER IS CURRENTLY BEING TOLD BY YOU TO CHECK ON HER TO MAKE SURE SHES ALRIGHT AND OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD

  The next time we cut to the good cop, he tells the police chief all of his evidence and the police chief believes him instantly.  They then get a team of assault helicopters together to save the protagonist, who is about to be murdered on the other side of town because she is alone with the serial killer in his home base.  I am literally speechless.

  The Protagonist goes into the mind of killer to find out who he is, despite the fact that she literally already did that, and ASKS THE PERSON WHO SHE WAS DIRECTLY TOLD WAS THE REAL KILLER TO GUARD HER COMOTOSE BODY.  Her face when the first thing she sees when she mind hacks into the mind of the killer is him literally sticking a syringe in her sleeping body's neck is priceless, as is her immediate deadpan statement of  "Wut." 

Which is amazing because thats exactly what I'd been saying for the last ten minutes.  Its ALMOST LIKE SHE CAN READ MINDS.

  She then goes "NOOOOOOOOOO" as the plasma photo filter itself begins to shake, symbolizing that even the cameraman has stopped giving a fuck.  She reacts by going "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" AGAIN.  

  Oh my god, LITERALLY FIFTEEN MINUTES FROM THE END OF THE TWO HOUR LONG MOVIE they suddenly have her exploring a cool dreamscape in the mind of her serial killer and combating his tortured psyche.  An infinite expanse of marble columns over a endless abyss as paramedic lights flash above, when suddenly steel bars expanding like how lightning moves across the sky emerge from the darkness to form ever shrinking boxes around the protagonist.  I cant even. I dont.  I...

...

If they could do this, and knew this was like how the other movie was, then WHY ISNT THE ENTIRE MOVIE LIKE THIS.

And just like that the awesomeness is gone.  Its like for three minutes, the movie was actually good, purely to MOCK ME.  Shes suddenly in an exact copy of the room she was in, only its in The Cusp's mind with even shittier photoshop filters then before, and instead of some psychological form of him or aspect of his subconcious, its literally just him in his mindscape, which looks like normal him in the room they were just in only with really shitty photoshop filters over it. 

(inserted after the fact)  Hold on to your dick because only bullshit follows.

The Cusp literally just said "And Knowing is Half the Battle."  The first cop tells their SWAT forces to hold back so that he and Good Cop can take down The Cusp on their own.  Cop one then HANDCUFFS GOOD COP TO THE RAILING BECAUSE HE DOESNT TRUST HIM, DESPITE THE FACT THAT GOOD COP IS ABOUT TO TRY TO SAVE BOTH HIS NIECE AND GIRLFRIEND.  Meaning that instead of having a two on one advantage, it is currently fucking retarded.  

The Cusp is now explaining that torturing the protagonist before the movie started gave him Psychic powers.  He is not delusional, the movie just flat out doesnt give a fuck.  So fuck it now he has psychic powers, despite the fact that that would mean he wouldnt have been able to get caught.  He then directly states the philosophy and themes of the first movie, directly as in, he butchers it and ignores the symbolism and imagery.  And hes literally wrong.  The direct statements of the first movies themology are IN FACT ENTIRELY NOT CORRECT.  THE WRITER MADE A SEQUEL TO A MOVIE HE DIDNT UNDERSTAND.

The Cusp has literally summoned the souls of his former victims to blame the protagonist for failing to save them...Movie ten minutes from the conclusion is a Hard Ass Fucking Time to introduce Necromancy.  

He just destroyed the Protagonists memories of her 5th birthday by literally throwing them on the floor in front of her while shouting "GONE" then gives her the "U MAD" face as a single tear falls down her cheek.

The next thirty seconds is a man pretending to throw plasma photoshoped CGI tablets onto the ground while an actress slowly realizes that the cgi memory plates are actually a metaphor for her post Cell 2 career options and begins to cry for real.

Meanwhile in the real lifes, Jerk Cop is immediately regretting his decision to chain his backup to a wall when he enters the room to discover that somehow The Cusp can control his inner mental state and his body at the same time, which has been spending its time getting a fire ax and hiding behind the door.  

Meanwhile in Mind city, The Protagonist realizes that she can fight back against The Cusp's dominance when she sees what I can only describe as "an inexplicable zombie ghost version of herself" coming in to provide deus ex moral support, by reminding her, quite helpfully that the bad guy is afraid of the dark.  Which she cannot use to her advantage because shes inside his mind.  Also she cant possibly know his weakness because The Cusp just explained that because of his new found powers, he has total control of her memory, a fact that he demonstrates by literally destroying all of her memories in aformentioned cgi plate smashing montage, meaning that like many things in this movie, this scene makes no sense.

Of course Zombie Ghost deus-ex machina is entirely unnecessary because Good cop got free and he turns off the fucking lights right in the middle of The Cusp's proclamation of his victory, who goes "And now, Ladies, its time for us to*BEOOOOOOOOOOP*...goddamnit" only with that last word four octaves higher then his normal speaking voice, despite also being filled with more spite then I have ever seen in a mannequin pretending to be a person.

...the fucking hostage lady was only pretending to be tied to the chair after The Cusp stopped her from escaping that second time.  Not only was she only pretending, She took one of his shitty knives.  He is then stabbed by his own hostage in the hand in the middle of a fight with a police officer.

His response is to...oh SHIT...is to backhand her with the hand with a knife through it, PIMPSLAPPING HER WITH HER OWN KNIFE.  

  you cant make shit this hype up.

    ...yeah turns out pimpslapping a person with a knife wedged in your hand hurts like fuck, and probably isnt a good idea in the middle of a fight with an extremely angry police officer who just saw you show his niece her place, while your mind is also under siege by a lady who, thanks to your being a mindplate tasmanian devil, ONLY HAS MEMORIES ABOUT HOW MUCH SHE HATES YOU.

Protagonist shows this hatred by fucking shit up by causing shitty CGI pink cloud explosions everywhere in his mindscape, somehow being even gayer then the mindghosts.

It is at this point that real Cusp decides its time to abscond, but decides to take the protagonists comatose body with him, because after a lifetime of bad decisions, why the fuck stop now.  He somehow manages to hyjack a chopper while using both his hands to carry a lady because fuck it. the movies almost over.

Good cop just jumped onto a moving chopper.  Godfuckingdamnit.

So The Cusp is just outside the city limits to make his grand escape when he realizes that there is a grownass man clinging to the side of his copter.  He desperately tries to shake Jason Stathem off in the gripping conclusion to his new film THE FIST OF THE SOUL.  Speaking of pilots, there is no mention of how Cusp can fly a goddamn plane, or where the original pilot went.  But anyway.

And then the mind battle finally comes to a close when Protagonist lady uses the EXACT PRESSURE POINT THAT KENSHIRO USED ON THE COLONIAL TO TAKE THE CUSP'S SIGHT.

FUCK YES.

...

wait, fuck it turns out blinding a man driving a helicopter is actually other things besides a good idea.

Wow, The Cusp has managed to land a helicopter, grab a lady, and get a knife all while fuckass-blind.  This is the first competent thing he has ever done as a serial killer.

Oh my god Cusp why did you fucking let go of your fucking hostage you dumb fuck.  You dont need to see to know that "PLEASE ROBERT, SHOOT HIM, YOU PROMISED" doesnt mean "Let go of the hostage"

Seriously, Ten mental complex's, a chronic fear of Darkness, blindness brought about by his crimes brought against him, an active helicopter right next to him, Mind combat happening at that exact moment and his cause of death is "Bullet to brain because of butterfingers"

All of your Psychotic Psychic Mindbrain is Splattered all over the virgin snow.

And as he falls, the movie suddenly turns into Max Payne with angels singing as his body falls in slow motion.

In mindscape, Protagonist liberates All the Soul bitches from their really stupid psychic mind pimp by striking a yoga pose while a single chord from disco music plays, over just fast enough to convince me I imagined it until I rewound to here it again.  We are treated to five cool seconds of The Cusp's cool mind world falling appart as he dies to once again show that the creators could in fact have made a good movie, but chose not to for reasons that cannot be justified or forgiven, regardless of what they are.

Rest in Peace, Serial Killer with worst Name Coolness to Competency ratio of all time, The Cusp

...

...

I am only now just realizing how fucking retarded a serial killer who brings his victims back to life is.

So anyway we are treated to thirty seconds of the cop trying really hard to pretend to have an emotion over the apparent death of the protagonist, while I hold my breath in hope that her actress banged her head in the fake fall and shes dead for real.

Shes not.  They kiss.

The Credits roll.  They then flash to GORGEOUS SYMBOLIC WIDE SHOTS THAT WERE ENTIRELY ABSENT IN THE FILM FOR NO REASON, DESPITE THE USE OF SUCH SHOTS BEING THE DEFINING CINEMETOGRAPHY OF THE FIRST MOVIE.  THEY ARE LITERALLY SPENDING THE FINAL MOMENTS OF THE MOVIE SHOWING HOW BAD THEY FUCKED UP.  ALSO PART OF THE ENDING IS A LEGITIMATELY CATCHY AND INTERESTING SONG, WHICH WAS ANOTHER THING ABSENT IN THE MOVIE.

I quietly wonder if they secretly snuck in the credits from a better movie.

Lastly, I smile as I realize that 89,000 people watched part one on youtube, while only 13,000 people watched part 2, meaning that within the first 15 minutes, 7/8ths of watchers lost all hope and fled for their lives.

...

oh my god

Dude

at the end of the credits, there is a ten second video for everyone loyal enough to stay for the full credits

Dude

Its the director driving the fucking Navy Blue Acura Legend.