#my blog is strictly a kill la kill blog

[helluva-world-innit]

So...they are finally here...the height charts! At least of the main Hazbin Crew (bonus Mimzy; idk about Baxter yet). These are the final designs for me but, as I improve my art skills, I may change some things around I couldn't accomplish when I first started drawing them.

I will do actual character ref pages at some point now that I have their designs (mostly) finalized. I still wanna tweak them a little, ngl, but that will have to wait until I draw them a few more times (and probs after I do the height charts for the Helluva Crew too; everyone else will be sporadic af).

Anyway, since I got a flight soon and can't sleep, let's talk about some of the changes I made for everyone as well as how they got to be where they are now, hm? Sidenote: I have decided the events of this story will take place in 2052 for...reasons. Sidenote sidenote: I went with the original Sin colors for the Rings so Wrath is red, not Pride. Greed is gold, etc., etc.

So, Charlie (Charlotte Lucinda Isadoros) Morningstar has more texture in her hair this time around and I made the stitches on her coat obvious just because I thought it looked more slapdash that way. She's slim to the point of not really having much of a figure (much like her father; they are almost copies of each other but it's because he really didn't use anyone else's "genes" for her) so she gave her coat a little bit of shape to the hips but she still largely wears more masculine clothing. Like most of her extended family, Charlie isn't too hung up on being perceived as strictly male or strictly female, though her title is Crown Princess of Hell (Luci just thinks it sounds cuter, but Charlie doesn't object to people naming her as Crown Prince of Hell either). Age: 222

I already kind of did a rundown for her deal earlier on this blog so lets move on to...

Vanessa Chavez Hernandez Fell into the vicious Ring of Wrath upon her death during the Salvadoran Civil War in 1986. Fun fact: She and Alastor are some of the only Sinners that go by their given names. Everyone else's name tends to be a chosen one. Vannie died fighting on the side of the Farbundo Martí National Liberation Front (FMLN). She was caught and killed with so much (understandable) rage inside that it led to her dropping into Wrath Ring. US soldiers killed her peasant farmer parents in cold blood in front of her when she was 14 for the belief they were aiding the Front with weapons. Her father actually was, but her mother was not aware of any of it. As a result, Vannie dedicated her life to killing as many soldiers and government officials as possible instead of leaving for the States with her older sister. She was killed by beheading at the tender age of 20.

Vannie has been devastating her fellow Sinners in combat ever since. All to avoid being taken for torture practice by the bloodthirsty Ringmaster, Satan, should she lose a fight. Most of the armor pieces she wears are handed down from other fallen warriors, bequeathed to her or surrendered upon her victory. I originally wanted to base her on a Death's-Head Hawkmoth but decided to go with a Banded Skipper moth instead (we don't gotta be that edgy here now). They tend to have quick, skip-like movements and Vannie is very agile to make up for her small stature.

Vannie is very level-headed usually, but when her eyepatch comes off, Blind Rage takes hold and she will not lose focus on a target until they stop moving or perish. She was captured and sold as fodder for the arena, à la Thor in Thor: Ragnarok, and, she quickly grew into a crowd (and Satan) favorite. Joins up with Charlie after being liberated for the rehab project. The fact that Charlie's really cute and has a pout that can put puppies to shame probs had a hand in that decision.

Cherry Bomb! The gal, the legend, the agent of unrestrained chaos. A Brisbane native, Cherry fell to Gluttony in 1987 when punk was dying down, but "be gay, do crimes" was still more than an empty slogan. She got blown up while attempting to steal some food from a grocery store, and, like the cockroach she is, she got back on her two four feet in Hell and stole directly from Beezlebub's gardens instead.

I decided to make her look more diy punk and gave her a mullet. Why? Bitches love mullets is why. And Cherry is very much a lover of the bitches. Based her on a Giant Burrowing Cockroach too, which burrows, as its name suggests. This makes Cherry hella good at tunnels and underground infiltration but she also has a knowledge of how to build explosives as well from her time hanging with her more reckless, anarchist buds back on Earth. Her father (he's become an informant and dealer in Hell), regularly threatens her and Angel to get her to build and develop new ways to take out his competition in Greed (including even Moxxie's father). She was just about 28 when she died.

Since we're going in Ring order here, Sir Pentious is next. This cordial king cobra slithered down to Greed Ring in 1888 (aged 30) after his ambition cost him everything: his inheritance, his family, and ultimately, his life. At age 15, Sir Pen had had enough of just reading about machinery and decided to begin building some of his own. Upon entering a late puberty, this became harder for him to pursue with the pressures of high society barreling at him at full speed (he's trans). Sir Pen often disguised himself with the help of his younger sister and brother and attended engineering presentations and operation theaters despite his gender assignment at birth keeping him from formal training in engineering. The open disdain his parents showed for his inventive spirit and lack of feminine graces led to him becoming more withdrawn and abrasive to would be suitors. By age 22, no man in the county wanted anything to do with the seventh-born, obsessive, outwardly sexless child of the Lord and Lady Edwards of Dacorum, England.

Dejected by the steadily increasing hostility towards him from his family and fellow aristocrats, Sir Pen's own resentment grew and he retreated to the family summer home to begin developing an easier and painless method for removing "damaged" body parts (because of his own untreated body dysphoria) on the battlefield. Unfortunately, he used members of his own household staff to test it on. He was labelled as insane and was due to be moved to a private asylum owned by a distant cousin, but opted to take his own life instead of staying trapped in a cage of society's making anymore. Sir Pen now spends his days in Hell building various contraptions to help him one day compete in the Circus Games. He aims to win the title and position of Overseer to reclaim some of his old glory. Left him a snake because honestly, lookit him. Baby noodle. Also snakes tend to symbolize betrayal and untrustworthiness in Christian folklore so it fits him well enough.

Nifty is based on a skunk cleaner shrimp (look them up, they're super cute and also known as 'Doctor shrimps' >///<) and fell into Envy for similar reasons to SP. Three shitty husbands led Nifty to have a psychological break. She ended up killing them then turning the gun on herself in her grief after witnessing her final husband's infidelity in 1954 at age 33. I made her a cleaner shrimp since she is the maid/cook of the hotel, more or less, but also tends to clean up any of the messes she, Alastor, and Husk make (they eat people together! Isn't that...sweet?) Gave a bigger version of her to see since I made her so leetle.

Growing up poor in 1920's-30's Korea as the daughter of a Japanese soldier and a Korean sex worker with three younger siblings and lots of local children to look after, Nifty developed an early sense of caretaking and the desire for comfort in the ways of a well-kept home and delicious food (when it could be afforded). She married relatively young (17) to better care for her mother as her health declined until her death in 1946.

With trauma from a lifetime of war, poverty, and spousal abuse/neglect, it really is a surprise that she's remained as sweet as she has. At least on the surface. She worked in several restaurants and estates in the Envy's Ring of Influence upon Falling, but never managed to be appreciated no matter how efficient or hospitable she was. In the end, Nifty was approached by and made a deal with Alastor and has happily served him since.

Husk(er), in comparison to his contracted colleague, Nifty, is big, gruff, and a total softie inside despite looking like something out of a Bram Stoker novel. Husk died at the ripe age of 72 (1979) which is no small feat considering the amount of wars and bloody revolutions his home country (Russia) dealt with during his lifetime. A second born son of a Petrograd (St. Petersburg today) baker, Husk lost his older brother in the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917 (Husk was 10 years old) and has had a difficult relationship with conflict and faith ever since. Between marrying a woman he didn't love, being an awkward and distant father to their only daughter, and deserting during WWII, Husk has more passive demons than most.

After returning home in 1958 from hiding out in South Korea, he spends the remainder of his life gambling and drinking to forget all he's lost and given up. He died after passing out in the snow and Fell to Sloth Ring where he quickly amassed enough power from siphoning the soul energy of others (through their blood) to compete in the Circus Games. He even won it, but immediately regretted this as Belphagor proved to be too demanding of a Ringmaster for the bat to submit to. Scared, full of remorse, and aching for some comfort in the coldest Ring in Hell (he ran to Pride to escape Bel), he was approached by and made a deal with Alastor and has faithfully served him ever since. I made him a vampire bat because it just seems to fit a lot better than a cat with wings (OG Husk's ears always made me think of a bat anyhoo) and it's a sort of nod to his feeling like a drain on others. He's wearing a security hat because he is the security bat. More on that when we get to it.

Angel Dust is Hell's highest grossing pornstar. Such fame comes at a terrible price, however. Angel died at the age of 32 in 1947 (yes, i aged him down a little) after a jealous lover from a rival mob family gunned him down. Before that, Angel used his body to get information and fuel his drug habits, routinely practicing drag and giving the anti-sodomy laws a workout during his life, much to his family's embarrassment. He really wasn't too upset or surprised upon finding himself in the Lust Ring of Hell even if he wasn't too happy about the form he took (Angel is terrified of spiders). After a couple decades of banging and binging, Angel's family slowly began making their way to Hell as well and reunited to form one of the most powerful Sinner gangs around. He tried rejoining them too, only to be brutally beaten and ejected by his father. Back out on the streets, but no longer interested in just getting by anymore, Angel became the perfect target for a predatory Overseer of Lust: Valentino.

For the last 75 years, Angel has been featured in countless porn media (even audiobooks!) and loaned out to every demon Valentino aims to have connections with. If he hadn't met Cherry and formed a strong friendship with her shortly after her Fall, the spider's soul most likely would have Broken long before Charlie got a hold of him. While Angel actually likes his job and enjoys having something he excels at, being bound to an Overseer is a one-way ticket to being ground down into pure soul energy for Hell's use. I kept him a spider because I genuinely have no issues with him being a spider, but the fact that his original design doesn't look like one gives me the fucking pip. Also, he gets even more spidery later. Also, also, I gave him two gold fangs because they're actually just his fangs coated in gold under Valentino's orders. Anything to make him less dangerous since Angel does have venom sacs. the poison can't kill anyone already dead, obviously, but it is extremely painful and lasts for hours. He can also inject a solution that temporarily paralyzes others instead of causing them agony.

Finally, there's Alastor, the only Overseer of Pride Ring. Bound to the King of Hell, Lucifer himself, Al enjoys the kind of power most Overseers can only dream of. I made him a rabbit (actually a Snowshoe Hare) mostly to get away from a culturally appropriated beast (you know what one, I ain't finna name it) and to actually make him even more aggressively cuddleable. I like characters that defy expectations. Also, I grew up with Bugs Bunny like many of you and I love the idea of Al having Looney Toons-ass ways to deal with problems. Like hole magic. Go ahead and laugh, it's funny.

Al died in 1938 after being sentenced to the death penalty (electric chair). He was caught in one of his many, many murders after one sloppy mistake at 39 years old. He was a modestly famous radio host in his hometown of New Orleans, but only after moving away from the city with his mother and stepfather to Chicago from ages 6 to 17. His mother died when Al was 8 and his stepfather's abuse led to him becoming a skilled and emancipated serial killer by 16 years old. He saved whatever he could from victims to feed himself and put himself through speech classes when he learned that a decent living could be made on the radio for someone so obviously of mixed blood. Alastor moved back to New Orleans to start over and took advantage of the more seedy sides of the city to cover up his hunts until his discovery and capture.

Al Fell to Pride and began exploring and hunting in the other Rings, meeting a fellow entertainer in Gluttony (Vox; died 1955). The pair of them hunted together for close to 25 years when an unknown rift formed between them and both competed to win the title of Overseer in the same year. There can only ever be one Overseer per Circus (Lucifer burns the losers to ash with holy fire to keep them from returning), but Alastor and Vox are the first and last dual winners in the 200+ history of the competition. Vox pledged himself to Beezlebub while Alastor pledged himself to Lucifer and the pair have been bitter rivals ever since.

Bonus: Mimzy is an Overseer of Lust Ring that knows all the hot goss and isn't afraid to share it. She died in the 1920s after being thrown from her then-boyfriend's car in the Bronx and getting run over by a trolley. Your girl has seen it all and then some. Now, she runs one of the slickest clubs and makes her soul quota for Asmodeus with young performers of all kinds. She and Alastor became fast friends upon meeting and she's one of the only people aside from Valentino and Velvette to know what his history with Vox is. She's got a giggle in her talk and a wiggle in her walk and I so based her on that mink girl from Animaniacs as well as a little bit of Toot from Drawn Together (who was loosely based on Betty Boop). I just want her to be soft and sultry. *Jon Lovitz voice* Is that so wrong?

Woo, this got fucking loooooooong. Hopefully, I covered just enough to get y'all interested in what else I have planned for these knuckleheads and I'll be back with the Helluva Main Cast for you next time. Bye!

[josiebelladonna]

two things:

first off, i cannot believe tumblr killed like 97% of my tags, like i type in “fanfic” or alex’s name and it’s like it goes, what? who? oh, no… i, i don’t wanna do thaaaaaat… like, really? i’m awol for a week and this is what happens. and of course, there’s all the ramblings i’ve ever done since 2014 in the tags, all now completely vanished into thin air for absolutely no goddamn reason. yeah, at the bottom of the post where you put the tags, it says “to help people find [it]” but i go to my blog and type in “/tagged/exodus” in the address bar and it gives me bupkiss. hell, i try to look for gifs i’ve reblogged and i get posts from months ago.

corollary of this: the tags are useless now (thanks, serial likers treating this place like instagram or tiktok despite the incessant posts specifically telling you to quit doing that 🖕🏻 tumblr’s tagging system has always been shit but it’s impossible to work with now because of this. it’s one thing when you’re doing it on ig, but here, you’re quite literally not doing me or anyone any favors by doing that, especially not your fucking precious ~mutuals~ this generation has failed to give me something fun and they apparently don’t listen, either) i’m making fanfic and art and unless it tops out at 10 notes, it vanishes into the void à la a failed instagram post. i’ve said this before, i even shouted it, and i will say it again: i don’t give a single fuck about your mutuals. none whatsoever.

i’m glad ao3 exists because it’s not a social media site but like a virtual library: i also found cara the other night after i got home, a twitter-meets-instagram kind of place for artists that strictly forbids ai; it’s cara.app (if you google the name you get cara delevigne 😅) and my name’s the same as my ig.

jesus christ almighty, the ads on here are getting progressively worse. initially, i thought they were kind of funny but they maniacally jump around while you’re scrolling (like that happened to me when i was reblogging those chapters just now; i thought they had killed those posts for some reason and replaced it with a stupid ad). it’s incredibly disorienting, like that shit alone makes me not want to come on here anymore. the updates are so obnoxious, too, like… i am starting to wonder why anyone would unironically come on here anymore because there was a time this shit was funny, but it’s not, though. it’s all like a nagging headache that won’t go away even if you take some aspirin and lay down for a bit, and you just wish you could sleep forever.

[celestrahl]

#CELESTRAHL — an independent, mutuals only and selective multimuse roleplaying blog featuring characters from various video games!

CURRENT PRIMARY MUSES: Tae Suzuya (FFVII OC), Nero (DMC), Noel Kreiss (FFXIII-2), Lunafreya Nox Fleuret (FFXV), Luis Serra (RE4R)

CURRENT SECONDARY & TERTIARY MUSES: Violet Celeste (FF OC), Élise de la Serre (ACU), Evie Frye (ACS), V (DMC), Oerba Dia Vanille (FFXIII), Serah Farron (FFXIII-2), Dion Lesage (FFXVI), Jote (FFXVI), Aqua (KH), Xion (KH), Sherry Birkin (RE6)

Written & loved by Faye, 30, she/her, CET timezone. Beta Editor only! This blog is 18+ only, minors dni!

Currently low/sporadic activity. FFVII Reno blog: @blitzrod Graphic Comm Blog: @rysingdawn

Mobile Rules can be found below the cut! ⬇

★ First off, don’t be an ass. Godmodding, infomodding, metagaming, whatever else these things are called, have no place here. Don’t kill my muses. Don’t kill any of their friends/family/allies right in front of them without discussing it first. Character ≠ Writer, I’m not my muses and if my muses are in any way mean to your muse/s doesn’t mean I’m being mean towards you. If you have criticism, please remain respectful and constructive when sending it in. Anon hate will be deleted/blocked.

★ I’m strictly interacting with mutuals only. If you followed me and I didn’t follow back I either do not know anything about your character’s fandom, find your blog lacking information and/or simply cannot see us interact. I’m also trying to keep my dash a comfortable space for myself so please don’t take it personally if I don’t follow back. But if I do follow you, I’m interested in writing with you – and I will assume the same if it’s the other way around.

★ I’m selective, or rather, my muses are – and sometimes certain muses are louder than others, and some might even take over for a bit. Please don’t get discouraged or disappointed if you see me replying to certain threads with certain muses only, or only to threads in certain genres.

★ I generally prefer writing threads over meme responses, and I love plotting. Winging it is cool too, but expect me to ask questions so I can make sure I got the setting and other things right. Either way, I normally tend to write semi-paragraph, paragraph and multi-paragraph things with the rare occasional one-liner.

★ I encourage you to turn my ask responses into threads! I always put character asks into a new post anyway, so feel free to reblog that and add your reply! No need to ask beforehand!

★ Please do not apply any fancanons to my muses, no matter how popular or widely accepted they are.

★ Relationships in all forms (romantic, platonic, familial, rivals, you name it) are welcome, however there has to be chemistry and I would like if you asked me beforehand and if we’ve written before. One-sided crushes and unrequited feelings are fine too, just don’t try to force your character on mine and we’re cool. I DO NOT AUTO-SHIP CANON ROMANCES. Please also understand that some of my muses can be difficult to bond with.

★ I will practice mains and in rare cases ship exclusives, but not affiliates or general exclusivity.

★ Duplicates/Variants are, honestly, a bit tricky for me. I’ve had both good and bad experiences with them in the past. Overall I’m trying to be indifferent towards them. I hope you understand that I’m a little hesitant regarding this!

★ I am OC friendly! How could I not be, having my own OCs on this blog? The only point where I draw the line is when it comes to OCs who are children of canon characters.

★ NSFW isn’t very likely to occur here. I will not write smut, should any thread ever go in that direction it will fade to black before anything spicy can happen. I'm not someone to write anything blood & gore related in explicit detail either.

★ Triggers will be tagged as _____ tw and _____ cw so make sure to blacklist yours this way. If you have a rather uncommon/rare trigger that you need tagged, please let me know!

★ Do not take anything from this blog. Be it icons and/or other graphics I’m using in my own posts, headcanons and/or parts of my theme code. I created/wrote/edited these things myself (for some things see credits below) and would very much appreciate it if you could just leave them be. I’ve had quite a few bad experiences with theft in the past, so this is something I feel I have to mention.

★ Lastly, hi! I go by Faye, I’m 30, she/her, from Germany. I’m honestly just a big nerd for video games and I love music, writing, graphic editing, reading and more. I just generally love being creative and am passionate about everything I create. I don’t know what else to tell you here, but if you ever wanna get to know me my IMs are always open, and my Discord is available for mutuals. If you’re reading this, I hope you have a good day!!

CREDITS Lightning Returns Noel Kreiss Raw Icons from @dresspheresFFXIII Oerba Dia Vanille Raw Icons from @dresspheresLightning Returns Oerba Dia Vanille Raw Icons from @dresspheresFFXIII-2 Serah Farron Raw Icons from @dresspheresFFXV Lunafreya Nox Fleuret Raw Icons from @dresspheres

Evie Frye Screencaps taken by Steph

Serah Farron Icon Border made by @ennakros

All other screencaps and graphics were taken & edited by me.

[take-a-chill-la-pill]

Tagged

I was tagged by the awesome @rabiesvaccine 

Rules: Answer 20 Questions and tag someone else who you want to get to know more.

Name: Jasmine

Nickname: Jazz

Ethnicity: A bunch of Hispanic things like Mexican, Spanish, Puerto Rican, maybe one white thing and some Native American. Idk, I’m just a mutt.

Favorite Fruit: Strawberries and watermelon.

Favorite season: I like Fall because I like to wear beanies and jackets but I don’t like freezing my butt off in the winter.

Favorite superhero(s): Nightwing, Batman, Wonder Woman, Wolverine, Batgirl, and Spider-Man.

Favorite non-anime TV show(S): The Office, Rick and Morty, King of The Hill, Invader Zim, Arrested Development, Daria, Regular Show, and SNL.

Favorite Hobby: Working out and drawing

Favorite Color: Purple, Green, and Black. I can’t choose one over the other.

Favorite anime character(s): Ryuko Matoi, Satsuki Kiryuin, Mako Mankanshoku, Ira Gamagori, Mikasa Ackerman, Sasha Brause, Eren Jager, Erwin Smith, Hanji Zoe, Levi Ackerman, Ymir, Kamina, Simon the digger, Spike Spiegel, Jet Black, Italy, Spain, Japan, the narrator from Hetalia (even though she’s technically not a character) Koro-Sensei, All Might, Iida Tenya, Ken Kaneki, Revy “two hands”.

Favorite bands: Foo Fighters, Panic! At The Disco, Paramore, Nirvana, Weezer, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Fall Out Boy, The Neighbourhood, My Chemical Romance, Twenty One Pilots, Arctic Monkeys, The Fray, Kumbia Kings, Selena Y Los Dinos, and Mystik Spiral (but they’re thinking of changing their name).

Favorite Animal(s): Lions and Tigers and bears (oh my)!! Jk, just wolves, tigers, pandas, and pretty much every kind of dog. Cats are okay, though.

Favorite anime movie(s): Wolf Children, Your name, The Cat Returns, Summer Wars, The Girl Who Leapt Though Time, Cowboy Bebop:The Movie, Hetalia: Paint it White, and The Boy and the Beast.

Favorite non-anime movie(s): The Dark Knight Trilogy, Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Kill Bill vol.1 & 2, Silver Linings Playbook, Inception, Logan, Wonder Woman, Scott Pilgrim vs The World, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Pulp Fiction, Django Unchained, Inglorious Bastards, The Breakfast Club, Grease, Wayne’s World, Casino Royale, Mad Max: Fury Road, Australia, Back to the Future trilogy, Clueless, Mean Girls, The Princess Bride.

I was born and raised in: Austin, Texas. I like to keep it weird.

Favorite Sports Teams: San Antonio Spurs, Dallas Cowboys, Texas Longhorns, and Putas Del Fuego (that last one is a Roller Derby team).

Blog created: December 2016

Number of followers: 878 and growing thanks to everyone :)

Favorite food: Mexican, Italian, Chinese, and BBQ

Top 10 favorite anime series: Kill la Kill, Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann, Attack on Titan, Cowboy Bebop, Black Lagoon, Assassination Classroom, Steins;Gate, Tokyo Ghoul, Hetalia, Psycho-pass.

Okay. @theatxjazz97blog @everydaysatsuki @followingryuko its your turn.

[the-art-of-animated-gifs]

Interview with my friend A.L. Crego

I have not met A.L. Crego.  I have not spoken with him on the phone, in fact I do not even know what he looks like.  But I can confidently call him my friend.  Three years ago when I started this blog he immediately disagreed with me in the comments about things I was writing and I loved it.  As a person putting ideas out there, you treasure things like that....because you know someone cares.  We have had many back and forth discussions over the years....if we had lived in Paris in 1911 we would be having arguments at La Rotonde (not to compare either of us to Picasso).

A.L. Crego is a motion artist who does a wide variety of things.  He has now become a very visible and active figure in the NFT Movement.  He recently completed a large and very successful project in which he animated the work of a number of well know street artists on the building themselves, something he has done for years.  His Tumblr page is a good place to start to see his work, which is largely surrealist in nature -- another Spanish artist following in the footsteps of other great Spanish surrealist artists.

---------------------------------------------------------------

How long have you been creating gif art?

In a conscious and intentional way since 2014. Previously I haven't pay too much attention on one hand for its common use that was mostly ads and funny little videos, and on the other hand because it was a 'standard' format we accepted as something part of the web so I never stopped to analyze its potential. The key point for me was about 2010-2011 when the concept of 'Cinemagraph' was brought to life just giving it a name. It's format is .gif but its characteristics are different so I saw there the midpoint between photography and video, which gave born another format of art.

Art mutates when a new format appears. I was using and studying this format since then but it wasn't until 2014 that I decided to publish some of them.

What is your background?

In general terms, bachelor, 2 years of stone sculpting and two attempts of photography and audiovisual mediums. I say attempts because I gave up both of them as I was feeling that I was looking for something else more than studying all the previous history, style and isms, which is nice to understand where everything comes from and to be aware what are the key points on the history to use as reference, as a map. But in some way I felt limited as I was using digital tools since I had my first computer with 14 years, and I was being taught things I learnt by then. Even more in this times we are living where we are 21 century people, been taught by teachers from the 20 with 19 century methods.

A constant line that feeds my background is literature and music overall and later Street Art, next to more temporal interests as everything related with mythology, alchemy, history, psychology, neurology, biology, human condition in general... I don't have studies buy I'm a studying guy!

I always like to highlight that all these years that internet got strong and social networks appeared, I decided voluntary to be out of them. First reason was to keep my privacy safe in a growing world where it seemed that some "curtain" felt and everybody accepted that intimacy was now 'ex-timacy' and correct to show their private life, (this shocked me). Another reason was about the psychological effect that social networks were having on people I had around and everywhere in general. I started to notice patterns and "waves" about series, aesthetics, styles, and I was seeing clearly that if I go there, I will become permeable to all this "Amniotic Culture" I was trying to avoid.

This fact of being far (but study them closely) helped me a lot about researching and developing my own ideas and style, for the mere fact that I was using all this time and attention Social Networks require, on drinking from another sources. The B-side of this is that I was 'out of the radar' of mass people as this social networks are designed to live inside them. My idea of internet and spreading ideas is not in this way.

Where do you live and work?

In the north west of Spain, Galicia. Now due to Covid I travel less but before it, I was working and traveling many places as I only need a camera and a computer. This allows me move to work anywhere.

Do you think that animated gifs are a new art form?

I think so, despite the fact that the format existed since 1987. But as every new format of art it takes its time to be considered as art. The first photographs were not considered art until many years later. Same happened with film, same with CGI. Is nice to have in mind that gif format is the last strictly digital format of the three main ones on the web: picture, video and gif. Photography has about 200 years of history, video about 130, CGI about 60. Finally gif has 33, and used as art itself no more than 10-15. In the same way anybody takes a picture of anything does not convert it into art, is the same with gifs. One thing is the format, another is the 'art'. Everybody can take a picture, record a video or do a gif. The difference is on the how, the why, and from my point of view overall, the what.

Do you think that there is a difference between pure .gif files and the .mp4 files that people post on Instagram?

The first, big and obvious difference is the format. Is not the same a painting as a picture of a painting. Here happens the same. For example, if you treat a gif with Cinemagraph technique, you are converting in picture some parts of the image, so they still remain and with the texture and totally stillness of a picture. If you convert this gif into a mp4 this still parts, despite not having motion, will convert into a video texture (noise, subtle motion in pixels, etc) so the main characteristic, among the perfect loop, is lost. Another point is that you must play a video, a gif is always running. Waterfalls are always running and this characteristic is something that is inside our human nature, we react nice to "bucle" motions as waterfalls, fire, etc. We find pleasure on this. Of course if it's a video the perfect loop is lost and the visual mantra disappear. And another key point here is the soundtrack. In a video you can use sound to enhance or give another meaning to the piece that you can't with gifs. For me this is another characteristic that give meaning to gif. For me gif is silence, the sound is generated by the motion, the melody are the details and the beat the perfect loop. You can "hear" almost every gif.

The difference between a gif and a video is the same that between a waterfall and a hose (if this works).

What do you think are the characteristics of good gif art?

For me first and overall the perfect loop. Not using it is not using the only format that has this characteristics. Of course there can be gif art that is not perfect loop, but from my point of view and in my work is a must. It's a new way not only of creating but also of thinking. Imagine an still scene is easy, imagine an A-B point action is easy. For me the challenge is about thinking an idea that is perfect looped where all the elements interact and eventually come back to its initial point. Succeed doing this is where the perfect loop appears and you are not able to find where is the start point of the action. Like a visual mantra, that it's repetition leads you inside the piece. Gif art is nice to use the power of the hypnotic movements. Another point to have in mind for me is the flow of it, the frame rate I mean. Depending on the idea and the kind of animation this should vary; is not the same fps to achieve something with flow than if you want to achieve a more 'retro' old style. Another thing is about dithering and color palette. This second one is essential to understand as it affects the final file. When we work with photo and video we are using millions of colors but when rendered as gifs all the gradients, lights and even colors will change if there is a previous understood of this point.

As summary: If motion doesn't add, change of enhance the meaning of the piece, is expendable.

I'd would like to add that I'm not really supporter of this kind of gifs generated automatically that just move a still image itself. I understand that this 'technique' is used as a tool for certain motion (I use it) but not to move a whole image. I feel the same as if somebody hold a painting in front of me and moves it randomly. If the work was born still, it must remain still. A good example of 'inner motion', this means that the motion is implicit on the image despite not being in motion, are the photographs of Cartier Bresson for example. Giving motion to this pictures for example, will kill it because it will break the concept of 'perfect instant' .

'Instant' differs etymologically from 'moment' in the motion. So, still image (painting, photo, sculpture, etc) is an instant, videos are stories with a-b point, and gifs are moments, the mid point.

How would you describe your gif art?

I usually condense it as "Visual Mantras", as the technique and the aesthetic vary depending on the idea , but in all of them the perfect loop and the intention of hypnotizing is always present.

In another terms about aesthetics and themes I think ‘Industrial Nature’ can fit nice. I use a lot of industrial elements but I like to mix their mechanics with the biological natural ones.

How long have you been creating and selling NFTs?

I am selling NFTs since mid 2019, but it wasn't until October 2020 that I focused more on it and dug into the ecosystem to find new paths to focus my work.

Do you think that NFTs are a positive for gif artists?

For me, and the main reason I jumped into cryptoart and NFT, is that now I can certify my digital work as original. Even more to gif works as they were always understood as something banal and minor for the context of its born. Gif art was born prostituted, used mostly for ads and to claim our attention on the internet, next to the highest glamour of painting and traditional art, and 3d, photography and video these last decades. Even worst if we realize that gif format was the only visual format born by and for the internet.

NFTs are totally positive for gif artists because despite being a digital/online native format it never had its own ecosystem to live in. I feel that I was creating creatures for an ecosystem I was waiting to drop them there. Now with the blockchain, NFTs and cryptoart, I found the place where they can live, being watched by everybody and have the certify that is my work. Until some months ago my work was "free" on the web and I had no control over it at all. This was a huge problem I was suffering since my first month into gif art as people use it indiscriminately with no credit at all. It's ok, and I always defend that my work is to be seen, to be shared, but I was looking for the way to be able to have this link with my work without losing the option of being available for everybody. NFT totally changes this.

What do you think will happen in the future as NFTs get even more popular?

In general terms I think it will happen the same as when print got more popular. People will use it more, a lot of crazy and useless things will appear, tons more of different uses and useful purposes, (not only on art). This opens a new door a lot of people was waiting so the future is unpredictable but we can feel where things are going. NFT arrived to stay and the concept of decentralization is something that was always present on the internet since first days but born inside a centralized system. NFTs are being a way for people to understand the 'peer to peer' philosophy and this makes people think in different codes, so we can expect a lot of new horizons, in art, music, design...

What do you think of the environmental impact of NFTs?

This question can goes really deep but in general terms I think that is something that is being oversized due to the hype and the boiling point we are, and it's understandable because is not false that it has an environmental impact, as everything does. But on the other hand I have two main areas in mind. The first and the obvious from my point of view is that when something is new and developing is less efficient, in the way that it requires more effort to achieve the result. But at the same time, the more this technology is used the more is developed and all this issues are part of it. The first car was not electric.

The second point that usually reverberates in my mind and that it seems that 'hard critics' omit is that they are not having in mind that this NFTs we mint, give us a profit that can be used offline to do another things that can be useful to solve this problem, for example, investing part of this money on living on our own in a minimal and clean way (not working for huge multinational that their environmental impact is tons times more than NFTs and then being part of an ONG to feel clean) and on using part of this money on looking and researching new ways to mint and to keep this digital ecosystem more efficient and clean. Every development needs time.

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If you have found this content valuable considering getting me a cup of coffee

[vg-sanctuary]

Bug Fables: The Everlasting Sapling

Moonsprout Games - Switch, PlayStation 4, Xbox One, PC - 2019

I don't like the core gameplay of 99% of all RPGs, but the ones I do like have been some of my favorite games I've ever played. case in point, Bug Fables: The Everlasting Sapling, a modern interpretation of the classic Paper Mario formula and an ideal example of indie developers adding to the legacy of a cult classic. its main feature is turn-based combat with action commands, like old Paper Mario or the Mario & Luigi series, and strategy in its intentional design and small health and damage numbers that goes way beyond "spam damage and heal every third turn, use mana items as needed". (in case you want to be 100% blind for your playthrough, past the Keep Reading link are some very minor spoilers: an item a specific cook can make after a side quest, some basic enemies, environments that are about halfway through the game, and the names of some medals.)

“wow, vg-sanctuary posting about a game that's not even two years old at time of writing? and it's an RPG? are you not a retro/legacy blog anymore? who are you and what have you done with the writer?” I still am a retro/legacy blog, mostly, just this time I thought I'd share something that its developers still get money from, and whose developers aren't mega corporations. and I just beat it, enjoyed it, and really felt like writing about it because it still doesn't have the popularity it deserves even after that puppet guy on YouTube talked about it. not that this post is going to reach any significant number of people, but still. I'll write about some more indie games sometime in the future. (and indeed I am writing about another RPG and you better believe it has a lot to talk about.)

anyway, Bug Fables starts with a brash little bee called Vi and a polite and honorable beetle named Kabbu wandering into an explorer's guild and not having a partner to join the guild with. they reluctantly decide they're going to fight together because companionship is a requirement for this guild, foiling off each other and sometimes off their third friend Leif, a blue moth they find in a cave, for the whole game. every character has a distinct personality and all the party members get some valuable character development through a side quest, which I really liked, but I'm no connoisseur of RPG stories. while I'm on story, people that come here looking for a well-made world will get what they want from the many optional lore books hidden around the world.

the plot becomes more complex and compelling as the game continues, though it generally lets gameplay take the spotlight. which is great, because the gameplay is also mostly great. about a third of it is doing puzzles on the overworld using the abilities of each character to move forward a la the Mario & Luigi series. they generally make use of whatever your newest overworld ability is, and some areas early on have inaccessible things you have to come back to, sort of like a Metroidvania except it isn't required to do this for progression. some puzzles take longer they could because they involve using Kabbu's horn to repeatedly fling an ice block many times over a distance. it's never egregious, but it could have been faster if the guy would use his arms. this is a minor caveat and not a majority of the game.

a lot of people probably don't know how the combat for this or Paper Mario works, and it's really important to Bug Fables, so I'll explain that here. it's turn based, which is typical, but basic attacks and skills need you to time a button press to do as much damage as possible. you can also time a button press when an enemy attacks to take less damage. Paper Mario and Bug Fables also both have medals instead of other equipment that give characters higher max HP or a new skill, for example. you have limited medal points and stronger medals require more points.

this is going to sound like a lot, but any RPG's combat will sound like a lot if you try to detail it in a single paragraph. the game introduces these things slower than I am here. in Bug Fables specifically, the character standing in the front of the group does one extra damage but is more likely to be attacked, and you can pass turns from one character to another in exchange for that character dealing one less damage (which is a lot because basic attacks only deal two damage by default). certain enemies can only be hit by certain attacks; some enemies fly, so Kabbu can't hit them until Vi knocks them down with her beemerang. not a typo, beemerang. and many of Bug Fables' status effects have upsides -- being paralyzed reduces damage taken everything by one, poison has many medals that make it a good thing, and being asleep heals the sleeping character every turn. there are others that are straight up bad things, though, and usually don't come until later. all of this adds up to even small encounters having strategic depth, which is great, and if you don't feel like small encounters you can just avoid them. skills that would typically be relegated to one character, like healing and support skills all going to one, are instead split between party members to make decisions more difficult in a good way. there's also a lovely medal that instantly kills any enemy the game deems too easy for you, sort of like in Earthbound.

I figure I spent more time doing housekeeping like cooking (simple A+B=C or A-becomes-B crafting), buying items, and arranging medals in Bug Fables than in any other RPG, which is because it was designed that way. by the way, cooking recipes start hidden, but a foodie at each restaurant will share some strong ones for free, which is a big help early on. anyone who's played The World Ends with You (i.e. me) will be spoiled by its excellent quality of life: no consumable items and you instantly heal to full after every encounter. it makes items seem like a ridiculous formality that RPGs only still have because they've had them for years, but in Bug Fables any item that isn't simple healing -- a lot of them aren't simple healing -- has great strategic use, and the exact way you spend your medal points can determine whether you win or lose any fight, especially bosses. for example, one character having one extra damage for two turns when they typically only do two is pretty important, especially when they use an attack that does multiple hits, and having it in item form saves valuable medal points and skill points. part of that time was kind of a waste, though, because I generally had one set of medals I use for multiple enemies and one I use for single enemies like bosses. being able to save loadouts would have helped a lot. I would like to compliment Bug Fables on allowing you to restart any boss with different medals without having to repeat cutscenes, and commend it for letting you do-over your level up bonuses late in the game when it starts to matter.

it's not like spending a lot of time on strategizing before fights is strictly mandatory. I was mostly playing on hard mode where enemies have more health and more difficult attacks, and mostly with a medal called Hard Hits that makes all enemies deal one extra damage in exchange for extra money after each fight. it can be less difficult if you'd like, but it's never mindless; even if you're doing a strategy that manages 20 or 30 damage (again, a lot in this game) in a single turn, it takes effort to choose your medals to do so much damage and actually play the strategy out in combat. the combat strategy is the best part of Bug Fables, and it makes each fight almost like a puzzle. I've typed some form of "strategy" six times so far, which is fair because it's the best part of Bug Fables. don't let it put you off, though, it's RPG combat strategy, not chess-like or RTS or something, so if you've enjoyed any other turn-based RPG it should be easy to get used to.

it's also worth mentioning the ample side content. each chapter of the game unlocks a handful of side quests, some about trading, some about combat, and almost as many bonus bosses as main bosses. you're allowed to fight them fairly early on, and a few become available after the final boss that are actually a bit harder than it in classic Paper Mario fashion. basically, if you like Bug Fables, there's a lot of it to play. there's even a trading card minigame because of course there is. it's fairly fleshed out, too, and unlike the one in Chocobo Tales the animations between turns don't take six years. the reward for the whole card side quest isn't something that's important for combat, so you can skip it if you don't like it; I didn't especially like it so I think that was a great decision on the developers' part.

rewards for some of the other side content, though, are so good it's kind of a wonder they can be completely skipped. it doesn't make the game harder to not have those skills or medals, but they are some of the best in the game and undeniably really useful. they make great side quest rewards in that sense, but it's important to know for the people that usually wouldn't do side content. I don't know if that's a common kind of player, but just in case. (this game's 100% achievement has been earned by a sky-high 5.9% of players on Steam. usually it's more like 2% or less. the point is none of the extra content is overly obtuse.)

I will complain about the forced stealth sections though. and be astounded that they fixed the main issue with them in the last stealth section. these are minor caveats and take well under an hour total unless you're really, really, really bad at sneaking, but they bothered me when I got to them. I mean, I understand why they're in the game, I understand why Zelda has them, but I didn't really like them. the main issue for all but the last stealth section is that there's no vision cone or other indication that "if you stand here they will see you" or even an opportunity to recover from mistakes which are incredibly important for playable stealth. the last stealth section does have a vision cone and does have an opportunity to recover from mistakes, which is a great step up. I would like to use even more italics to remind you that these sections total less than an hour of gameplay. Zelda: Breath of the Wild's forced-ish stealth was much worse than this.

I don't know where else to put it, so I'll add here that the soundtrack is great and the graphics are perfectly Gamecube-y and the sprites capture the cuteness of Paper Mario really well, even though they're, you know, bugs. each environment is distinct and themed well, and each one’s music matches well. I really wish I knew how to talk about music because there are a lot of different songs in this game that work well for what they go with. boss music sounds intense and boss-y and appropriate for each boss you're fighting, the not-music hits just right, and everything else feels good. some songs use Nintendo 64 MIDI instruments, which I loved. and the bee boss music has a synth that sounds like bees buzzing.

anyone that likes RPGs -- and even some people that don't -- will probably enjoy the story and strategy that make up the excellent Bug Fables. it goes beyond being a homage to Paper Mario and becomes its own thing entirely, though its roots are obvious from the art style. not that this takes away from it -- Paper Mario is a great legacy, and this manages to be even better. for all its little bad things there are a dozen great ones. I admit I haven't played the classic Paper Mario games, but this made me want more -- I guess I'll have to go back while I hope for Moonsprout Games to continue forward.

[365days365movies]

May 10, 2021: Blade Runner 2049 (2017) (Recap: Part Two)

Said I’d talk about artificial humans in sci-fi, so...

There are a HELL of a lot of examples of artificial humans in science-fiction, as well as the ethical and philosophical concepts that their existence raises. Now, your definition of “artificial” may differ from medium to medium. At its base form, these are humans that are not born, but made. I’ll be talking fleshy organic humans, not robotic ones. The most common of these is, of course, clones.

A clone, strictly speaking, is a genetically identical copy of a pre-existing organism, in this case a human. While this isn’t technology we’ve applied to humans as of yet (due to the NUMEROUS ethical problems and questions), we have done so with animals, mostly sheep and cats. It’s actually a good way to de-extinct certain species, and we’ve already done experiments with that. Of course...that has its own concerns.

Keeping up the Jurassic Park reference streak! Anyway...

There are a FUCKTON of examples of clones in science-fiction, but since I’m a massive comic book nerd, I’ll use Superboy. The genetic combination of Superman and Lex Luthor, Conner Kent is one of the most prominent clone superheroes. He’s not the only clone of Superman, of course. He’s not even my favorite clone of Superman, to be honest...

Bizarro am the worst. ME WILL LIVE ON THAT HILL.

Oh, and let’s not forget THE most prominent artificial human in comic books PERIOD. I don’t care what her origin in the movies is, that’s never been my favorite version of Wonder Woman. Making her a demigod robs her of something important, in my opinion.

...Should I make a comic book blog? Shit, thinkin’ about it.

OK, before I do that, these are just my favorite examples. Fact is, there are FAR too many examples of artificial humans to go into, whether they’re built, grown, sculpted, conjured, or a chemical reaction with an extra ingredient in the concoction.

And look, I could go on all day about this, but we got a long-ass movie to get back to. SO, lets jump back in. Part One is here!

Recap (2/2)

Understandably exhausted, K returns home, confused and conflicted. However, he’s greeted with a surprise from Joi: a prostitute! Namely, this is Mariette (Mackenzie Davis), one of the girls who approached him earlier. Joi’s called her here in order to be “real” for K, the effect is impressive, if somewhat...off-putting. Still, while K obviously didn’t need this to be happy with their relationship, Joi might, and Mariette’s all on board.

And it doesn’t take K terrible long to get on board, either. As both Mariette and Joi strip, it makes me wonder...how much does this subscription service for Joi cost. There’s no goddamn way this is free, right? Like, how exclusive IS this AI? And they cut from that scene to a Joi commercial, where we hear that Joi becomes anything you want her to be, and does anything you want her to do. But something tells me that...well, that it’s not quite so simple.

Once the night is over, Joi tells Mariette to leave, and not nicely either. Mariette leaves, rebuking her on the way out as well. K, meanwhile, knows that the Blade Runners will soon be coming after him. He’ll be going on the run, and Joi wants to go with him. And so, they put her inside of a remote device, while deleting her information from the main apartment console. This gets the attention of Luv, who head over to the apartment to figure out what’s going on.

K goes to Doc Badger (Barkhad Adbi), who analyzes the horse for him. It’s discovered that old radiation can be found there, and that amount and kind of radiation can only be found in areas where a dirty bomb has been set off. This would be in the desolate and weird-ass ruins of Las Vegas. While nobody lives there at this point, K and Joi go to check it out.

An IMMENSELY frustrated Luv, unaware of K’s discovery about himself, goes to confront Joshi about K’s whereabouts. Luv berates her for being afraid of change, and tells her that she “can’t fend off the tide with a broom”. Which is a great line. However, as Joshi is no use to her at this point, Luv just straight up kills her. Which, I’m sure, will go over well with the whole “Replicants aren’t dangerous” thing.

Meanwhile, in Vegas...shit is WEIRD. First off all, the desolate wasteland is full of statues of giant sexy wimmin, and I mean GIANT statues. Beneath one of them is a series of beehives, which K goes into to get a hand of beeeees. After that, he goes into an abandoned hotel/casino, rigged with tripwires and booby traps. OK. What.

So, somebody’s using this place as a hideaway, despite the entire city being destroyed by a dirty bomb, and probably extremely radioactive. K searches around and finds it empty. He begins to play a piano, hoping to draw someone out. He ends up drawing out a dog, as well as the inhabitant of the hotel.

Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford), baby! Quoting Stevenson’s Treasure Island and holding K up at gunpoint with dog at side is the original Blade Runner himself, Rick Fucking Deckard. God, I love this. Deckard hunts K down throughout the casino, where we see some trippy holograms, and the future of Vegas stageshows (probably).

The two fight, but eventually call a truce and decide to get a drink at the bar. K gets to it pretty quickly, and confronts Deckard on his potential child with Rachael. He confirms that Rachael was indeed pregnant by him, but he had never met his child. Which was the plan, to be fair. He wanted their child to be protected, not hunted down and eventually dissected.

Sometimes, to love someone...you gotta be a stranger.

To an old Frank Sinatra song, a forlorn K (now calling himself “Joe”) looks around, and sees carved wooden animals that resemble the horse that’s haunted his life and memories so much by this point. Which makes sense, considering the foil unicorn from the previous film. Neat little tie-in there.

But paradise is not all it’s cracked up to be, as someone soon comes to find both K and Deckard, despite the fact that K came alone. Although, now that I think about it, Joi may not be one that you can truly trust. Deckard and K try to escape their pursuers, but are caught pretty quickly. In the process, K is injured, but manages to get up in order to fight back. However, this is Luv with these people, and she beats K down EASILY. Turns out that Luv is actually an enforcer, rather than just a secretary. And when Joi awakens from K’s device to ask her to stop, well...she kills the device, and she kills K. In the process, she also takes Deckard away, leaving K behind. Fuck.

K wakes up, only to discover Mariette standing over him in the Las Vegas wasteland. She takes care of him as he wakes up, also stitching up with wounds from the explosion. She tells K to trust her, as well as her compatriots. One of them is the hooded woman from earlier, a Replicant named Freysa (Hiam Abbass). An old friend of Sapper’s she saw the delivery of the child, the “miracle”, and also hid the child away, as it was a symbol that the Replicants are more than just slave, that they are their own masters.

Freysa is building a revolution in order to free the Replicants once and for all. And I’m hard-pressed to disagree with their cause, not gonna lie. However, this comes at a price. In order to prevent Wallace from killing the cause, K must prevent Deckard from leading them to Freysa. They must do what they can until they can reveal the child to the world. For she will be their leader.

Fuck.

Understandably COMPLETELY crushed at this revelation, and more confused than ever, K collapses. Freysa tells him that they ALL wish they were the one, and they all believe. It’s at this point, that K realizes exactly who the Hybrid is: Dr. Ana Stelline. The horse from earlier, it turns out, did in fact belong to her, and she planted her childhood memory with the horse in K’s mind as a Replicant. Damn. DAMN! That’s why the memory moved her so: because it was hers.

Meanwhile, Deckard awakens to a separate nightmare: Jared Leto telling him how he feels about him. After all, Deckard helped to create the first Replicant-human hybrid. He asks him for his help in obtaining the child, so that the key of Replicant reproduction can be further unlocked. And he proceeds in convincing Deckard by playing audio of Rachael and his first meeting (from the first film, of course).

Niander fucks with him further, by suggesting Deckard was summoned all those years ago specifically to fall in love with Rachael in order to father a child with her. But despite all of this, Deckard refuses to give up any of his information. And so, Niander pulls out his ace-in-the-hole...and it’s a real shitty thing to do to a man in mourning. 

Damn. Dude rebuilt Rachael, tries to tempt Deckard with her, FAILS, then lets Luv shoot her in the head. Fucking power move, and fuck Niander for playing it. Dude is a DICK. Meanwhile. that one visual from every single ad of this movie is happening, and I can FINALLY use one of the 8000 GIFs of it, goddamn.

Not gonna lie, it’s an iconic appearance, so I get why it’s so famous. Anyway, K considers a suicidal option, now that he knows the truth. However, before we get to see the final decision, we get to see Deckard being taken back to LA for interrogation by Wallace. However, to prevent him from potentially leading Wallace to the secret of Ana Stelline, K suddenly appears, opening fire on their ship.

The craft is downed, and K exits the car to engage in a firefight with Luv. He appears to win, but Luv isn’t killed once she’s shot. The two have a fistfight out in the rain, and Deckard waits for water to slowly kill the craft that he’s still inside of.

As expected, Luv handles herself well, and despite a number of close calls, she JUST. WILL. NOT. DIE. Damn, she’s resilient. However, despite K, Luv, and Deckard all nearly drowning in an INTENSE fight between the Replicants, an enraged and crazed Luv finally eventually drowns, ending her threat for good. 

K saves Deckard from the sinking ship, and agrees to stage his death, allowing him to meet his daughter for the first time. Once at her facility, K returns Deckard’s horse to him, knowing that it was a gift from him. He tells Deckard that his best memories all come from her, implying that this makes him similar to Deckard’s son, which he picks up on when he asks if he’s OK.

Deckard goes to meet his daughter, and K hangs out on the stairs outside. He feels the snow fall on his hand, and he just...watches it all fall around him. He sits, and he watches it all. And meanwhile, Deckard meets his daughter for the first time.

...Can I just say...GODDAMN!

That movie was absolutely stellar, and it’s definitely landing in the high ‘90s for me, calling it now. I...wow. Seriously. Amazing.

See you in the Review!

[royalsofnight]

Coterie

001. Blog Content ||| This blog is rated 21+ Minors will be blocked. Dark subject matter will be present here. As Vannevar and Suzanne are vampires their nightly activities involve blood. Vannevar’s methods for dealing with enemies is gruesome. Bloodletting, gore, violence and courtly intrigue make up the bulk of this blog’s content. Such things will be tagged tw___ . I’m an adult so if you’re under 21 I will not write with you. Please don’t lie about your age because that really won’t get you far. Goes by Ash. 29 she/her. EST with many other blogs +14 years exp

002. HC Based |||This blog and it’s characters are heavily headcanon based and canon divergent. Set in the universe of LA By Night & Vampire the Masquerade but not tied strictly to its set canon. If you are looking for more traditional close to canon as possible this probably isn’t the blog to follow. HC’s connect new original information, lore and material to Vannevar, Suzanne and additional vampire muses.

003. Reblogs ||| Reblog prompts from the source. Do not use this blog as a harvest for memes or any other content. RP threads are not to be reblogged by anyone not involved. Personals do not interact or reblog period. I will block personal blogs on sight.

004. Activity ||| This is a low activity blog. Threads will also be of minimal count as well as interactions. Private and extremely selective to maintain an easy writing environment. I’m just here to have some fun with these muses with my main writing partners.

005. Threads ||| Please continue any asks you see as a potential thread in a new post. Do not send asks to continue a plot. It will only clog the inbox. I always make a new post with asks so you may reblog your continued response from them pretty easily. The inbox in general is closed off @ 10 max to reduce overwhelming. Don’t spam me if you can help it.

006. Shipping ||| Vannevar is canonically tied to Suzanne Rochelle. She is his longtime lover. He absolutely adores her and is very much under her spell. He defaults a connection to her and will be interconnected throughout. However, he is up for multishipping BUT this will be extremely selective. Basically done with plotting with mains. Suzanne also is open for her own ships outside of Vannevar. Any shipping will be done in its own verse and will never intersect with any other. Crossing of ships are prohibited. These muses will not autoship with anyone.

Pre-established plotting is open of course. Let’s see what happens. Vannevar is (according to lore and a little bit of tweaking to match this specific hc & timeline for the muse) 270 years old. He has seen quite a bit and experienced even more so chances are he is not one to fool in the romance department. Vannevar has a preference for women in his bloody nights. Suzanne obviously does not exist in other ship verses. The same goes for Suzanne who is also over 230 years old. She has the same experience and has seen an equal amount of strife. She has a preference for both men and women. Vannevar obviously does not exist in other ship verses for her.

007. NSFW ||| Will be present in the form of gore and monster activities. These vampires have etiquette but they are still vicious. All goes under read more. Smut is selective and 21+ only as expected. This will only occur with shipping partners. Tagged accordingly with: ( Love Song For A Vampire | Smut )

008. Character Control ||| Do not control the muses. Godmodding is a no. Do not kill them without consent or force irreparable harm. Well as much harm that vampires can take from their standard weaknesses. Vannevar is an old powerful vampire. Yes he may be killed with the appropriate methods but he is not easy to kill. Do not underestimate him. If you tangle with him expect serious consequences. Suzanne may be a French aristocrat from another life but she too is cunning and powerful. Tangling with her may lead to a widow’s death. Do not underestimate her either.

009. Adaptable Verses ||| Canonically Suzanne and Vannevar are married. He the Prince of LA and she his consort. Her relationship with him is complicated from her position as she both loves and at times uses him for power. Vannevar is devoted to her but also not entirely oblivious to her usage. Only when he is meddled with does it become more difficult for him to see through her. Vannevar being under a derangement driving him mad is by request only. It’s a very exclusive part to him. If we plot it in correctly with a reason behind the curse it can work. For the most part I write him without this mental impairment and loosely follow other canon material written in regards to him from novels Dark Prince and Prince of the City.

Crossovers depend and must be plotted to fit. I am open to them but mostly they will be with mains. Not all crossovers will be accepted due to whether or not I know the fandom or suits the muses world. This is first and foremost LA By Night but can easily adapt to any general supernatural universes. There is also multiverse and aus driving this blog.

[harrishanie]

"Fragmentary Annihilation” by “Alexander”

If you’ve ever encountered the PDF versions of Jesus Ignacio Aldapuerta’s The Eyes or Roger Gilbert-Lecomte’s Black Mirror, you’ve probably seen the link to The Usual Cannibalism, the (now former) blog of the transcriptionist. This blog advertises two original works, now seemingly-inaccessible, Meditations on Ero Guro and Fragmentary Annihilation. I have been curious about these works since my first discovery of the aforementioned documents, but it only occurred to me today that I might be able to find them by just plugging the dead links into the Internet Archive. I thought that they were interesting enough and worth preserving, as much as anything else, so I am posting them here--just the first for now, since I am not sure if Meditations fits the current content dogma. I have also not done any formatting whatsoever so I will apologize.

Both pieces are attributed only to “Alexander”--if you are him, my kind regards. To everyone else, my apologies.

Fragmentory Annihilation

An attempt at overcoming Nihilism and Limitation By Alexander http://the-usual-cannibalism.blogspot.com/

Selected Music: OST 2001: A Space Odyssey: Composed by various. The Beyond: Composed by Fabio Frizzi Blue: Cowboy Bebop OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno. Cannibal Holocaust: Composed by Riz Ortolani Dawn of The Dead: Composed and performed by Goblin Fish ~ Silent Cruise: Ghost In The Shell Stand Alone Complex OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Greed Bird: Cowboy Bebop OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Holy Mountain: Composed and performed by Don Cherry, Ron Frangipane, and Alejandro Jodorowsky In Heaven: Eraserhead OST: Composed and performed by Peter Lvers Lucifer Rising: Composed and performed by Jimmy Paige Monochrome: Ghost in the Shell Stand Alone Complex OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Nosferatu: Composed and performed by Popol Vuh Rain (Female Vocal Version): Cowboy Bebop OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Requiem for A Dream: Composed by Clint Mansell and performed by the Kronos Quartet Suspiria: Composed and performed by Goblin

Original Compositions Adagio for Strings: Composed by Samuel Barber Ase’s Death: Composed by Edvard Grieg Carmina Burana: Composed by Carl Orf The Crucifixion: Composed by Samuel Barber Dreams Less Sweet: Composed and performed by Psychic TV The Downward Spiral: By Nine Inch Nails F# A# (Infinity): Composed and performed By Godspeed You! Black Emperor Holocausto De La Morte: Composed and performed by Necrophagia Horror of the Zombies: Composed and performed by Impetigo House of the Rising Sun: Performed by The Rolling Stones Hurt: Performed by Johnny Cash I Want Your Soul: Composed and performed by Aphex Twin Ode to Joy: Composed by Beethoven Rain Drops Prelude: Composed by Frederic Chopin Prince Igor: Composed by Alexander Borodin The Requiem: Composed by Mozart Strange Fruit: Composed and Sung by Billy Holiday Song for Liberty: Composed by Giuseppe Verdi Sympathy for the Devil: Composed and performed by the Rolling Stones Va Pensiero: Composed by Giuseppe Verdi Yanqui U.X.O: Composed and Performed By Godspeed You! Black Emperor

In Puberty’s ambush, maidens bloom, All unaware of impending doom They listen to the radio, drink tea Unaware they will lose their liberty Bourgeouis recoil not from slaughter Though victim be son and daughter From Salo: The 120 Days of Sodom.

Diagram -an attempt to understandThe World that follows Sadism or Social Darwinism. Invokes the OverMAN, Absolutism, and a kind of Primitism. Leading to the Simple Passions, the Complex Passions, the Criminal Passions, and the Murderous Passions. Power. The World that follows Psychology (Freud, Jung, and Wilhelm Reich): Implies a tree of influence and evolution, cherry picks the good out of each religion. Interconnectedness. The World that follows Unification (Kierkegaard, Krishnamurti, and the Bhaved Gavid): Man is unified with himself and every other, simplicity, taking away from excess resulting in Social Evolution. Instrumentality. The World that follows the Poete Maudit (Lautreamont, Baudelair, Rimbaud, and Artaud): It is with a fury that man achieves a manifest destiny, personification of the Phoenix. Death & Rebirth. The World that follows the Larvae (developmentally halted no further evolution): An introverted and absolute justification for being wrong and spiteful at humanity. The emulation of an idea taken from a great man, modified for the benefit of the shepherd. Defined technically as Scizotypal. The World that follows Escapism: Be satisfied with life and pursue its vices, no more joy to be partaken than that inside a fellow, and housed in a limited splendor with glass walls. There can be no manifest destiny nor growth when one is given it. The Consumer. The World that follows the Dictator: Differing from the others, this is entirely individual yet joins every belief together for the benefit of the one and truly via cherry picking. Implies a Tao of humankind that commits all positive and negative acts, a kind of birthing process where all thinking merges to create a child different from both parents. The Third Mind. Evolution. The World as Reality: the meaninglessness of art and thought as a futile interprise, limited by the finite life span of the earth and the eraser of all hard external memory. Implies that we will not be remembered no matter the effort. Nihilism. The World as Splendor: To believe one and only, by following only Islam or by following strictly Nietzsche. Limiting one self to but one interpretation, thereby denying reality and evolution. Faith.

SACRED Imagine a voice that is low and hollow and that its vocal cords strain to produce sound. This voice that utters a monotone speech begetting remorse and pain, dignity and hatred. Picture this voice on your parent that visits you in the morning and rapes you at night. Object 1 A woman runs up a stairwell, pursued by a deformed man who walks on all fours; his flesh is bruised and clean shaven, the ears are shorn and pointed, with a tongue sewn from two –twice as long as a dog tongue- without thumbs or big toes, those amputated by eugenic miracle, a man is what he sees himself as through the eyes of others by this very transmuted flesh. The woman is cornered on the roof; this dog/man proceeds to rape her. She then slowly changes, shedding her skin, each limb becomes metallic, she transforms into a plane and leaps from the roof and glides into a building, explosions, a gray fog bellows out.

-£¼ªÙÆ When it comes to conversation, I rehearse almost everything. Ad-libbed material gives way to awkward speech like in a random conversation rushed out if only to keep interconnectedness afloat. That is insipid. Better to rehearse and come across as better then a fellow then to wallow in mediocrity and a limited dialogue. People are angry and nice, giving me eyes that would paint me as an evil outsider placed therein to murder them all. The niceness comes from opening doors for them, as they do not do for me. It is unfortunate that I have the habit of implanting pieces of my personality within my characters, what new extremes that I invoke: Three characters that are the me when given over to fury: They escape my brain and proceed downward through my skull where they break through my mouth, which now resembles a deformed cunt. Yet I cannot stop writing, so with my left hand I use a sewing needle and twine and proceed to stitch up the wound. On a mirror just above this paper I carefully study the wound, opening and closing the lips, showing my slightly yellow teeth; realizing it looks like a rat chewed a circular hole asthough my lips were bitten off completely. I continue forward with this surgery, I do not need a mouth to speak.

The character of Defilement Here arises another Eden; one imagined by that better person inside each and every other –that human that acts upon desire-. The setting is the same as the pictures from the bible

with waterfalls and golden gates, populated by one old cow that can just barely stand. Defilement approaches the cow with the glee of a great sadist. “You ask nothing more then to feast and to have your teats pulled and drained of a blockage of fluid. Much like the nymphomaniac left alone with their arms amputated. Allow me to pay tribute to you and all others.” Defilement undresses, smiling as he shows his disfigured prick; for it takes the shape of a double A battery with a stub of flesh protruding through the hole. His testicals are in fact one dozen knives strung like wind chimes. He is not obese, just pounds of loose flesh hang off him, folding over like animal flippers found on a new race of man. His skin ripples like the top of disturbed water as his knives slightly tingle and ring, and drops of ejaculate fall from them. Now a dirty cunt brimming with urea, crowned by dried shit, penetrated. He kisses the animal’s snout in submission. ‘Bestiality is to give up on humanity’ he whispers into the animals’ ear. With that finished, he begins milking the cow. His children drop onto the grass, colored of milk-white with no mouths or any kind of limbs, but born as torsos though they were only bio-engineered fuck-holes. Defilement buries his children under shallow earth; they grow like trees over years and decades thereafter. He bleeds out, feeding his children organic debris. His plasma becomes their water and his shit becomes their food. Once they have matured, he proceeds to their mother and wrenches loose one curved blade. As saintly as conjoined pedophile and martyr when one kills their lover and a surrogate mother. The teats are completely severed in three disorderly gashes, like a crescent with the star being a separated heart. He wears this apparatus atop his skull like a hat. The cow falls to the ground trying to crawl away. Calmly, he sinks the blade through the snout multiple times as if a child making sure his pet is dead. Cutting off its ears now, he has little time left until he dies of blood loss, and cutting off many inches of skin that would bestow one large coat in one last frenzy that relinquishes everything that once made him human. One last gash to the throat, blood pours in gallons; he punches the jaw and breaks it in half. He opens up its stomach and hallows it out and crawls down this hole, curling up like a fetus, preserved for his children, for this is Eden and depravity is only memory for an audience of weeping trees. The character of Defy “Young boy with medium-sized breasts walks pompously, walks right by me. A boy of milk less breasts dares himself to think that he is better then I with his pompous walk, how dare he looks down at me.” A fifteen year-old girl part of a tribe of the destitute with her fat, crippled girlfriend in tow. She curses at me, calling me a faggot for my nice clothes and my walking like an aristocrat. I am dressed in top hat with a Christian cross etched onto the front, an

expensive suite and shoes, and a magnificent cane beside me with the handle of the Cobra (For Defy is the best representation of me as a person, in how I dress and speak) “You walk like you got a corn cob up your ass!” I approach her, being so cautious that she may have several inbred protectors, “You, minute and destitute whore, you were not christened by any kind of virtue nor vice, for both have a kind of attrition and dignity. You, who were born from a moronic fuck between such forgettable inventors, that which claims how great is life and how great is their delirium; those who bore you and let live, what a waste of raw material. I would not rape you in a fury; I feel your vulva has mixed with the mucus of dogs and paint, standards be not your priority –how you will die from pregnancy-. For I am the me that I WILL, such a high and vulgar being of all powers that dwarfs you and your nothing-life. I pity you for having to bathe your crippled pet with your ignorant tears. I wish you nothing. People, such as you, the peon-masses deserve the earthly Hell that you have so graciously built, that is paradigm, that is Darwin, that is you little woman, without power, you and your class, you incredible weakling, you timid and tortured bitch.” She seemed dumbfounded. I see an ugly girl with brown hair with a scalp resembling a bird’s nest filled with parasites. She has an ugly and misshapen face with protruding teeth and glasses that truly add nothing to her appearance. She walks with her pack of an equally disgusting mother and grandmother or some such; they are all obese, just as putrefied and dead as the child. Someone asks them what time it is… they strain with this simple question for about a minute, and they finally give a wrong answer and proceed on their way. I will prove a point to an atheist author, for I am the great Agnostic. I will see the murder of a martyr, that grand attrition, the only tool worth anything by your cult and genius. Back to the crucifixion: I see a crowd devoted to that phantasm of faith; how easy it is to think all is well at a crucifixion post-mortem. Children start to beat the body with sticks as I arrived, pushing down members of the crowd and presenting one simple dialogue as I arrived and spoke“I am the murderer of god, you are but his pets and I have bathed in your creator’s blood. And I have castrated this god of human hands and a blood-less heart.” Raising my hands high, mentally controlling their will with my skeletal fingers by twisting my left hand’s fingers, beginning with the pinkie, turning inward with a folding thumb. “Every man now, is only a fallen god without eyes. You see the world once emerging from the engorged cunt, and there your fellows sealed your eyelids to a close, your voice becomes an echo, and your hands are now tools for someone else. I offer you the heart of your creator. Ingest this organ of not truth or what is known as divine, but a though, like a match to bring the flames.” I pull out a heart and carve it open with my nails then throw the remains to this crowd of the illiterate and begotten. In actuality, it was the heart of a large ape. As the crowd and minor holy men are busy picking the pieces of the heart, I approached christ with his black hair and a tiny height that rivals the myths of Napoleon. His nails are long, his teeth broken and crooked like a

beggar, his anus widened as with cut open balls. “This is what we’ve been waiting for?” I asked loudly and expectantly, my right arm pointing to the body “We’ve waited thousands of years to see the return of an ordinary man not any different then any of us? He is not worth it. He is not the jesus to be forgiven, he is the man we are glad to be rid of; the bourgeois and insipid variety.” I insert my longest fingers into the spear wound and stretch it open, like a portal down not into the thought process but a descent into organic nausea. Through this hole, passing by fantasia no grander then packaged gizzards. I am now at the top of an incredible mountain paved with diamonds, gold, and titanium. Such a spot befitting a man who says ‘I am god’ I see him now, this most real form; here is the inner child sucking on a thumb. Wait, I examine closer and see he is dead when I feel for a pulse and put my ear up to the mouth and there is nothing. The body is slumped to the right side; thumb still in mouth, covered only by a blue blanket that barely hides a violet flesh, his face is cut apart by the shaving of moustache, eyebrows, and hair on the left of his face, this small and castrated child. I curl up right next to it, hiding under the blue blanket and I sleep. The body dissipates like ashes. I smile. The character of Atheism Atheism, dressed in a white short sleeve shirt and black pants with black tie, armored with a Snake Skin jacket while clutching his imposing pocket knife in a side pocket, culminating with a two-foot long cross impaled through his skull; this deformed pariah who failed as a chameleon. The Madman is dead, and we have killed him. Morality is the assassin; we are the conspirators for being so compliant and listless. We have succumbed to not a land without god or logic, but a mindset without idols. The idol is the bringer of influence and what idols remain? But the dead, dying, and meaningless without innovation and strife… A natural selection that favors the weak. Oscar Wilde once said that all influence is immoral, something referenced to by my now dead friend. The reincarnation is not worthy. If that were untrue, then would we not have evolved beyond Nietzsche? All that has been created are the ouroboros of shared ideas. It is the Madman to come from the brink and deliver to us something that had never before been conceived. As it would, that a Madman would arrive with every dying star, it reminds me of a whore who is given a facial and there discovers illumination. I come too late. My time has long passed…

A young Mormon boy, an old Catholic with a black beard, an obese Evangelist mother of three, one follower of Islam, a female atheist, one stereotypical Buddhist, ending with a small Hindu family; all of whom are extremists which should be noted. An illumination, brilliance, and the Madman: They are the conclusion but to what? Countless images happening all at once, struggling to find that vent through this one character in each action of repulsion and glory. I pondered for a moment if I should draw this out for much longer, then again, this should be quick as my author has set me free and I shall thank him with an excess of blank pages. This Mormon is beheaded by an Al Queda operative. The Catholic is placed in the Antarctic half submerged in ice water. The Hindus are treated like untouchables in their culture; the women are raped and beaten, while the men watch and are castrated. The Evangelist is fed to several apes. The Islamist is given a world without enemies; there he finds no one and dies alone. The atheist mocks primitive cultures; she is then subjected to their rituals and is raped and beheaded. The Buddhist is locked in a room without windows; given only a little tree and sand, within days he consumes every leaf on the plant, and then dies of starvation. I am afraid. as I remain one without bible or coda, but a verve that coils and sheds the former ideal like the serpent crawling upwards the tree of knowledge; things that I have written and will re-enact. My fear is that I will not pursue them any longer when pacified by society. It is like a poker game, it ends when you show your hand. … “The girl screamed. The murderer laughs like mad, she begs, he takes out a large knife. She prays, tears rolling from her eyes, a bone-crunching sound is heard. A shot from the policeman’s nine-millimeter pistol, the fatal shot to the head of the murderer. She pleads to her hero ‘I just want to go home’ “ “This novel is my masterpiece,” said an eleven year-old boy struggling to become a horror writer, the author of the above paragraph, if even that, more like an extended sentence. He has had two short stories published in very, very small fanzines and he has posted four more on the Internet. This “masterpiece” is a typical slasher story; so typical it would have been rejected for a Friday The 13th screenplay. He shows the novel to his boyfriends, and they love it. A Naïve boy who is devout to the followers of a passion-less manifesto, and the novel is sold to a large publishing house and it does all right on the market, not at all surprising when the challenge and depth of this book reaches the mighty height of a grain of sand. I write myself in, “Naïve boy, you must challenge people.” he screams that he does not want to, that he only wants to be a jester, to be remembered for his entertainment. I retaliate, “True, that after your death people will remember you, but for only a shot

period of time, fifteen minutes to be exact if we are to follow Warholla and his pretension. For decades after no one will care about your rotten corpse that the worm defecates on, and no one will remember you past that expiration. But, we always remember the pariah’s who wish to change the world and to show us glory whether introverted or extroverted. It depends not on timelessness but on the passion.” A critic descends, casting me as perverted and unworthy, going on in the erotication of rape that I bestow, the difference (same old same old) between pornography and art. I will show misanthropy personified, this is a way to view something as the atrocity that inspires hope, pain, and numbness: In a room of teal, we watch three figures through an iris window, looking out from within my two eyes. A man dressed like an aristocrat except for a black hood that hides his face who stands between a blonde-haired girl no older then seventeen trying to cover herself, and her mother with matching hair; whose limbs are chained to a concrete ceiling that hold her several feet high. Both are of course nude. The daughter cries, and her hands block out her pubic hair. The aristocrat that does not show his face brandishes a very clean and defined sickle with a metallic handle painted yellow. The mother becomes silent. A portrait ten feet by ten feet descends attached to two near-invisible strings, just a foot or two above the mother’s skull. This portrait is in fact an enlarged photograph tainted (artistically) in sepia; the image becomes visible, showing off a victim of Ed Gein’s immortalized by her violation. Gein, one of the first American serial killers: his victim, this aged woman that hangs by her lifeless feet chained by ankles, torn open from anus to chest. It is so awe-inspiring that you would think Dali would masturbate to it. The executioner tilts his skull slightly upward for which beams of light shine on him, thereupon a bent halo tears through his eyes and hangs above the skull; suddenly two large wings rip through his back and these wings are plastered with lined paper and drip ink. From this man’s spine, the epitome of Goodness wrings loose from him, born from the pores of skin and showing its innocent flesh to human eyes. Goodness emerges as a limbless dwarf with empty, plastic bottles planted in its mouth. With a clammy and Asiatic (recalling Shintoism) skin that turns violet from the exposure to oxygen, no longer shelled within polluted man, crawling slowly forwards like a dying slug as it approaches the child and rapes her with its bottles, to give her pleasure, for that is mutually good to the corrupt individual. The sickle approaches the mother, her child still is watching with a penetrated cunt magnified by a see-through bottle: The sickle (moving upward) penetrates the asshole by a few inches, and then a slow lift approaches; working in a seesaw motion, the blade moving quickly; slowly tearing through the outer wall of the cunt, tearing through stomach, and now torn en half. The mother is dead. The boy and critic vomit in unison, I speak, “You see how I’ve made art out of a tragedy? Showing how our world is a constant mirror, I have taken a man who wanted to fuck his mother out of love and hate. He wore the flesh of his victims much as the same as we wear masks; whereas he wore them to become what he wanted to be, we wear a mask to be acceptable. And, by that dismembered woman we witness the birth of new pleasures, and new freedom. The mask becomes our weapon, and the trophy is our freedom.”

“You’re sick!” the boy screams. “No, you’ve glorified Gein’s crime for your own profit. Simply creating a series of violent episodes does not make you a writer, it makes you a pornographer” said the critic. I speak again, “I don’t give a damn if I’m right or wrong. I will change people by showing them our world simply as it is; deep down inside they know this is true! It is all a reflection of our corrupt universe that offers no solace but hope while elites continue on in murder and monopoly, it is this idea of hope that has only given us shit and democide.” “What is true? Showing men committing bestiality? Saying there is no God as repeated for over a century? You’re nothing but a hack wishing to gain attention for his crimes!” said the critic. “What crimes? This is everyday violence; you simply ignore it and refer to it as a tragedy. It is no tragedy; this is the way of life, it is Social Darwinism prophesized by the divine Marquis! To do away with it is to do away with the society that created it, a solution through artistic genocide. This is necessity; one cannot overcome reality without having first faced it.” I speak again. “I sincerely doubt that the essence of Good is a crippled dwarf, or champions of capital punishment fuck on a mountain in celebration. This is obscene. Enough of your ‘mirrored’ world, people want the truth” said the critic. In defiance, “I am giving it to them” The critic shakes his head, bemused. I speak once more, “You hate people like me don’t you? It is of course obscene but people need obscenity! Enough of this cushy world where imaginary characters are created to live in a tedious cycle of life, death, triumph, love, and freedom, enough of these anecdotal biographies written exclusively for money, enough of everything that rebuilds people as puppets meant to follow the words of an invented prophet such as your Ayn Rand. We NEED work that will fuckin’ murder our glee and take with it our restraining morals. To gut punch us and implant it’s terrible voice in us” foaming from the mouth “We need violence to show violence! There must be this conclusion, the end of the moral coda and the end of the meaningless life and with it the end of meaning. No more a truth to be found, that absolution may only be a word to satiate the herd while men lie and give of them selves to nothing, and they die for nothing. Only in the extremes may we find what we have ignored, the Gray. Love and hate, horror and the paradise, are the same. No different to fly or fall. I do not propose to know of the truth, nor the proper way of life; but I know what is wrong, and that is the slavery of today encompassing Social, Religious, and Economic varities. Before each and every ritualistic task to find oneself, one must recognize what is around them and the idea of Good & Evil being the supreme Lie given to us by our kind and loving society, though well-intentioned it became the greatest kind of propaganda. Secondly, one must react to it. ”

The critic gives a good review of the boy’s work. They quickly undress and begin to fuck like student and teacher. … I peel away a piece of dead skin from my face, nuisance hangnails amputated with nail clippers, pieces of me fall onto this very paper with a single drop of blood, I wipe off this waste and continue onward. I, not we, you could never understand me no matter what lengths I reach, and I say that out of relenting to a truth and not a defeat nor condensation. I alone must commit transgressions out of invented mysticism; therein I will be created as I see myself and not as I dream in writing. An individual and selfish trait usually referred to as martyrdom by people who do not wish to create themselves but only follow that which has been created. I feel this is a trait that links subversion, atrocity, and glory. To be a martyr is to give your self over to the masses, and then be reinterpreted to be more appealing. When you become the individual, you are the in-understandable entity like the Sphinx or Stonehenge; the ritual and the God cemented in time. There I am in this limbo, muted colors flow from above; you can taste these colors by licking the air. Who am I? I am the one who desires to be the OverMan, to laugh at every weak last man. What am I? A man that remains hindered by what he has. With a hacksaw, I set about decapitating my self, to free mind and body as separate entities. The pain soon subsides, a fetus levitates off in the distance, there is me in the mirror and my desire. The stage has been set for metaphysics, but this body needs freedom from this reality constructed for it. Only there may mind and body become whole and separated into eternal entities of absolution. My brain is above me, awaiting me, my body is like cement in water; eating of the fish and viscera that swim by it while still rooted to this world. I will become as I desire, to confront reality and conquer it and to map out my self and remake it. Take all that you despise, use that as the catalyst for the new body like wood to the fire. When I see myself, I see only so much to still be done. … Of Nine Eleven: From the viewpoint of a misguided martyr not at all different from a child wishing to emulate dead mentors Knife in briefcase, could not believe how easy it is to fool these bastards. The others were very anxious and I was worried that the others in the other planes would back out like in the Conspiracy to murder Lincoln or some other fuck up would occur. The plane takes off. The plane is a little away so I motion to the others that the time is right. Brandishing our weapons and doing our best English, screaming aloud in a tall and arrogant voice.

“We have a bomb on this plane” My fellows were breaking down the door to the cabinet as I secured the rest. I then quickly ran in and bound the flier’s hands with those plastic handcuffs that idiots use to tie up toys and loose wires. One of the pilots pissed himself and I took the reigns of the plane, and then ordered the others to secure the passengers. My fellows went at it with but a few hostages were allowed others to gather in the back and phone whomever they wished, it was the least we could do, it would not matter; we feed the mouse before we feed it to the snake. The tower is within range; I fly into the top-middle trying to get the best possible shot. Collision. We die in flames. People scream. People will film it. And I will be immortal. Praise be to Allah, and let I be remembered. [Ending with a very average man committing what is only a spectacular suicide to prove he is something more then simply human] Even now I have not committed the most despicable of things as accorded by the moral guardians and do you know what that is? To say that 9/11 was a staged event. No room for the politic, they are a thing you cannot preach, for the insipid refuse to even listen and only condemn, this prejudice of knowledge. Êö”ºÆ_ Ö×ØÙÚÛÜ -£¼ªÙÆ @™Çö”ºÆ_@ __ __ __ __ __ ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ Only an excuse to cross a bridge, such as a meaningless parlay- like you would bring up the mundane only to get to that crass joke or make a point on the day-. Such a revolt of misguided proportions, he would even speak ‘the artist crucifies them. The artist crucifies all of them.’ … _ þª_ «_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ «_ «_ «_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ -«_ «_ "«_ ì²_ î²_ ð²_ ò²_ ô²_ ö²_ ø²_ ú²_ ü²_ þ²_ ³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ -³_ ³_ "³_ $³_ &³_ (³_ The other two would be restrained and forced to watch: the longhaired one has her hands handcuffed behind her back, her legs tied and held apart. She is cut along the thighs with a box cutter, the blade invades underneath her toenails, her hair is ripped out and stuffed into her mouth, her eyelids are held open while a match is struck and falls onto an eyeball, the cunt is spread open to greet one intrusive lit match, a breast carved into, the fat is expunged and replaced with cotton. The image of Shiva and Kali are tattooed upon her forehead and pubis. A climax is not a necessity to affect people, like a staged orgasm in pornography. When it is the moment caught in the twilight at the height of an extreme that is the necessity. Think of a boring film/book that is remembered or the weak man who became a killer. …

“I should’ve had the abortion; I should’ve had the abortion” My mother, speaking to me when I was nine years old…Suddenly that sentence just sprang into my mind so suddenly. One boy very much in accordance to what is the outsider finds his vices, and he becomes dominated by them-mimicry- becoming just as the other humans, one who putrefies while living in dreams. He is torn by the complex nature of his deranged mother, and feels intimidated by his father, which yields him to his mother. Slowly becoming aware of his errors, yet still pious to delusion, and still buried in limbo while thinking of cruel ideas. He finds an angel in fuckery; he begins to learn new things. An angel in philosophy visits him; he thinks new things. One day he no longer thinks and sets about to be what he has always dreamed of being. OverMan. The writer may be god but the writer is also a slave to their creation. If the creation fails, the writer must abandon it and forget it or destroy it and rebuild it anew. If it succeeds the writer is forced to outdo it or perish in its ravages; if not the writer is forced to create clones of his creation. One man approaches me, spouting on and on about how I am a threat to humanity and have perverted previously innocent children. He continues to harasses me for the appraisal of all freedoms and of all men in which every thinker is the Iconoclast; as he referred to me as a cancer to his utopia that had never existed. ‘Turns out he hasn’t even read of my work, so I hand him a copy while saying with an arrogant smile “judge not les ye be judged” and I leave him my email address. Weeks later amidst many emails, I received a message from this man. He tells me how my work has changed him and he has given up his ways and became an organ donor then helped bastard children by giving them much-deserved toys, and most surprisingly of all, he has donated to pro-choice agencies to raped mothers. How I wish this was true and this man existed instead of merely writing this paragraph of fiction to create a counter-image. Am I no better then he? Write to me at Etuvivrainelterrore@Gmail.com … Idols riding in Cadillac’s with open tops down a poorly planned parade, they look no different from a walking billboard, such as a living deformity attributed to Teflon poisoning. I am part of the crowd and dressed in the skin of Jack Ruby; I take careful aim and fire the fatal shot at one such idol no different from any other. This one hollow point round makes contact with the face, and dead center down the nasal cavity. The idol now resembles victims of nerve gas through a heavily deformed mouth and face, like a horse with its face blasted off and its body dragged throughout the streets, my way of giving them a purpose through a stupendous demise. That is the me who subscribes to violence being an immortal action.

That is, Immortality by Immorality. What an insipid, and at once brilliant and proven thought that violence in it self may grant eternity. A road traveled by the most insane of men; your Albert Fish, your Idi Amin, your lord Heliogabalus, and your artist. It is no better then to carve into a tree. We soon forget that the tree will die. “If God is dead… Must we not become gods ourselves to seem worthy of it? “ NIETZSCHE The Gray (in Tao terminology) that embodies man, for it is gray which grants us the ability to do both positive and negative at once. This Gray would now be truthfully recognized… and not as the purgatory or the void that is filled, but the totality of all creation. As ‘Do what thou wilt’ is not the pass to commit atrocity, but to only be human, and once we see what we are fully capable of there may be created the second paradise. The first paradise was the one created by Cavemen freed of restriction. Though, debatable as to what exactly restriction is. It may be an invented reality (such as what we have now) or reality in itself (an unchangeable thing). This applies to the mass and not in it self to the individual. Such as Jonestown, which was a reality founded by one man, with a herd that latched onto that, thereby placing themselves within another paradigm without pursuing a personal freedom -just another escapism- and perished in that reality. Whereas the individual is free to create as he pleases and walk away from that mass and his debts. His is entirely manifest. See also Perspectivism. … The book posses the author; becoming a surrogate brain of what we desire to be, no better than a log of dreams or a diary filled with paintings about as understandable as a blank piece of paper. The book becomes a map of the thought process or the external memory of ancient humans. I see it as a scarification process much like a live autopsy committed by our brains upon this limited body, no better or worse then the monk who set himself aflame. … A dead oak tree lies in the middle of a dirt field; old condoms hang from the dead branches while icy cum drips down onto mud along the road to an Orgiastic Heaven: Where man and rhino are united by a speared anus. One octopus pleasures eight women while eating pubescent girls feet first-but not before drowning them with a flood of ink. men and women fused to create bee hives joined by the hip as their genitals are the gateways for such bees where bears pluck these hives, bite into them and drink the honey. Women are impaled from anus to throat by giraffe necks, each giraffe adorned with this human necklace. Clean-shaven people are laid as the ground and ceiling to every last species of bats, these people are the toilet and the nest for the bats, for that shit to be eaten, and bodies hollowed out and homes for dozens of bats. Tigresses with immense clitorises rape young boys whose limbs are rooted in cement, the tigresses generally bite

off the ears and claws the backs of each child during the hourly penetration, and how they mimic male orgasm and urinate into the mouth of each boy. Men enjoy the splendor of birds that lift them up onto a bed of spikes; the remains are fed to young children as vomited by the birds. Pigs would bite off the fingers and toes of men and laugh while the men struggled to grab and stand. Horses would trample the old and invalid after a lifetime of suffering; where ducks and chickens would be lifted up to their faces and scratch out their eyes, or plow the fields tied by their breasts or genitals, along with previous and unheard atrocities, as newborn children are fed alive to komodo dragons. Yet, that one angelic woman that stood out was subjected to the very worst; being lifted to the sky and forced to watch it all for a lifetime. In Heaven. … Jerry Fallwell, Pat Robertson, and Billy Graham are the recipients of retribution for every man to be given a smite by a fascist, or for every man to have come so far and believe in personal freedom… only to be reminded of these wretched men and the will to be rid of them. Fallwell is strangled to death by a leather strap. Robertson is gutted and thereon stuffed with the many pamphlets promising one land for the Christian and the triangle-eye of the dollar. Graham is ignored entirely, and he and his offspring disintegrate, there exists no real life to a thing if it does not make a human connection either positive or negative…It is not to ignore a virus, but to isolate it. Religion spreads by the ears and eyes, when a virus is then isolated and cannot grow; it then rots from the inside. That I realize too late, and am now executed for murder. … "Let the most insulting blasphemy, the most atheistic works next be fully and openly authorized, in order to complete the extirpation from the human heart and memory of those appalling pastimes of our childhood; let them be put in circulation the writings most capable of illuminating the Europeans upon a matter so important, and let a considerable prize, to be bestowed by the Nation, be awarded to him who, having said and demonstrated everything upon this score, will leave to his countrymen no more then a scythe to mow the land clean of all those phantoms, and a steady heart to hate them. In six months, the whole will be done; your infamous god will be as naught," Marquis De Sade To murder the epitome of faith and beyond, to defy all others and insult them brutally like the coward, to outdo human capacity: The artist aims at this so revered and holy target. This is my great transgression; for I may never look back again, for it necessary if nothing but for my inner peace, and once there you can never go back to what you were: Jesus approaches with a solemn look and with hands laid low and open, I say ’free me’ and he then walks over with a gesture to kiss his bloodied feet. I stab him with my pen in his ribcage, clutched by my left hand, and now painted with blood and dirt. Using this pen as a lever to lift him before a giant sheathe of sheet metal with a white crucifix

painted before, cementing him there by thousands of pens to crucify this dead hypocrisy. A figure riddled with protrusions, like an Indian fakir fallen upon his bed of spikes, kept alive now by these very words that wish to torture him more with metal pens imbedded into palm and wrist. I cannot let such a thing die by a bourgeois mechanism such as the crucifixion. Therefore, he is lowered into a vat of boiling lead, consumed and now recycled into a tool for every man that thinks, both pen and rifle. I hate to plagiarize; but I have committed another meme formation of your jesus, at best he shall evolve into a phantasm long forgotten, at worst another kind of ideology. Something that Atheist and Iconoclast so worship, the destruction of a man they do not believe in, what wretched people these must be to invent their enemies such as your religious extremists and each and every last herd. What evolution we have come across, to go over the same old same old. I see god: This obese hermaphrodite figure, with crooked teeth emitting ‘round the mouth and down the chin, and ratty hair and one hundred arachnid eyes. With fingernails showing skewed remnants of little men, and a belly and breasts covered with the filth of dancing angels mocking tortured humans in cages. With a body hair like the forest and a prick miniature and syphilitic, an ugly cunt is the gateway to paradise and saint peter being a louse. Dead children fall into god’s mouth and eaten in its slack jaw like a Roman being fed grapes by his chained prostitute. I throw his whores and his meals away from him and into space; it pleads with me without emotion, like a child saying ’I’m sorry’ with a lifeless tone. It offers me immortality with no morality so long as I rejoice in putrid faith. My right fist connecting a one-inch punch to its skull, the noise of a jet breaking the sound barrier erupts while the face falls to atoms. Falling out of a throne made from human bone and crowned by fetal fossils, tearing away the crooked jaw and pulling out each of its one hundred eyes. My nails are now dirty and covered in blood and sinew. The cunt penetrated by my pen clutched in my left palm; with a pistol held by my right hand, I fire six hollow point rounds into the abdomen, legs, prick and balls. The pen blasts poison ink down a tainted uterus, an ink no different then a flesh-eating virus. The king is dead.

Finale The me whom I desire to become witnesses the best & worst of humanity: Abraxas I write of a fine escapism. One that requires all the energy needed to crush a minute insect -so easily in reach to an average man who gives birth to nonsense dreams- but there are cripples that envie such men. Hypothesis: For every action committed (referring to a Tao of Joy and Pain), a kind of energy is emitting that mirrors string theory in the joining of two opposing ideologies. It is a kind of energy to wallow in the wake of Kierkegaard’s ‘Single Individual’, in particular a ‘sea of individuals’ united in totality. Like how radioactivity emanates over time and poisons the inhabitants over an undetermined period; if such energy were genuine, it can then be inferred that both saint and Madman are the result of genetics. Such as the Holocaust influencing a half-Jewish man, with a wife indifferent to Judaism whose son then carries this kind of baggage. This also references Jung’s theories on the Family tree and Eternal Reccurence. In metaphysics: to create an individual (in the ‘enlightened’ sense) is by a continual process in thought and doing in order to overcome limitation while separating oneself from the herd. This creates the genius both tortured and divine, and men that the masses will not remember, because ‘enlightenment’ is a solipsist activity. That is voided when the genius creates something in order to connect him to his herd; often art is that attempt. In reality: one becomes individual by retaining popular ideas as created by the original genius; like manufacturing plants that create cheap imitations. One cannot become an individual in reality. From the artist, dictator, and fucker each and every last one is an imitation of another… proving right Kierkegaard and Jung. For the idea/dream: As we only know 1% of the universe, the dream is all that remains. What if such positive and negative energy gave birth to one man via the great and evil Abraxas beyond only an idea but created here and now. What would this man be? A flow Sacred: Knowing a man and his attempt at conquering limitation. Finale: He gives birth to an individual that cannot exist-abortion-. Return: Purgatory state. Man thinks he is individual and attempts to conquer nihilism. Incomplete/broken Man is born and gives one sermon promoting an artistic genocide. An author counters this, promoting the ideal of the masses being wood to the fire. The ‘Tower’ is referenced,

such an idea of a paradise that retains this idea of society. I recognize the value of society. I recognize the value of eugenics. All this leads to a new society; once this world dies and is reborn. … Multi-colored mammals lay out, stabbed, shot, executed By the millions. Bowels lacerated, mammals vomiting shit and blood. Among this New excreta, ankle deep in a newfound blood tide In waves, in rivers, amassed in a small pool of fat creatures as men stand in the muck prodding dying animals singing sweetly in unnoticed sighs. Yet another and another gashed, torn open, fountains of the divine essence, in a ritual swirling of all things, joining, becoming, all united in pain, pleasure, & pity in a visceral ink, endlessly. An ink without conscience; only hard-externalized memory. A needle and thread arrived from flesh hallows of dying slaves; little mouths violently react to a bio-mechanic deep throat by needle and twine, bridging ones and twos and threes united as one enumerable creature. The needle/thread are now the magic wand of a creator who mends a unity between things never meant to coexist; cats and walruses, mice and birds, two-headed cattle and dead men hung across the skies and replace telephone wires, bringing a new communication through a semblance of maggots where the citizenry writhe in a new and living ink. Otherwise, what is orgiastic and good without mantra are impounded by vanity and good cruelty. Scorpion tails are amputated through genetic regression; the scorpion no longer kills but prefers to die by its one time prey like Quang Duc who did not fight but preferred to die in a martyr-fashion. A sign of the times being a waste of resources. A woman volunteers to have her teeth pulled out; the teeth are removed and are then planted in the desert and give birth to untold acres of snow. Scorpion stingers are fitted as her new dentures, and we see drops of venom falling down her throat. Throngs of people in a brown valley; flowers stick out among atrocity photographs and old soda cans littering patches of tall grass. One photograph displaying dead children killed in the West Bank atrocities fills an empty Coca-Cola can. These people proceed very solemnly through a path; every twenty steps they stop to pick the flowers. After two miles of this, they rest atop a tree stump with arms filled with flowers. They proceed to rub the flowers in their eyes, soaking poison and pollen, awash in the fury of gathering bees and mating insects, thorns scratch the corneas along with inflamed eye sockets. Tears fall from now distorted faces onto a handful of undisturbed flowers clutched in the hands of a little girl pigeon-toed. The flowers bloom in deep shades of red and blue. Nests of bats are poisoned; mid-flight the drug kicks in and they are left dying in grassy fields being visited by merciless sunlight and the thirsty fly. By the way side of these

dying bats are the birth-process: gigantic mud puddles with tumourous bulges, reindeer watch over this in a protective manner as one giant reindeer oversees the operation; its horns are made from human fingers, and for this it declares itself the king of Eden. Out from the mud emerge young children born into a pantheon, animals of the forest partake in tearing off the wings from the previous dying bats and then suture these wings into the backs and temples of the children. The children sing in alien voices –relying entirely on body language, each child signals the depths of their torture- as the sun baptizes the bodies in molten gold. Two men embrace before a burial pit of hermaphrodites and fetal deformities that are speared and now preserved in oddly sexual positions, as though De Sade wrote the Karma Sutra and this fills with illustrations. The men commit to their passions; and sperm falls down the esophagus’ of corpses. One woman seated like a monk with palms folded and introvert. Her hair begins to fall, joyful faces everywhere, over a muddy floor that cradles a comatose people submitted to invisible bolts of electricity which puppeteer an aimless frenzy. These people are fed cowhide, are then placed in one pile to vomit their meal; on top of that are placed the finger and toe nails torn ‘way. As that cancerous woman like the virgin monk, watches like an idol witnessing innumerable sacrifices. Fallen teeth cover this pile then set upon a pyre. The strong man leads herds of animals into tar pits. Animals drown and are encased in tar. The man has the bodies dragged out and are set as stairs leading to the next ambition. No need to describe, which has been foretold too numerous a vision: But here is one before you, this very ink. Look and touch upon this blank, and here is your universe: Swarms of greenish twigs with insect faces, open sores sending loud vibrations, without voice and without the passions-angels before mankind-it becomes a mirror of a homeless people in bondage with closed eyes. While those eyes reveal images of Abu Graihb: Malcolm X: America’s conscience is bankrupt. She lost all conscience a long time ago. Uncle Sam has no conscience. They don’t know what morals are. They don’t try and eliminate an evil because it’s evil, or because it’s illegal, or because it’s immoral; they eliminate it only when it threatens their existence. So you’re wasting your time appealing to the moral conscience of a bankrupt man like Uncle Sam. If he had a conscience, he’d straighten this thing out with no more pressure being put upon him. So it is not necessary to change the white man’s mind. We have to change our own minds. You can’t change his mind about us. We’ve got to change our minds about each other. We have to see each other with new eyes. We have to see each other as brothers and sisters. We have to come together with warmth so we can develop unity and harmony that’s necessary to get this problem solved ourselves. Three Japanese women sit to watch a one man play performed by a hunchback; the man proceeds to play with a small dog. Two old men in overalls haul a crosscut saw over to the women in attendance. The women applause greatly, lovingly, when the two men took

that saw to their necks and behead them. The three heads drop in an orderly manner as the puppy licks the man’s face, Buddhist sutras falls from the bleeding neck stumps, and in those eyes for those last ten seconds of life are the reprieve of a million lives. Foetal bodies are hollowed out, computer parts are built into the cadavers; these computers produce modern children literature. A procession of bodies cut apart and sorted on a conveyor belt by grinning senior workers that dismember an unending multitude of bodies where the remains are fed into a furnace. I do not know if was an energy plant, a meat packing plant, or a mass crematorium. A man named Arundhati obsessed with cunnilingus; his home is enveloping and has a moist air that you could feel upon entering a fog of semen. In his brain played out a collage of every kind of cunt that could be imagined: black, white, yellow and brown, pierced and infected, hairy and prepubescent. He falls into another world Among reddish/pink walls drowning in a kind of urea/saliva, think of a man trapped in his attic with flooding water. This new universe where he is cradled like a planetary fetus, to feel every last sensation down to the molecular level… he becomes a new kind of circuitry for supreme pleasure. The pleasures sweep away every desire and want, all needs evaporate as starvation begins to set. An amusing sight to see a skeleton at orgasm; then he consumes the flesh and begins to taste humanity, absorbing a macrocosm of our narcissism and joy. The universe contracts Each tremor of fruition What is not ritual but New pain and pleasure The TAO fully realized In a man to die by his pleasure To become the next evolution From the cunt emerges this man, Arundhati, born as the Harlequin Fetus. Among a slave nation, a stillborn creature falls. The workers kick at the body, cursing it for being unable to work. The elites stab at the body with their umbrellas, cursing it as a useless thing as if it were a temple of knowledge. The beggars rape this body, infecting it with the sweet venom of pity. The animals gnaw at this body and see it no differently then water in the river. Your wise and bitter god and Nietzsche use the body as a metaphor; it is the mantle of the entirety of earth to be displayed and judged, this hammer of the gods. Blood pulling up from the desert floor; young girls are subjected to circumcision rituals, the immature clit is nailed onto their foreheads.

Among the massacres of the Indians, one soldier’s scalped brain becomes the map of new sensations: He sees a middle-aged nude woman, arms chained above her via wiring; she is a spider web of tubing, a new kind of human circuitry. Her eyelids taped to a close by electric tape; she dreams of paradise and weeps, tape began to slowly peel, tears fall with ebbing blood. … Chapter 3 How Candide escaped from the Bulgars, and what happened to him afterwards “Those who have never seen two well-trained armies drawn up for battle, can have no idea of the beauty and brilliance of the display. Bugles, fifes, oboes, drums, and salvoes of artillery produced such harmony as Hell itself could not rival. The opening barrage destroyed about six thousand men on each side. Rifle-fire which followed rid the best of worlds of about nine or ten thousand villains who infested its surface. Finally, the bayonet provided ‘sufficient reason’ for the death of several thousand more. The total casualties amounted to about thirty thousand. Candid trembled like a philosopher, and hid himself as best he could during this heroic butchery.” The young philosopher belched as he stepped upon the remnants of little brother and sister. Each thought strained to be produced from such obvious epiphanies that could be drawn out by a boy who has yet to know what is greatness and what is a reality –like it were a bullet wound ebbing with error & vice, collecting among a pool of individuals, and bleeding out to the very final drop of existence though it were mohammed personified in bacterium. That fine thought did come among the sweeping euphoria of epileptic convulsions and tremors of faint orgasms. With a fist planted at each pillar of cadavers, with a scream, and expelled in a putrid verse ‘Let there be a new mankind’ spoken by Candide in a manner both plain and obnoxious. A silver ship descends, fire bellows from its bottom, lighting ricochets off the surface and into Candide’s very eyes. Gigantic creatures with arachnid faces and bird torsos exited the craft and greet him. While survivors stood and watched when these creatures spoke ‘What you know as man is only a conduit, a statue of dead men’ and then leave, Candide proceeded to fuck child corpses; their orgasms shall be his philosophy, and the sunlight his dinner. … ‘Let there be a new mankind that does not wallow in the latrines of dead men’

One hand appears of our as-yet-to-be-born individual. It touches one plastic mask, woodcarved masks ‘round the world burn; each pore on the hand becomes an eye and a gateway, it sees what you are. On the Virginia Tech Massacre: My boy, you are one who does not know of much more agreeable targets. You see ‘immortality by immorality’, which is a flawed structure. Why don’t you partake in a more satisfying execution, such as the extinction of the creators of such insipid creatures? To murder only the insipid is a waste of energy; it is like setting out to destroy every usless insect on the planet, not only pointless but you fail to strike at the very heart of the matter. A lab mouse in its cage set in a sterile environment, in the corner is a homely woman with glasses and yellow dish gloves. The oxygen is plain and disinfected, a hospital all the better without a consumer. The woman proceeds to extract the mouse… Mouse: Please cease what you are about to do; I am not one to be sacrificed for nothing. Woman: Why not? What I’m about to do may save innumerable lives. Therein will be delivered my sainthood and your martyrdom. Wouldn’t you do the same? Mouse: Yes I would; but that would be performed on a more deserving creature. Woman: Such as? Mouse: Those inhuman deformities you knowledgeable types like to call ‘individualists’ if life itself is divine (to ignore Schopenhauer) why pluck from its womb, such cherished and meaningful creatures as I and every other? Is it not your tyrants, your impoverished, the unknown depths of deformities that should be the fuel to the fire? Woman: Eugenics: A series of unsuccessful experiments. Mouse: But doctor, what separates you from those very scientists at Auschwitz and Unit 731? You may say that you’re black and that alone separates you as far as racial duties. But that is only a matter of pigment. If pigmentation and this idea of genetic unity among fellows is your defense, I could so easily deconstruct it: Genetic unity is a lie. When parts may so easily be assembled by the most unskillful of creatures, that we are unified in such an insipid factory. Yet we are created blank; any individualist traits may be so easily explained as simple auteur theory. The whole of humanity can be broken down to mechanic a motivation: that tree that grows to become your paper that is scribbled upon by your children –domino theory and interconnectedness-, your art and culture-but elitism and the remaking of an idea-. Even what I speak is pilfered dialogue. Woman: So if life offers no real individuality, and this is due to a bio-mechanic paradigm. Then I ask again, why should I spare you?

Mouse: But you see at what I’m getting at? Why should I perish when you can use any other? What we think grants us individuality, is only fading memory. It is that which creates any kind of identity. Woman: Incorrect. What is real is real and not perception. Memory may be cheated by physical markings with violence, love, and barcodes. You in fact prolong life with metaphysics. No. It is technology, growth; the third eye rebuilt… enough of your bullshit. The mouse protests while being placed inside a small window box. The woman manipulates robotic fingers and hypodermic extensions via remote control, as a now tortured mouse mutters a sentence struggling to be profound. The stomach is slit open, the intestines criss-crossed with plastic tubing, veins plugged into black electronic boxes, a Star of David is excised from a beating heart housing the remains of lynched blacks and whites. A South Korean boy lays waste to whitey and darkie. Shooting a woman in the gullet, she vomits flowers. By a grin and muffled voice armed with distinctly feminine pistols-such weaponry is no longer phallic when misused, such as a dyke armed with a strap on- at close range, emptying entire clips into the torsos of men and women. What is individual? Not creation in itself, or the will to break away from herd mentality, the individual lies in neither extremes or profound awakening nor even Gray, but only in oblivion. Just as Kierkegaard was no more individual then a radical priest to be triumphed by Nietzsche. No more then Sade was a more talkative Vlad or Genghis Khan. There is your god and master, your new jesus per century, your car crash/crucifixion and your viral phrases. There is your individual: A stillborn fetus. Feel it, know it, it is our delusion and god. It is the cancer I neglect and my last futility and final bridge there may be. Total freedom is a lie. Without structure, this class system-paradigm- what are we then but a people without language, without escapism, without a Gray, in other words Haiti, a country with a people who have not gone much farther then creating the wheel and fire. A nothing. I recant once idealist values; I favor building for something, an attempt at anything for what we will never realize. Be it eugenics or free enterprise.

The individual is born. The Great Individual: A handsome face stabbed and re-worked, a screaming face that spits. A tongue made from human faces, winking as it clicks and smiling as it lies. Here is what I give you, our god and master, your prophet and mentor, your martyr and rapist, your saint and chameleon, this Tao of pain and creation. Here, I am a man that wreaks their brain to create something, only to see another summit to surpass. White hands with short fingernails, palms are painted with tar, every fine hair has been plucked; no imperfection shall dampen a fine cannibalistic meal this moment in time I take from you, how well you feed me with blood and brains. There I am as a man that rapes the earth; I take your little joys and little death and will transform them into far greater things, through art and crucifixion. The torso is my mirror; here the roach may survive without a head till the end of time, the well of vice and greatness. Each body hair upon you is a wire brimming with electricity, to touch me would be enlightenment and to die for a cause. But there I am as someone who struggles, one that creates everything and becomes nothing. The legs are great serpents without need for genitals; they wrap around you and caress, be enlightened and look into my tongue. The feet are defiled with shit, the perfume attracts herds of animals, and each toenail is infinite and is marked with the portraits of saints and madmen. A nasal cavity deep and violent, as ethereal as a rainforest while stealing your oxygen. And now these eyes, red and deformed about to burst then and now from the strain of knowing, knowing I and you, and it is dead. The Individual caresses an emaciated torso atop a Gray planet. Stars bloom, a smile brings on erect legs to swoon such a torso, unity in great things: an idea and a mutilated body.

A Return Would you think I hate people or am alone? I only resent mistakes; hence this thing, this book of mine. Life is my only burden and I completely empathize with Bunuel in that he only wanted to live in dreams. This book remains as a continual mirror, but how could anyone write down the entirety of himself when the ‘Will’ is given shape by ink, blood, and hardware? How could we possibly take this incredible force that is beyond perception, and illustrate it for a third party? How many great men have poured out everything they could into the arts, and in technology, and so on… endless volumes appear for each of these humans, and we still do not understand them. A bit of hair falls out, with each hair soaked with oil and a bit of scalp root giving a cocaine-like appearance, and each hair tells me a bit about myself: One would like to see an accident on the side of the road; the hair would be the catalyst for this event. It would not matter if people died or not, only that it did something in the third person and that it was felt. One day there was a pigeon by the roadside, the hair had attempted to crush it but the bird had flew away. Another would want to keep a pubescent girl as a slave, fuck her occasionally but ultimately enjoy her in all avenues. If she had no pubic hair, it would cut off the mane from a rabid dog and glue that hair upon her pubis. How lovely would it be to see a clitoris encased in fleabites. This one dreams of great blasphemies; it would spit on crucifixes, stab at mormon and muslim and buddhist with great vigor and strength -not the kind befitting an Atheist, nor the drone, not the mere shit-stirrer, and not a single man alone-. This one would be a herd formed into a single warrior. Tearing up bibles then praised and reviled. It will be the murderous hero to destroy every last superstructure, then suicide it self upon a throne of guns and old manifestos. This hair would soak it self with lighter fluid and other chemicals, and then be immolated. Yet again, this one seeks martyrdom. It would want to die on live television by suicide or assassination just as it delivers a particularly scathing remark. A twin to the others, but one of two colors, my dyed and natural hair color that wants to live and enjoy life in excess of nobility, and to be that one great man. It then tells me things I needed to know, that there is several conspirators here: One wants to ruin me then re-create me as a drone. One last would like to see me as a prostitute and nothing more. A humanistic side wants children if only to name them upon my mentors. This leader being the head of this little group tells me I should end it, I am not an author, I am not a creator, I am only a thing no different then the leaf. “Okay” I say to the hair “How do you propose I fight them?” It speaks “You must combat them.” But how then do you fight better judgment? It gives no further response. People don’t want art; they believe they may create a meaning out of fruitless endeavors.

Only art can love art. Those who love art without creating only seek it out of emulation of their desires. How must I fight them? How will I fight them? Praise? Great success, great deeds, great obscenity, great virtue, great spirit, beloved people, the herd, the mere animal, the pet, the toy, escapism, infinity, useless. I realize one thing that I have been suppressing for some time. Writing is for cavemen. Why do I, why should I only create an emulation of what I see? That is all it is when the primitive witnesses a deer disemboweled and eaten; it creates pictures, same as if we invent. The exception would be the thought process, how else do we paint what we think? Unless you only think upon simplistic matters, that kind of thinking isn’t interesting in the end, like examining a rat brain and charting banality; it’s just another type of purgatory. I see myself as the drone locked by his chain; this book becomes a letter to be smuggled out into the hands of free humans and warn other minds to awaken the slaves. It would be a total riot in the prison; great art and rage merge into a living spectacle of a man feeling suicidal revolution; not a one that he would destroy himself for, but one he knows will beget his annihilation. Atrocity. That is the accent, both conclusion and catalyst to a society that does not work. A thing made in a dystopia; in that the atrocity is the catalyst for new order and new tactics along with the deaths to the king and queen and cronies, the end of an era devoured by another. This is Social Darwinism as the worm ouroboros. If you break it down much more, you can see that the atrocity is only unfiltered communication; from within you is carved onto the body and land of another. No art may do justice to this when one is true and pure in great violence. The nature of violence is to escape from reality by unmaking it. … I see a circle; within the circle are untold numbers of people fused to religious artifacts with each overlapping the other: The circle is one universe housing innumerable planets. One planet just beyond our own houses men and women in the midst of fuckery projected before a Star of David giving way to a tide of human fluid, where we see men crucified to these stars, their falling blood is our comets, their screams our thunder, and their orgasms become our lightening. One other planet has a floor piled with amputated hands; above this pile is a weeping black man emitting red sunlight, and each tear resembles falling napalm. One looming planet where bestiality is encouraged, the emerging children from man/animal fusion look like angels with wings splitting from the back. Two tiny planets -which plays all too well in this macrocosm- within grasp of the other. One occupied by men, the other with women; in the center of the two planets there is born one looming hermaphrodite… birth of god from man, this Roman universe consumed in the orgiastic. The last planet inhibits

the ode to joy, a totality of love and hate in sweet chaos and total freedom via one mountainous tower in a city; this planet shall be spoken of much later. … A grotesque human where no sexuality may be defined that is hidden by emerging tumors and dirty flesh lay out in the heart of space. With a putrifying planet-shaped torso, laid out for eons while a long tumor hangs from his lower jaw extending from the chin past his left eye and into the scalp: he is a landscape imagined by Bosch and Joe Coleman. Nothing happens while the tumors age with a host immobile and uncaring, and relents to everything. The body is overwhelmed, slowly becoming one indescribable mass curled in a fetal position. That is your modern man who lives and dies. Out of that emerges a new parasite, one that may speak and hold a consciousness and as enormous as a mite, and just as compelling and fearsome. A parasite requiring all of the attention and spite as we would a deaf mute – this single bacterium pious to one and only fusion, a mantra so sacred to the herd-. From there stood alien creatures with a mutant origin, splintered by tribes, and no more human then fantasia spewed by wretched minds. Until one deformity spoke as pretentious as he could, and emerging with a language just as toxic as his species “Glorious is the man who stands up to die.” This was the beginning of a Roman society, one of divided classes and a divinity in madness when futility and mortality overwhelmed the senses… therein Decadence. What has emerged has been the classic structure of the elites and proletariat recited ad infinity. This once great Dionysian structure perverted by dead men and animals laid out side by side with erect pricks as the conduit for ebbing desire, with carved open bodies resembled looming organic foxholes. Children play crude clay flutes while bloodied spears encircle the lot: Mars, Venus, and the Child. A light rainfall occurs as with rejoicing, blood and water spill out of abdominal cavities. For there is created ritual, thereon philosophy and tortured humanity; no different then society as that is nothing more then ritual. From there a woman’s head is held aloft, from that meaningless thing spills new humans from putrefying eyes. Sixteen men and women (eight per eye) poured out; these children of a new world emerge with a new primitivism. There they create a new society ratified in unified incest with new elites and new leaders, the pariahs are born and there is now nihilism, and from the drone there is now positivism. Out of all of this, the planet is rebuilt with isms and a new language- this they call the paradise- the sixteen children then split, each professing a will to life. Each child creates a new group, which begets the concept of morality, good and evil, monopolies, and the nature of life. Typical divide and conquer strategy to prevent unified freedom, then came the little man personified as shepherd and herd as one. Centuries later atop one misshapen mound drawn by magnetism between pain and viscera, and this one creature pulled itself from the wreckage and stood.

The Last Individual No gender was apparent for this creature at first with a height of 6’1 with barely a face, it could not be called a hermaphrodite or an evolved man, nothing human emanated from it. A third arm protruded from its chest that reaches below its knees, with raptor-like feet rooted on the haunches, and staring out with a crude face painted with yellow fingernail clippings arranged as three circles like eyes. White feathers drooped from the scalp, a mouth decorated with rows of knives and pens matching a long and black tongue, each hand came equipped with eight fingers, the third arm equipped with two thumbs parallel to the palm but with only three fingers, with a multi-colored skin tone; the chameleon made into man. It seemed to gesture with just a flick of all three hands in an upward motion, as though it spoke ‘one last manifesto’ and it bit off its tongue with black ink pouring from the wound. This is what spilled out onto the ground: God is not the invention, no opiate may suffice; the creation of a god is like the big bang, a social ejaculation I had seen a middle aged man rape three teenage girls about the age of fourteen and Asian and this man had raped each child through every available flesh vacuum, at one point forcing one girl to shit herself endlessly while he ejaculated onto her open eyes. There I sat watching them, without any spectacular epiphany or any great deal of empathy had emerged as I watched in quiet reservation. The man finished up, the girls were laid out in a circle in a drained and broken attitude. I had unsheathed my M-1911 Pistol and conducted it at the man while telling him to kneel and be silent. At the same time, my left hand brought out three appropriate blades and letting them land before the three girls in an expectant manner. I spoke in a monotone voice to these children “Do what thou wilt” while directing my pistol at the man. Revulsion had overwhelmed me to such a hysteric disbelief once these children told me the most inhuman thing I had ever heard. Without even glancing at the blades, they had explained to me that they will love this man, how they will remake him into the ideal lover, how splendid of a man he will be, and what a great life that would become. It would be nice to quote what exactly they had spoken, but my mind was too far gone in deep thought upon hearing such atrocious spectacle; this inhuman spirit based on a god who has never been there, this platitude which defies the very will of nature and humanity sans mass stupidity… yet stupidity recognizes itself for being such. I exploded “You! You violate the words of De Sade? You ignore what makes you, every essential component of humanity is a loss; you are inhuman! Your rapist, this most insipid of pederast, he at the very least pursued simple passions. For that he may not be faulted for if only to have the desire to carry out these

passions… he invites himself to have all manner of passions be taken out onto him whether murderous or simple, the ebb and flow of life in Master and Slave principals. Yet I gave you the tools to rise up and take upon him all that you have lost and wish to carve onto another in the infinity of violence and cathartic dreams. How you reject good fortune! Putrid cunts, you believe in fusion! Where the one needs the other to gain out of the lie of pacifism and goodness. There is one and only one! We use the other to gain out of conquest and manipulation; even your idols are guilty of this! The one is virus, the one is parasite, and the one is divine; that which is all that you ignore out of that pathetic will to ingest godly escapism of the drones who do not think! One is wretch, one is depraved, one is powerful, and one is De Sade, one is Darwin, one is Nietzsche, one is Goethe, and one knows when to act! The wise man walks away but only the fool takes it on his knees! Nihilism is the tool of the greatest of individuals, therein exists the mighty Sadist. Lo, you refuse logic and seek delusion, and that is your religion.” The man attempted to flee, so I shot him from behind just below his right kneecap. The pariah has the gift of invention for being handed morality and then refusing. I drag him by the wounded leg back to the girls and before those blades. Again, logic’s defied when the girls –in knowing they could not attack me and live- chose suicide. Two had slit their wrists, and one committed Hari Kari; she looked as though she was attempting to give herself head in such a position. The man said nothing. I had shot him an additional four times in the left kneecap, both elbows, and at the base of his spine with slug rounds. He rolled around pitifully while screaming. A pariah is only a thing that builds and dies. The manifesto ended, thousands have gathered to watch as the face of the creature began to give way; the likeness of Artaud had emerged, with a tongue no longer bleeding and a body emptied of verve. A sweet odor emanated from him like a candle burning skeletal debris as he raised his right arm coerced with remaining iota of strength, and Artaud offered his body to the masses. He is quickly eaten by the people who render free dry limbs without flavor, devoured and crushed on the spot. The manifesto was all that was left, and it could never be removed. Society had become hungry; it began to need absolution while being no longer aroused by the delusion of escape. A renewed passion began, recalling Dionysus and Osiris. Several centuries later: A people still in deep thoughts ringing with the tale left by that final individual; they realized that a zenith had been reached; no resources were left, nothing more to invent, and a kind of primitivism had now awakened. The end had come;

reaching metaphors from the wilting plant to the dog with rabies whose limbs quiver and collapse into itself with a drunken stupor. Mass suicides dictated by Schopenhauer-Idealism, wide-ranging depression, giving up on everything and laying down to rot. Entire armies forfeit, leaving tools and guns by the wayside as they walk back to their homes without a uniform. Prisons collapse with inmates casually jogging back into the cities committing simple passions. Churches remain decimated without a herd; the Vatican Bank has its assets plundered by bishops with businessmen fearing a proletariat uprising of all castes that would shower themselves with international coffers and Nazi gold. The corrupters assassinate each other; no anarchist need apply as one after another murdered each other, they remain as the cannibals holding that severed head –a last vestibule of power- before their fellow in dying ritual. Starvation, murder, total madness same as we know, be it the last time. The man/planet had died long ago, with his tumor feeding off his last bit of life; finally dying from prolonged starvation. Out in the heart of space: A centipede-like creature deflowers a cunt; the hymen is torn open as with tears of blood spilling out and creating a new planet. A new beginning, a valley without mirrors that female ejaculate drips down onto = man blooms once more. A new world without the words of dead men; they are cremated upon a dead planet as befitting a philosopher’s head on a pike, as are annihilated entire ideologies and the whole of morality and good and evil. Man created as they want without hindrance and therein dies once more. … When the herd begins to splinter off into single cells in anger and despair, the right catalyst is needed to set them off. The Hutu-Tutsi Genocide springs to mind in what has come and what may be. Here you had millions of people in conflict with the other. For months the anger and frustration at Hutus grew, until a radical broadcast sounded the alarms and the people were armed and slaughtered a million Tutsis, the details of such atrocity ring of the details encapsulating De Sade. Today we have millions of illiterate, homeless, and unemployed in this country all awaiting to be led and utilized, herein exploitation of resource and man’s true capacity are merged. … I had once believed in this dogma ‘Immortality by Immorality’ which suggests that one can find eternity in atrocity. I had given everything I had, every iota of strength to this doctrine where in the end I had created nothing. Such endeavors are no more glorious then a crush video with just as much callousness to a fellow. This is a Christian dogma: that violence in itself will free mankind that commits transgressions. Each religion dictates this approach to violence that without this body there is delivered your freedom. When it is without the insipid dialogue, without religion, without restraint, without

morality, without conduit, without artifice, without the masses and without shepherds, and with pain and joy, this greatness within Gray with what we discover as humanity. When we paint, as we fuck, as we give birth, there is no resolve for a ceaseless and ongoing ouroboros that only a mechanic oblivion would suffice. … The OverMan: For every man that sought eternal freedom, at his mercy are trillions of universes that each mirrors ours. This is the reward for each man to have become individual divine. Could you imagine a world governed by Nietzsche? In Nietzsche’s paradise both Zoroaster and Jesus are complimented by the Wicker Man, this was his sabotage of society. His people became primitive OverMen governed slowly by technology. Leonardo Da Vinci creates angel wings and gives his people flight as they escape limitation, law, and paradigm. Artaud’s galaxies are composed of mutes who communicate by body language and excreta, a constant motion resembling collective bacteria incarnate as the phoenix. It goes on to Hunter S. Thompson, Bruce Lee, Schopenhauer, GG Allin, Che Guevara, etc and etc. … I give birth. In my child I witness my naiveté. I see my weakness and strength. I see the seed of a shepherd. I see a deaf-mute who will be suicided with a fine pistol. I cradle my offspring and snap its neck, letting the body float into space. Am I the man who believes they are a phoenix that will plunge and with his picture in the paper to be an inspiration to another? I give up my former joys. Here I exist as someone who should have rightly died long ago, for I had nothing to create but for repulsive mirrors. I renounce suicide. I renounce the Tao. I renounce everything I had once put faith in. When one thing is roadblocked, man may use their fists, their voice, and their inherent weaponry to continue onwards to break through that boundary in ‘The Will to Power’. Then they die so suddenly and create nothing else.

Notes: Look towards the history of humankind.

The Extermination of Humanity Under Keynesian Economics "I have become death, destroyer of worlds," Oppenheimer I see comets fall, riding them are a bacteria known as refugee. A boy writes ‘fuk ur god’ on a computer monitor; within that very text, macrocosm, entire worlds feud and die, their blood runs down the computer screen, the boy licks up this blood, and how sweet it tastes. The boy walks off, half-smiling while staring at the breasts of twelve-year-old girls. Later at home he masturbates, a little fetus covered in boils falls out; he kills it and consumes the child. “Hello boy” “Hello Danny” “Hello Son” As spoken by elites. The boy is held down on an operating table. “Please help me.” As spoken by the last man. Down an open mouth, I see the real world. There are children playing atop a glass dome, inside the dome are future weapons and new innovations. A man proceeds to dig his way to China; he breaks into the dome and falls. A bound Asian man shot in the head point blank, rows of murdered civilians, some trampled by tanks, and they got their information by then. In captivity are middle eastern men being tortured by suited whites. Sen. Wellstone is laid to rest. In Haiti, the results of a puppet who rapes children: people living in cardboard houses with flooded latrines, the UN forces leaves a message by executing a man and leaving him rotting in the streets, forgoing the usual media. The Democide of the once saintly individual, there now is your Pinochet, here overcome are the murderous Spics. There is an image of a black man crucified onto a monolith. “He’s coming out of it now; notate the foam falling out of his nose. I know we’re only to record spoken word, but I feel it necessary, this may convey a kind of poisoning” “What a trip.” “Indeed.” Air force pilot Alex Harmen awakens from his Demerol-induced trip, he has been given a code name he will not remember; he has seen such horrible things.

“How do you feel John?” “Fucked.” “That’s good you feel something, better for that then the usual depression, eh? We can set you up there John. Ermm, uh, just, waitaminute, there we go, sorry about that I forgot hit the record button. You feel fucked right? Testing. But the depression, how is the depression?” “Neutralized for lack of a better term, I feel weakened, my testicals ache, and my feet are trembling a little. It’s like feeling drunk in a way.” ‘Good.’ They never suspect, nor will they ever. Our media and Devine Tesla. We shall make these birds sing, we shall let them see what we want, o’ mighty, o’ infallible rouge, that be our religion, what a nice and pretty thing. You kind birds that part my hair; you pursue our interests, you make us strong, O insipid and great mankind! Riding alongside Gary Powers, we do not have our cyanide capsules… he refused and I forgot. The plane is shot down so suddenly by a patriot missile. I see the Tesla coil as the crucifix. There is Tesla palming balls of lightening, at that moment I realize just who is the true prophet. There exist no beautiful cherubs, but only HAARP, Tungeska is the fall of man, every last man being tracked with radio chips – a list for who’s naughty and nice – what a pity for men that will never realize Saint Peter is a computer. Summary of the MK Ultra Project: was put into action when U-2 Pilot Gary Powers refused to take his cyanide capsule when captured. To prevent the leaking of any information, his plane was shot down on return from the Soviet Union. Though it were researched well into the late 40’s/early 50’s, it was after the Powers incident that the program when into effect for all airmen. Reasoning: It costs millions of dollars to train an airmen, versus thousands of dollars to train a grunt, they would sacrifice one hundred grunts to reclaim an airman. Execution: The subject would be placed in a drug-induced coma (once done with LSD now done with Demerol) and given a trigger word, when the subject has been captured, the trigger word is given to the subject in some manner and the subject commits suicide or assassination (see Sirhan Sirhan). Dr. Keynes, god bless you. What amazing spectacle, the brain of Keynes downloaded into an android. I see over a dozen people in lab coats covered in vomit, computers reaching orgasm through a mass of new information, paint-like fluid ebbing out of hard drives… they know now and see the rebirth of their messiah. Here to witness, the fall of every little man; cementing a warped ideal of the OverMan as recited by the great Nietzsche; an ideal that perfectly validates Darwin and De Sade, Natural Selection via Master & Slave.

Dr. Keynes gives his speeches by binary code, it takes 5-10 minutes to translate each senteance uttered. “My people, how far you’ve come. To advance upon an idea to mutate this wretched, deviant species into something without future, without a god, without anything but to give to us. And you have taken it even higher then I hoped, with worthless paper, and great and holy media. How splendid it is to have only the consumer. We need a more controlled population, for that I refer to the great and beloved Rwanda. With what we have asserted, the white protector to save the poor and dying niggers, by the simplest possible manner, upon these very hands (invokes the crowd of sychophants, spooks, and idealists) are befallen diamond and crude, how justly to reep material from a people who do not think. And so our bases were made, our men deployed and (begins speaking even more pretentiously) sheltered they that were provoked, they that were our fuel to the fire, they that ranks among the greatest of parasites that which partakes in a social cannibalism.” How much longer should I see it continue? Cameras which monitor every last gesture, and every conversation recorded with a multitude of triggers. I see people re-wired and dumbed down. A sick and meaningless people (Image of the American flag, the masses, cannibalism) Arise Dr Keynes; you will be the eternal Ugolino Della Gherardesca. You will be remembered as the man who gave us the television. You have won the battle without a Stalingrad, for you are Mengela and General Shiro Ishii. You are the Wiseman who says to us ‘May you live in interesting times.’

In The City Excavated buildings, rainfall of black ash & rivers of saliva. Trees upturned with roots soaking of blood and fused knives. Held under a red and blue sky with no wandering humans, no arranged ode to pain and joy, but only a sacred misery. There’s people lynched from atop rotting buildings with protruding skewers, their agony muted by cut vocal chords & blank faces. A people united under not cruelty, but Instrumentality beyond pain or love, but the flesh married to idealism & completed with the utmost in artistry. A nursery holding mutant children; one child’s fingers are broken backwards; the fingernails grow immense & dig into his torso & now paralyzed in a sitting position with his toes plugged into electrical sockets for eternity. Untold rows of dear minority hang in the sun with amputated noses, tubing runs from each nasal cavity up into a high structure where biological weapons are dumped into, & bodies stay in constant rot & convulsion. There is a stadium rebuilt by one crucified muslim who becomes a new kind of circuitry, his limbs become extension cables to power the one thousand electric chairs for seated cowards & every last & remade fuck machine. Among his attendees, holes are cut into the tongues of one dozen women, funnel-like jowls erupting from the earth, and ants are lead down their gullet & begin to nest. When a queen emerges, she will lay her eggs down into her victims’ open mouth, under the shadow of mohammed, under the shadow of dead jesus: the begotten people who do not realize what they are, walk past such spectacles while speaking to themselves in tongues who stare with the eyes of an insectseeing but a few millimeters ahead of them in this glory of the planet now minimized-. On billboards promising newfound glory, there lay the image of one male pubescent, with each limb amputated including the minute prick, the flesh filleted ‘round the chest, re-wired to become a polygraph device to listen in on each confession by godly men who have had their ears stabbed by crucifixes, stars of david piercing the eyes, and etc. In the streets, two dozen people laid on their backs, their feet pin pricked by intermittent fires, pointing up at the sky & doused by the concurrent rain looking out into nothing, these living anchors. One lesser building is crowned by young girls held and raped by gargoyle automatons, fucked by a constant mechanic motion & emptied with sperm at every hour, and pausing just before any child could ever reach orgasm. Each child has an opened stomach by cesarean where a new child is plucked, the fetal legs ground up and fed to the mothers; the remains are left in gutters that house rare flowers, broken glass & vomit –this is the manure for a rare plant that arises with a human hand clutched in an Anarchist fist-. In the glory of the sun, there beams a gigantic mouth with a jaw like a guillotine & a tongue like a needle, people are kissed by that tongue & bitten into twos & threes, and left to writhe and live by that wretched kiss. Dogs with sewn eyelids live inside each hollowed & sustained bodies. New-Age solar panels with opposing men & women are speared upside down in a criss-cross fashion, they are let live by a series of tubing

leading from the cunt, prick, & ass to each mouth, one couple are impaled by a spike through each head in a kiss, being held together in sun light, giving vital energy to this very paradigm. In school yards I see giant men at least seven feet high, are run around with razor wire like a may poll by wounded children while the wire is wire is rooted in the palms & may easily give if any slack is applied. On the beach a man is crucified upon a dying whale, spray paint marks a cross outline, black natives appear & sing, guided by a road of dead animals opened by bullet holes, such beautiful chants from atop a mound of dirt –an island within the city- the natives kiss this man on the cheeks, the whale explodes from expanding gasses. Laughing; dying refuges lay out on hospital beds, feeding rows of tears to mosquitoes sat upon unblinking eyes; a white nurse looks after them, a white man is born from a shotgun wound (pellet round), pulling himself up & emerging now as a thing beyond little wars & little men, the white man & woman proceed to fuck. There is a thing levitating upward,

The Tower From the extremes of Hedonism, O’ mighty Libertine and significant herd In the middle of the city, one tower pulls up from it immeasurable in scope and all too palpable to the richest of men. It seems to root the city as it touches the sky, like the handle for a dradle, an anchor, a tool, a thing with life. Too difficult to place it into the limited confines of language, you can only see and know what it is from the outset, seeing something so powerful it brings enlightenment. No entry is apparent, this is not a thing made for humanity, but just a painting made manifest. Each floor follows a different variation on total freedom: Populated by nude women, and sustained entirely by diluted urea. These most exquisite of women neither anorexic nor obese, those extremes lay only to consumers. Some with a gap in the teeth, or slightly crooked, others with minor baby fat, others still with shaved cunt and a light stubble, every race is welcomed without a creed, their numbers in the tens of thousands, haven’t I said that the herds have been separated and retained? What of birth? There is no need to create a vice when one achieves totality. Another floor, a mirror of the previous, but only with men; and one other going a step farther with hermaphrodites. On one floor all three converge, it resembles the birth of the universe. A domain of creators; philosophers, scientists, inventors, etc: Many are re-incarnations of previous great men, and some request to be placed back into their original and mighty state once they acknowledge the outside world. Some do nothing and enjoy the view,

saying that everything that can be said has all ready passed, and while others questioned their meaning on a planet where an ideal has been reached and now attained. God is here, a monochrome deformity useless and preserved in a vat of ecstasy. A plaque above him reads ‘Paradise is a shifting element that must always grow and evolve, if satisfaction is ever reached thereon it mutates into purgatory. Here lies your idea of heaven.’ A school environment, nude children are encouraged to watch Madolescenza. Free love and little angst, with those vital years recycled and re-invited, pick your parents; for once you may actually choose a destiny. Dead civilians from each war, united here in a new state. Theirs to grow and nourish, strangely Masochistic in its appearance, pain is too familiar to them. There is a family portrait in bondage. Ocean of cum, nudist camp set on the beach with an orange light that would tan. People frolic and enjoy, but not at all sexual as they remain unaware and naïve of such things. Children swim in the ocean, by the side are women masturbating in a frenzy, emptying their selves to give these children water. A floor of fetishes from necrophilia to crush, with imagery too obvious to recall. The castle of the Four Libertines from De Sade’s The 120 Days of Sodom are granted the gift of modernity. Only here the children are replaced by realistic Japanese androids. The Holocaust: The camps are now bordellos; it resembles an Italian Nazi-sploitation picture where Jews, Poles, Christians, Homosexuals, and Deformities converge and writhe with soldiers. Not offensive at all once you subvert a thing sexually, no one may resist pleasure and the most abundant of escapism. An electronic floor; children are seated in a Chucky Cheese-like environment with wires run to their brains. They play the arcade games; each victory brings a flood of endorphins. The games, you might be wondering, are wired to pedophiles trapped in a hidden room. Each victory brings a prolonged electric shock with a minimal amount of endorphins injected. On the example set previously, with androids being a catharsis: There exist an infinite amount of floors dedicated to each little group and their hatred. From pigs beating to death minorities, Black Panthers executing corrupt white, muslim extremists stoning women to death and committing suicide – though they let live, a secret room houses 72 androids who remain virginal due to blood pumps and an automatically regenerating hymen-. This domain of metaphysicians granted a second set of arms, an extra finger, dual genitals, and a third eye, etc. They speak of their thoughts and given little applause, repeating how they will begin to do something in creating a new and better planet, amounting to only the usual masturbation.

Topping off into the crown this floor of deformities without language, but only a screaming cacophony, and with a wallpaper of mutilated holy figures: There stood mohammed tied to a crescent with a star anchoring the mouth, there sat jesus in an electric chair, the usual mockery as you could imagine for buddha and vishnu accompanied by a dance of these people. One inhabitant without eyes, four arms without fingers, and pointing needle-appendages up at the roof where it meets a giant hand plain and forgiving as they touch and sing. The roof opens, light beams, it looks like Bosch’s painting of insect angels flying into heaven. Populating yet another floor, one without anything, but these deformities who lay and weep, and arises a cloudy-ness of a stillborn people that anchors this planet. It stays like this for eternity.

apocalypse The Chameleon has died and the spider has escaped from its nest Travelers enter a ravaged village smelling of blood. Huts broken open, dogs torn to pieces and impaled with sticks. Screaming faces forever set on beaten bodies. Men and women crucified upright and upside down, torrents of blood falling down the hillside. People half-buried, an old man dragged across the fields by his intestinal tract; hands and feet cut off and hung from tree branches, now limbless people struggle to crawl up the hillside, away from the forest, begging, whimpering, covered in lively essence. There’s a boy crucified through his palms, castrated, and still drawing breath. A forest of hanged and gutted animals. Every woman lay destroyed, crucified upon those trees, pierced and impaled by every phallic limb. Mother s torn open a daughter s cunt impaled and stretched wide, funnel-like. And I was the ruler and the Devil: Spreading from me this biological infierno, flesh-like walls lined with entrails, demons conjoined to screaming children fused to the skull, back, and genitals with weeping faces sprout, these demons stabbing screaming people laid out on all fours with finger nail-shaped blades. People falling, screaming, laid on needle mountains, constant and everlasting screams, and a hot steam arising from a river of blood and ejaculate. I was there, eating these broken bodies . May you come to the attention of those in authority. . Seeing Human heads falling, cut off by massive swords protruding from the palms. Phallic and spear-like blades arising from arms held high above a massive human form clouded by shadow, each arm parallel to the other, and each blade toped by human heads, one head is white and the other is black, the Ying and Yang of mutual decapitation. Mountains of human heads stretching for miles upward, young lovers begin to fuck on these mountains, blood ebbing from torn hymens. It is all here within this coliseum, and there was an obese Caesar presiding over this accursed place, thumbs down. Sparks fall from the sky and there is a loud electronic hum of machinery. Black wires decorate the walls and floors; it is difficult to find your footing. People in the stadium stare down at you; Lightening bolts fall and strike me, my limbs are numb and scalp is set afire, struck again and again by lightening falling from heaven. Other people tortured with electrodes attached to genitals and nipples, and another crowd joined together by holding hands lit up like a live circuit as electricity courses through them. Man attached to flying kite and once he is struck by lightening he plummets; blood, shit, and random viscera covers the wires, a floor drowning in a small pond of blood, low-level electricity slowly killing those who drown, death by heart attacks, charred flesh, aneurisms, ruptured veins and destroyed eyes, ulcers exploding and exiting bowels. I hear a great electronic hum in tune with my heartbeat, a subtle pounding of what may be generators or the trampling of dying slaves, I hear it so often and so familiar, even when I fall asleep it continues, this electronic beat. Children take bullet hits for the Elites who watch onward in the stadium, one of which is dressed as Caesar: the king of Earth. There is an orange/reddish light which permeates throughout this place, an underground cavern, a ground of jagged stones and bits of dirt, naked human feet, a ceiling of stone spikes almost touching the ground. Man with outstretched hands walks over the thriving

bodies as if he is in a drugged trance, and with blank and lifeless eyes. A blond woman presides over this, not a queen but an heir apparent to butchery and grace. Man masturbates a woman laid out on floor; his hands are then cut off, large clumps of hair pulled out of now bloodied scalp by a clawed hand reeking of chlorine. A threesome with a brown-haired woman fucked with two pricks in her asshole, a knife forced into her mouth, with her nipples and pubic hair draped in falling cum and blood, held in the splendor of the stars. Beautiful Italian music with a woman singing elegantly plays on, labia s bitten away by plaque stained teeth, a man tied to the ground on all fours, his asshole fisted, he is decapitated, and he gives birth to a child through his opened neck. The child is the idea, the blond woman holds the child and say’s ‘oh king of god, open your gates’ and the child levitates off into the sun and perishes: Plants grow, buildings fall, no more vices to find once blighted by supreme pleasure that no one may resist, and therein the world is reborn. ... Blue The most morose of colors, there is something about it that conjures the feeling of depression, and much more simplistic, easily grasped things such as the abyss of water, memories and flight. There is hope in Blue; the world may be destroyed as would Pariahdom and there would arise and forever be of permanence Individuality. Limitation is a forgotten memory. The world is opened and we have become the new bird no longer chained. People begin to swim in the air, and they are set free. Ascension, free from paradigm, and there allows new humanity. When I die, no one will remember me. My body will nourish this planet; I will be the nourishment for all people. I will be this great and kind thing once I am gone, no more will there be this void to be filled. My escape shall be Manifest Destiny, and then to let it all go and lay in peace. I witness the limits of violence and pleasure, and I see how limited they are. There is only so much you can take away and rebuild, when you see that a corpse is just a corpse without a freedom or final descent. But a nothing. I am at peace with that.

Final sophistry of a Pseudo-Maudit: Infierno: There is an orange light interwoven with needle mountains, mud pits filled with black pikes, flames, howling, and ongoing groans of pain. On one scaffolding to my right there is an Asiatic adult male laughing while he is whipping a young girl with what looks like intestines, a violent strike to her lower stomach splits her open like a cheap piñata, I am awash with her viscera. I see a man impaled by a Catholic drill and held over a group of slithering pigs, his eyes are furious and drip ink. Large human erupts from the dirtlayered earth sprinting miles upwards with an extended right arm and a clenched right fist; the body explodes with a rain of blood and refuse. Constant sounds of fucking high on the mountains, motherly woman overjoyed by one dozen pricks, her skin melts away as a flood of sperm falls. Girl squatting and masturbating with a white horn filled with termites that eat out her womb and spill out of her body, she presses a button on the horn and it ejects itself out through her body and emerges through her back. Yellow birds fly to the crucified that hang below and pluck out their eyes. Up high between two mountains, there is a man trapped in a webbing of medical gauze, he is pinched and prodded by a scorpion created by fused humans hanging just below him, its phallic tail bores through him, a poisioned torso, with blood and venom overflowing. Ancient woman with amputated limbs laid out on her side, her stomach lined with nipples, infants suckle from her. Preserved fetuses attched to umbilical chords hang off the ground, tortured by lit candles planted below. A sow’s breasts are bitten way by infantile boys. A woman sweats, her cunt pulled open and filled with hot lead. Man is pulled inside out, still alive as ancient men eat him. Too many more that passes by and are too easily forgotten. I see the exit, appropriately a grail doorway and what I thought was the pubic hair were instead pikes which bore through a multitude of screaming people of all genders and all ages, a man crucified to the clitoris. Paradiso: It is much more tropical, jungle-like then a forest. There is a blue sky mixed with clouds and stars and even bits of most cherished night, there is a constant sunset here, a grassy floor rich with green. Every women lay entirely nude and there lies no shame nor morality, and no punishment given to a free body. Many orgies under the trees before not a one who is holier-then-though but your fellow Wretch, and foliage-covered mountains echoing screams of glory. Children even involved with this mass and consensual pleasure, involved with their equals or yet even older, not following the law of Give and Take but only Need. A mad sense of pleasure without fear of being stricken by plague or that of parasite. Elephants howl and bathe women in water from a lake of ejaculate. A baby hippopotamus steals the clothes off the backs of young virgins; they give chase to that infant animal with a great deal of joy. There exists no oppression; there is no opponent that shall rob man of their want and desire; everyone has achieved what is manifest, hence their point of existence made realized through physical interconnectedness.

PaRaDISE I love you please please I don’t want to be alone anymore Someone love me, someone need me, I need you to leave I’m all alone in the world I have died and gone to hell That were my innocent and weak self You have awoken me, I the sleeping demon I would gladly bite off these feathered wings and bend these horns I just don’t want to die alone You will be with me, for without I would gladly die then to be without a goddess I will be with you darling, you are my Lover You will be my awakening from this limited planet I will spare you agony upon agony You will not feel pain, nor birth, nor wraith For I would give to great attrition Moreso then any woman on the planet, as I have no mother My mother the queen of lies and pity All men should destroy their mothers All women should defeat their fathers For we are Apollo & Dionysus This tao of mighty things Thy will that man becomes whole again The void filled with not flesh nor ink But unity among a fellow Let us glide and dance Let there be a new ego One evolved and loving Not to die like a philosopher Not to live like the prisoner But a void filled With all manner of what begets Instrumentality For you, my Love

birth Rioting Asiatic people rampage through villages, they are driven by some religious/political right that brings back an ancient practice of their culture. As they decapitate begging men on their knees that they do not see as their fellow nor as opponent but only as a trophy, three heads placed on a roadblock and the people cheer as the camera records it. It was done mainly to gain attention for the people‘s cause or the media wouldn‘t give a damn and there would be no world coverage. There is a photo of a man in military fatigues seated by his trophy, the putrefying head of a young man. Here we have a prime example, where violence is committed not so much to gain attention for a cause, but to be noticed by a third person. Not so much as a cry for help, but a method to prove one’s identity. We may have an existence through one and the other; two humans become a mirror of the other no matter the relation of blood. By committing this act, they have drawn attention, people know of them, no longer as the powerless specter, they have an existence in the third person, their cause is no longer an esoteric spectacle for their people, it is their identity to all people on the outside; they have murdered in order to establish their existence. ... I tear away my flesh, and there I see my true self. We forget that we are alike underneath this nervous system of physics, the flesh is only a microbiotic society of interactions, and the society that houses the one is not the identity to the self, it is only a delicate ecosystem that may crush the one. Just as spirit/mentality is individual, when the flesh was born it was plugged into to this society, it is joined to a fragile thing and the cure is when that single cell is extracted from the diseased creature and it evolves to a higher being that wipes out that disease. ... To amputate your Index and Ring fingers is to be free of marriage and of making accusations. ... What are fascists but sexual cripples? ... These new creatures, adaptations of humanity One is a black thing, near shapeless with few defined features. With a mouth cavernous and wide like the spread cunt, five fingers often held together as three sharp and scissorlike fingers. The body overall is mutilated and deformed, often walking on its haunches and leaping onto the weak to eviscerate them with an intense speed. With needle-like teeth and it shall vomit napalm and without asshole or genitalia. This is the Ego, and the Ego does not shit.

It brutalizes a single man who is defiant to it, slamming his head against the wall effortlessly, cutting off the face whilst amputating struggling limbs. It culminates when this man is disemboweled at an instant and napalm falls onto the exposed entrails. The Ego feasts on that castrated organ with a subtle joy. The second creature: The ‘supposed’ Goodness, I say ‘supposed’ because a sense of good is not born from within the human, it is an implanted idea. It is a thing that is mimicked so long as it may serve the one; Goodness is only a modified clone of the Ego. A figure clothed in a deep blue gown with awaiting arms in faux-human form, as if to embrace you and bring out a goodness; a goodness that is ultimately an inhuman thing wherein a cancer grows from that tainted heart now blackened and ugly, pumping that diseased blood, topped by disintegrated marrow, and a toothless mouth. It grabs handfuls of pubic hair and shit glued together by saliva and forms wings out of these ugly things attached to its spine, masking the ugly as pure and clean. It attempts to live onward, deluding it self with visions of grandeur. ... That which separates man from lower animal: For the benefit of the insipid, cut off your thumbs. Then we would become equals.

D e p r a v i t y (Justification) D e c i m a t i o n = C r e a t i o n. This is an Anti-Christ Complex; the death of everything could only beget the creation of a new and better thing, a Fascist approach. One may draw parrallells between the Inquisition and the democide by the Khmer Rouge. E x i s t e n c e a n d t h e n a t u r e o f V i o l e n c e. Philosophy clefts at one point, that the animal exists for it self or it exists for the nourishment of the other-just as humans are social animals. That is a flawed argument, man chooses to exist as a social creature (Fusion) and that gives way to Pariah. One cannot exist for the other (society) and maintain wholly, physically and mentally, a new filter is created as an intrinsic piece dissolves to achieve life in a Society, and that being our individuality. The Pariah gives up only the albatross to Society, and grows a further enhancement, and that is to evolve. When I exist for my self, therefore my inner ecosystem implodes and takes away, nothing. Nothing collected, no genetic tree of life, nothing added and nothing gained, a human worth -0. Art and Action are the one loophole to this truth, when one engrains their existence upon another… they in fact violate the nature of the Pariah. When I exist for the other, I have become a molecular creature bound to the other. You may find metaphors in paradigm and evolution, the splendors of life that they may affirm. Both values imply Eugenics –either the one who exists for himself evolves then dies, or we are fused and evolve as the mass- and have then been executed by Democide and the Serial Killer. How often Social Darwinism clashes with Peace & Love. V i o l e n c e a s i n t r i n s i c t o E x i s t e n c e: Those within Society go towards violence to escape this universe. The Pariah retorts to violence as a counter action or overt anti-influence to create a new paradise that suits their comforts. According to Kierkegaard, the Single Individual is the one who has separated from a society of individuals (individuals as if cells that work in conjunction of one being). That is, complete separation, becoming an alien thing to that former society; like birth of a deformity. How does one separate from society? Separation from the masses is an impossibility when taken into accord the unionification of mankind… there is that scientific suggestion that we each interact with each other via mass energy, negative input creating negative output, and etc. It seems that growth is the ideal he went for, but it has been misapplied. Chaso Applied to the Masses: The Negation of state, the Negation of the politic, the Negation of the dictator and all democracies, the Negation of money, the Negation of religion, the Negation of morality. Therein is the man that seeks his fame and destiny, he is that Single Individual and OverMan with another kind of irredeemable growth so easily available to people with a horribly precise logic. Like Consumerism; the simplest possible method to fill the void.

Tao of Joy & Pain (Chaos depicted in terms of the Madman witnessing the fall of society) One, one vast land of a natural yellow-ish pallet overgrowing with unimportant minutia (grand buildings, televisions as large as oceans, scrawling text/propaganda) non-human models, in-human models, dead animals and living cannibals, brief vestiges of former slaves, new generations of fused races, and half-dead Methuselah’s connected to biological mechanized hard external memory. Birth of new man; an unending violence that is both catalyst and result, a thing which creates itself; a man who disembowels himself and gives birth to the embodiment of his ego in a child’s body draped with his innards = rebirth. Therein man invents his destiny and reaches it. Foam streams through the sewers from mouth and wetted cunt, from the armpits the people give birth to new beings no longer blank but entire ideologies created in the flesh, millions with knives, guns, and untold weaponry, and to drown in flooded latrines. No heat or wind, no weather of any kind, constant falling of cum -tears of freed humans- the sewers stuffed to the brim with bodies, and shit arises among the converging masses. Omnipresent laughter and screaming, screams of joy and pain, man in black guns down gyrating fuckers in Tiananmen Square and he begins singing Strange Fruit shooting them thrice out of a luminescent joy. Craniums broken open on concrete sidewalks, people kiss the ground housing their buried lovers, a man takes a screwdriver upon his finger nails, tearing them out one after another and feeding them to a child, and the man then writes a poem in ode to Will Inman’s The Flowers of God . Pricks grow from a man’s shoulders, rows of them as with several rows of teeth, he lacerated his tongue and cannot speak, he keeps biting his pricks, and he then amputates them with his teeth thereupon bleeding to death. Average woman clubs a man until he is in a coma; she amputates his hands and fucks his stumps, and riding those black arms endlessly. Wounded humans run onto the highways and suicide themselves while pilgrims use this collection of bodies as a massive raft to a new world. All races/generations of people fuck one and other not at the final dawn of apocalypse, not to fuck out of futility but only to live freely, all people fuck openly, splendidly, in that are expelled what makes humanity, creation in not a blank, creation of the joy of life. ….

I see the nature of Chaos. Is it a throw back to grand primitism, or an explosion of mind and body? Only bullshitters seem to know the exact answer for that. I no longer see anything in Chaos, there is no great thing to it, only a mass of imagery-our purest language- however great and divine it is, it is only built upon a simple logic, and Nietzsche said that the OverMan should not follow only logic. If Chaos can then be evauluated as an act of an Individiual, then no longer can violence be claimed by an individual if it is available to the masses. Therefore; the individidual would be a wholly unique creature that applies to no real set of standards, but a shifting set of principals that works like Evolution (an inescapable idea blighted by herd mentality and a limited manifest destiny) that suits that same man. With that, we discover that Chaos may not be violent, but only another life form like water, a thing that can become anything. May you find what you are looking for.

The Madman and his lover What I see now remain as fragments But pieces of a landscape Still morphing and being molded By what is the same old same old Even for the approaching hurricane Nothing new to find in this final image So obvious and unexplainable When you try to find your self and escape But predictable paradigm The usual ‘cause’ of all errors on this planet The experiment has failed Start over How comforting it is to a people Never once to find absolution Never to gain what is cherished and so sacred The death of God and all masters Let us become the new masters So we may chisel away the teeth Of little slaves and little men The final solution But turmoil and grace What little depth and pity For the blood of billions Like a newfound virus –cured by the bullet and furyWhat is Manifest and what is insipid Oh worldly genius and dictator Every last who will perish on this planet Now manure for fresh creatures A magnificent age The Dawn of nothing but individuals To battle time it self Without finish nor last glory What we see now Is endless possibility Infinite Divine and Cruel

[princecupcakee]

Park Bench | Reddie

Read on AO3

Rating: E

Pairing: Richie Tozier/Eddie Kaspbrak

Word Count: 2,969

Chapter: 5/8

Past Chapters: Chapter 1 (AO3), Chapter 2 (AO3), Chapter 3 (AO3), Chapter 4 (AO3)

Next Chapter: 

Summary: Recently divorced and ‘incapable of love’, Eddie Kaspbrak moves to Los Angeles for work and a small, small hope of a fresh start. Broken up and never dated again, Richie Tozier tries to get back into love with help from his love of music. Quickly meeting eyes and one concert later, they think that maybe love isn’t that bad. So they try it one more time.

Chapter 5: Richie Tozier And Eddie Kaspbrak Get A Turtle, Richie Tozier Plans A Proposal, Richie Tozier Goes Viral

Tags/Warnings: Angst / Unhappy Ending / theres only one sex scene but this is explicit anyway / Bisexual Richie Tozier / Gay Eddie Kaspbrak / Post-Divorce / Implied/Referenced Cheating / Inspired By Remembering Sunday (All Time Low) / Inspired by The Book Ninja by Ali Berg / Implied/Referenced Child Abuse / Implied/Referenced Abuse / Implied/Referenced Manipulation

Tag-list: @richietoaster​, @s-s-georgie​, @mikeuris​​, @gazebobullshit​, @that-weird-girls-blog​, @tozierking​​, @thoughtfullyyoungduck​, @s-onora​, @bellarosewrites​, @lermanslogan​, @ambitiousskychild​, @ghostnebula​, @vanillaredvelvet​, 

(Ask if you wanna be on the tag-list!!)

Chapter 5

Richie Tozier And Eddie Kaspbrak Get A Turtle

“Look, if you don’t get me the papers before the end of this week, we will lose this client… yes, I know. I have a meeting with them at the end of this week…yes, I need them tomorrow, Karen… yes. Yes, thank you.” Eddie sighed and threw his head back on the couch. His last few days have been absolutely hectic, with one of their biggest clients yet, he’s barely been able to get a break.

“Eds!” Richie called, opening the door, “I’m back! Where are you?”  He had gone out to see Walter and Maddison for a few hours while his parents were busy with his sister. He didn’t ask for more details.

“Yeah! I’m here!” Eddie tiredly calls.

Richie smiled weakened when he saw Eddie tiredly sprawled across the couch, “I got a gift for you.”

“What is it?” Eddie smiles, pulling his head back up.

Richie takes his hands away from behind his back and holds… a turtle. Richie’s eyes wide and bright, “look! I went to this restaurant across the street —don’t ask why— and found this little guy in a cage! It was ridiculous! I told them if I could have it and they just let me.”

“Why… why would you get me a turtle?” Eddie irritatedly asked.

“I thought-“

“Are you stupid? Richie, what are we supposed to do with a turtle? How are we supposed to take care of it?”

“We can go to the pet shop and-“

“Neither of us know how to take care of a turtle. Are you sure its even safe? W-we could get, like, Salmonella or something!”

“Eds.” Richie strictly said, his face showing no sign of anger, “it’ll be fun though. We can take care of it together, we can go to the pet store and get stuff- I’ll wash my hands after touching it every time.”

Eddie looked at the turtle skeptically, “fine,” he finally said. Richie’s smile came back and sat down beside Eddie who slightly moved away after. Ignoring the movement, Richie asks him, “what do we name it? We can name it, like, Pennywise.”

“What? No! That sounds horrible! That sounds like a- a fucking horror movie character or something!”

“That the name of the killer clown that you thought broke into Ben and Bev’s house and tried to kill you?” Richie snickered.

“Fuck you,” Eddie hisses with no real anger.

“Well, what names do you have?”

“Uh, I don’t know… Maturin.”

Richie gave him a look, “Okay, thats no better than mine!”

“Yes, it is!”

“No, no, no, you know what? Hold on,” Richie rambles, taking his phone from his pocket. Quickly typing something, Eddie gets a notification from his phone. Thinking its Karen (finally) giving him the papers early, he sighs and opens his phone. Karen is still definitely late with giving him the paperwork, but now Richie has created a group chat. Eddie was already fearful of what would come.

The Family - Ben Marsh, Beverly Marsh, Mike Hanlon, Bill Denbrough, Stan Uris, Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak

Stan: What the fuck is it this time, Richie.

Bev: Stan be nice

Richie: Yeah stan be nice

Richie could hear Eddie snicker beside him.

Richie: but anyway, me and Eddie are dads and we need a name for our child

Bev: how did this motherfucker get a kid

Bev: I thought it would be stan and patty first

Eddie: How did you get Mike and Bill’s numbers?

Richie: Nothing.

Stan: He’s lying, he never uses punctuation.

“Shit,” Richie murmured.

“How are you this bad at hiding things?”

Mike: He asked us what your favourite food was so he would know where to take you out on a date, Eddie.

Richie: nO

Richie waited for Eddie’s reaction, he assumed that Eddie wasn’t uncomfortable, seeing as there was a blush on his face.

Stan: Wait a minute. Mike Hanlon? Like, ‘first-ever-school-day-was-college’ Mike Hanlon?

Mike: Thats how you remember me?

“They know each other?” Richie says from beside Eddie.

“I think they were exes.”

“Really?”

“Thats what I remember” Eddie shrugged looking back down on his phone. He knew it was pretty stupid to be texting in a group chat while they sat together, but they did need that name. (Thats what Eddie tried to tell himself, if the true reason isn't obvious enough.)

Stan: Holy shit. Dude hey how’ve you been?

Mike: Pretty good actually.

Richie: GUYS WE’RE NAMING MY CHILD

Richie: HELLO!! PAY ATTENTION

Mike: I’m staying in LA for a while since they needed more people in this branch.

Mike: Thats also why Eddie and my boyfriend are here too.

Stan: Good for you, man. I’m assuming your boyfriend is Bill Denbrough because thats the only name I’m not familiar with.

Ben: You’re familiar with Eddie’s?

Richie: GUYS

Stan: Richie doesn’t know how to shut up.

Richie: DO YOU NOT CARE THAT I HAVE A CHILD NOW

“Richie, how are you still this annoying over text?”

“You love it.”

“I really don’t,” he laughs and shakes his head. He does.

Bev: Richie, if you did have a child I would know immediately.

Mike: Yeah it is :)

Richie: DAMN HETS LISTEN TO ME

Mike: not hetero

Bill: I’m not straight either

Richie: DAMN PEOPLE LISTEN TO ME

Stan: I’ve generally had enough.

Bev: Alright, Losers (not you Ben and Mike) we’re all getting lunch. Bring your ‘child’, Richie. We’ll name him there.

Richie Tozier changed the chat name to ‘The Losers’ Club’

With Bev sending the address of the restaurant “Our friends confuse me,” Eddie says shutting his phone.

~~~

“Meet my child!” Richie says loudly, earning a few looks from the others in the restaurant. He takes a seat in between Stan and Eddie grinning widely and presenting the currently unnamed turtle.

“Its-its a fucking turtle,” Stan says critically.

“His name is Penny-“

“No its not,” Eddie smiles as he cuts him off.

“What names do you guys have?” Ben asks politely, trying to bring back the lightness of the table before the two had walked in.

“Pennywise.”

“Maturin.”

The table spun with an agreement to Eddie’s name over Richie’s choice as Richie pouts in his seat. A waitress came to check for their orders, a confused look on her face once seeing the turtle perfectly still in Richie’s hands.

“Richie that name sounds like a child’s nightmare,” Bev jokes once the waitress has gone. Richie sticks his tongue out to her childishly.

“Maturin it is then?” Eddie laughs triumphantly.

“Where did you even get that name?” Richie asks bitterly. The rest of the group just laughs.

Eddie loved this. He really did. Everyone talking and enjoying and Eddie finally feeling like he hasn’t done anything wrong. They felt like family. The few people who he could talk to without causing any pain or problem. The few people who would let him be himself without having to feel like he was in a cage. He didn’t want to lose any of this. And from the smile on Richie’s face, he doesn’t think he will.

Richie Tozier Plans A Proposal

Some people would think he was crazy. He thought he was crazy.  They were dating for just slightly more than three months and he was already planning, the date, the time, the place of when he would ask Eddie to marry him. ‘Old habits die hard’ Richie guesses as he sits alone in his bed, writing down the perfect ideas for asking Eddie.

Yeah, he rushed it with Connor, but even he knew that it wouldn’t last. That doesn’t really add up to his actions after the break up. But this was Eddie. Eddie loves him, right? He’s said so; that alone shows he isn’t anything like Connor. He couldn’t be wrong anymore, he didn’t want to have to latch on to Stan as he did before. He was nuisance while living at the Uris’, he admits that he knows he doesn’t have all the reason for it. He basically asked for it when he said, after what was supposed to be a one-night-stand, that he was dating Connor. That was on him.

But Eddie walked out of a concert with him, a stranger at the time, and let him walk him home after remembering that Connor left him at the same concert ground with the same band playing to have another one night stand with a girl. He went to one of his shows after knowing close to nothing about him other than his name when he was late to the first date he would’ve had since his horrible break up.  He went to have breakfast with him at 5 in the morning when he cried about never being loved again the night before. He sat with him in the pouring rain after realising that he was in love. That he was in love, not that he was in love again.

He turns from his back to his stomach, reaching out for his phone. He debates on whether or not to call Bev or Stan, ‘both those bitches are married,’ he thinks. And calls both of them.

“What the fuck do you want I’m trying to make dinner,” Stan says tiredly, his voice sounding distant and the sound of crackling filling the empty parts on his end.

“Whats up, Rich?” Bev says nicely, shuffling.

“I, uh,” he didn’t think it would be that hard to say.

“Spit it out, Tozier, I might fuck up my pesto.”

“Oh shit, you got pesto? Uris Pesto is the best! Can I come over?” Richie says enthusiastically.

“No. Talk, Richie,” Stan says quickly. Beverly laughs in the background.

“I wanna ask Eddie to marry me,” Richie says softly, after a beat of silence.

“Thats it? You interrupted my cooking for this shit?”

“Its serious, man!”

Beverly sighs, “Richie, Eddie loves you. This is all on you though. If you think both of you are ready, then go for it. If you’re just… scared, then, I don’t think you should.”

“I-I’m not scared,” he says to himself more than them.

“You just love him?”

“Yeah.”

“He really isn’t like anyone else, huh?” Bev laughs.

“He really isn’t,” Richie smiles to himself.

“Then do it,” Stan says simply, “if you love him enough to marry him, to ask him to marry you, then that must be something, right?”

“Thanks,” Richie says, fondly, “help me buy the ring soon?"

“Of course, Richie. Now, when, where, and how?” Beverly giggles.

~~~

His notebook opens on the coffee table, leftovers, and a cup of coffee, he attempted to plan. A restaurant didn’t seem interesting to him, a casual proposal in their house wasn’t really fun, their house maybe? The bench. He grinned and jotted down the plan.

Richie Tozier Goes Viral

“Eds, where’s my charger?” Richie asked walking out their room.

“We’ve been dating for, what, four months? How do you still not know where I put our chargers?”

“You clean things too often, I specifically remember leaving it on the floor of  my side of the bed.”

“Your blind ass would’ve stepped on it when you woke up. Your charger is in the drawer,” Eddie said and continued to eat his cereal. Richie kissed his hair and walked back to their room.

Eddie sighed. He loves Richie, he really does, but- “Eds, look at this,” Richie said excitedly almost tripping on his legs as he walked over to Eddie. Richie instinctively wrapped his arm around Eddie and showed his phone screen.

It took Eddie a moment to register what Richie was showing him, but when his thoughts hit him again he grinned, “holy shit, Rich! This is amazing!” Richie’s screen presented a video, Richie’s latest stand-up, posted online; millions of views.

“I know! And that’s not all of it,” Richie said taking his phone back to him and began to tap around, “Look!” Eddie carefully read the text on the screen, asking him to do a professional show, his grin somehow widening.

“Richie!”

“I know! And so many people are asking to be my agent and shit, and- oh fuck, baby, you gotta help me out with all this shit,” he rambles excitedly, hand gestures to try to emphasise whatever point he was trying to get across.

“Of course!” Eddie laughed to slightly lessen his energy as he stood up and kissed Richie. Richie gladly kissed back, lifting Eddie off the ground for a few seconds.

“I love you,” Richie said, forehead against Eddie’s. Richie’s phone rang loudly from his hand and they both looked at the screen and saw ‘Mrs. Molly Ringwald’

“Really?” Eddie asks sarcastically as he pulls the phone from Richie’s hands. He kisses him on the cheek and answers the call on speaker. “Hey, Bev.”

“Oh my god, did you hear about Richie! Is he asleep? I swear the little shit will be late to your own wedding-“

“I’m right here, Bev!” Richie says loudly into the phone.

“Oh. Sorry. But anyway, you heard the news! I’m so proud of you, Rich!”

“Thank you!”

“We heard the news from Bill! He has all these Hollywood connections from his books —honestly don’t know why he won’t just do that instead, no offence Eddie— and he said that you might be getting a… professional show, is it?”

“Yeah! Bill’s a writer?”

“He has some books and actually gets some good money out of it," Eddie muttered the next part,” he might get more if he wrote better endings.”

“Okay anyway, so proud of you, Rich!” Beverly congratulates again after laughing.

~~~

So as they sit in Richie’s small apartment sofa, with his hands on Eddie’s waist and Eddie’s fingers curled around in Richie’s tangled hair, he lets himself enjoy it. Richie’s arms roam under Eddie’s shirt; one hand pressed on his back and the other rubbing circles around his nipple. Eddie lets out little moans, that surge of energy through him that he didn’t even think was possible.  “Are you okay?” Richie asks.

Eddie was confused at first, still needing Richie to touch him. He noticed the pounding in his chest after a few seconds mumbling a breathy ‘I’m fine,’ and goes back to kissing Richie. Of course, a few seconds later he realises why. ‘Push them away, Kaspbrak.’

Richie lightly tugs at the bottom of Eddie shirt, Eddie quickly getting the message and raising his arms up. Richie instantly pushes Eddie’s back onto the sofa after taking his shirt off; his hands tracing every part of Eddie’s bare chest.

Eddie remembers the feeling, of being touched like this, not with Myra. Being touched in a house that wasn’t his and a bed that he wasn’t supposed to be on. But Eddie loved every second of it. Sure there was the guilt, the guilt of having a wife back home thinking he’s out late for work or out with a friend, but the feeling of it was just so good. Eddie thinks he should stop using the word ‘good’ so much but it seemed to be the only way he could describe this odd sensation in words.

Richie was pulling off his pants little by little, struggling to get them off and still keep his mouth around Eddie’s chest. The moment Richie got them off he instantly moved down to Eddie’s legs. Spreading and licking and biting at the inner side of Eddie’s thighs until they left deep marks on Eddie’s skin while his dick would twitch. “Richie take your clothes off,” he mumbled pulling at Richie’s hair in between moans.

“I’m not as pretty as you, baby, but okay,” he laughed, pulling his shirt off and kissing Eddie roughly. Eddie wanted tot protest about Richie’s statement but Eddie pulled Richie by his hair instead. Richie wanted to make a joke about it but was quickly distracted by Eddie grinding against his leg that was in between Eddie’s thighs. Richie bit down on Eddie’s neck, “don’t move, I got it,” he whispered in his ear.

Richie licked at the front of Eddie’s underwear; Eddie bucking his hips up. “I told you, don’t move,” Richie said again, pulling down Eddie’s underwear. Eddie felt cold, but Richie spreading his legs further, and his tongue teased at Eddie’s hole as he whines. Richie giggles slightly pushing his tongue in and gripping at Eddie’s thighs. His thumbs softly rub at the inner side of his thighs, feeling little bumps on the places he had sunk his teeth into only minutes earlier, he pushed his tongue in and out of Eddie’s hole. Richie pushed one finger in first, slowly adding more digits as his tongue kept moving. His tongue and fingers alternated like that for a while, at the same time he was getting hard from the noises Eddie makes.

“Richie!” Eddie shouted. Smirking, Richie aimed for his prostate over and over as Eddie’s moans grew louder and louder. Eddie’s hands had moved down to his dick, moving has a hand at a quick pace. One last strong push from Richie’s tongue or fingers (Eddie was too busy to tell) Eddie shrieked and let out more than he has in a while. Most of it had gotten on Richie’s hair some trailing down his face. “Fuck,” Eddie throws his head back against the sofa as Richie moves up to his chest again. Head resting on Eddie’s chest and kissing his nipple, his hands quickly move down to his own dick and moved. Eddie smiled, holding Richie’s face in his hands and kissing his lips. Richie pulled away and moaned as he came.  “Holy shit,” Richie mumbled forehead resting against Eddie’s as he laughed, “Wow. Been a long fucking time.”

“I know,” Eddie agreed. Despite the anxious feeling bubbling up inside him. Richie didn’t ask.

[nightmaremoons]

Revitalizing my dash

haven't done a follow spree in years!!

Reblog if you post these things, and I'll check out your blog and maybe give you a follow:

-Strictly apolitical. I am just as politically active as I should be, but for me, tumblr is not the place for it. I don't even want news on my dash half the time.

-Jojo's Bizarre Adventure

-Hetalia

-Disney, especially snow white uwu

-classic films (esp. 1930s-1950s)

-Art throughout history

-history!

-MLP

-Studio Ghibli

-Kill la kill

-Castlevania

-Pride and Prejudice

-Dracula (book)

-The Count of Monte Cristo

[2coasts1girl]

But I just rented Hocus Pocus..

Monday, October 14, 11:02PM: “What are you doing? Get dressed. We are going to *disclosed rapper’s name* party.” My response “but I just rented Hocus Pocus” clearly did not work well as I writing this at 9AM running on zero sleep and my third cup of coffee.

Now let me explain. Only in New York do you get a text inviting you to one of the most famous rapper’s, if not the most, party on a casual October Monday night. As my mom says, “you need to say yes to more things” so in this case, I got ready in 0.0004 seconds and headed to meet the group downtown. I most certainly do not have the clout to be on the 50 person guest list to this party however, I have learned to keep most relationships I make in the city, strictly friendly and professional which is why I am guessing I was one of the only girls at the party without a cover over their phones’ cameras. If you only learn one thing from reading this, stay for one drink or one hour, never ask for things because most of the time they will ask for something in return, you respect celebrities’ and athletes’ space and remember it is okay to say no to situations you do not want to be in or feel uncomfortable. Trust me, this will take you far in life and relationships because you will be extremely respected.

So back to the night. I was unsure what the plan was and definitely was not prepared for how it ended up unfolding but I went in with an open mind and a few shots deep. As I got out of the suburban in front of the lounge, paparazzi swarmed the car as if someone who had a blue check next to their name was getting out. Sorry to let you down but I’m positive that when you search my name to log the photo on Getty Images, nothing is going to show up so your picture is worthless. Four staircases underground later, we walk into a very small, dim lit room where Instagram models and athletes were considered C list celebrities in. I headed straight to my comfort zone, the bar, where I ordered 4 shots of 42 for my friends and I. He will never read this but if suddenly this blog blows up, thanks for the open bar even though I am feeling very fragile as I am typing this. My friends know several guys in this specific individuals crew so our place at the party ended up being where the “crew” was posted up at, which did not suck. I have met and worked with this rapper several times for work and each time he has been extremely respectful and humble so when his surprising embrace when he saw me did not entirely shock me but I think I might have peed just a little. He smelled like Le Labo’s Noir and I did not want to let go but I did because 99.9% of the females in attendance were trying to be the subject of his next album. My parents would kill me if I was part of that percentage so I had to deal with the 0.01%, which ended up working in my favor. The rapper’s “friend” or I have now come to find out, best friend, and I had been making eye contact for a while before he approached me with a cringeworthy pickup line; so bad that the rapper overheard and had to intervene to help his boy out. By no means am I attracted to this individual so I probably came off as uninterested which is why I am now looking at my text messages with the first message being “come on ____’s plane to LA tomorrow morning, there’s no WiFi so we gonna bond.” Going back to my one life lesson about one drink or one hour, I definitely had more than one drink and stayed much longer than one hour, both of which I am paying for now. In my 4:45AM Uber home I received a text telling me to turn the car around and to meet said rapper and the best friend at a diner downtown. I don’t know what is more of a red flag, that I have no idea how this human got my phone number or that this man is inviting me to get breakfast with them at 5AM on a Tuesday morning. Normal people don’t do this, normal people are in bed at 11PM on a work night, but you are sure as hell I updated the app to that hole-in-the-wall diner. And that basically brings you up to full speed. I now have a stomach full of eggs and pancakes and got a ride to work this morning. And no that does not mean the friend came upstairs; breakfast lasted so long that the only option was to be driven home so I could grab my bag and a change of clothes in 15 minutes to make it to work on time.

As you can imagine, I am still at a loss of words at my night but at the same time, I am humbled because I am now sitting at my desk at work, writing this, significantly hungover, smiling my face off. I have to give credit to my mom because when I was growing up and on the mornings when I did not want to go to school after work trips or events that she brought me to, she would say “you got to party like a rockstar this weekend but in order to do these things we have to get up and work hard.” So thanks mom, you are saving my very limited PTO. Even though I wish that I slept, my night was just a little better than watching Hocus Pocus.

Tuesday, October 15, 4:20PM: As I am reviewing this entry to post, I get a text from the best friend inviting me out once again but this time to the Post Malone concert and another party following. And you know what the fuck I did, say thank you for the invite but no thanks and took my ass to sleep at 7PM. It is okay to say no to someone, fomo will not kill you, even if its with wheel chair Jimmy.

[ofrosesandash]

100+!

Holy crap, I've broken a hundred followers. And this reboot of Margaery has been kind of fantastic for me, so thank you to everyone following me, and everyone who has talked to or written with me. In honor of this milestone, I am giving a nod and a shout out to some great blogs and their writers. Due to my ass being terrible with noticing these details, I'm using the pronouns "They" because I'm not positive who is a she or a he or in between.

To begin with, my first shout-out to those I feel are constantly under appreciated: MultiMuse Blogs. I mean, there can be rare and wonderful Muses in their rosters. Running one of these Bad Boys is a HUGE commitment to multiple characters you believe you'll use frequently. These peeps are the lifeblood of RP Communities.

@astormofagirl​

Cori is amazing and we go way back to when I first started writing Margaery, I wanna say in 2015. We've both bounced between in different URLs and Blogs. While I've only written with their Sansa at this time, they have a lovely selection of ladies they write quite well!

@openxstrings​

They've got a selection of top notice rare muses, and at least one nifty OC. It's been a bit since I checked out the roster. The ones I've written with are Edward Covenant from "The Order", Herc Hansen from "Pacific Rim", their Pacific Rim original, and Riddick-aka the badass Scifi Anti-Hero portrayed by Vin Diesal. Not only are all of these characters available, they write them damn well. Talking with them has been a true delight; and though there is a time zone difference, it's worth waiting for them to respond. Not to mention, they're honestly just great to talk to about antics planned or occurred.

@fallesto​

This lovely person reblogs a roster of their active muses. They've got some of the tougher ones in the fandom-Cleganes, Joffrey, Qyburn, Selmy, and others. The roster also currently includes all of Margaery's husband. You should, honestly, already be following them.

@asoiafundone​

A multi Muse by Lady Grey. A fantastic Mun and a dynamite writer. We haven't written quite as much as I'd like yet-but we have spoken a bit. Lovely person, brilliant writer.

@orionknytechildofzeus​‌

Don't let the URL fool you, they’ve got more then one muse. They've got a cool selection of OC's and Canon characters, and they're a lot of fun to write with!

@sarcasmasadefense​

I haven't written with them yet (my bad), but they seem very nice, and on their roster includes the lost Tyrell brothers, Willas and Garlan!

@mcssagcinabottlc​

A lovely person I spoke to and wrote with a little; their roster contains Margaery's sister in law, Leonette Fossoway.

The Squad

These are two who've had the most OOC and partial crack interactions which. These discussions have been pretty much perfect, so, I identify them as Margaery's squad.

@bastardslayer​

I mean, look at that URL. There are many talented Sansa's on this site, but that URL definitely stands out to me. We've been plotting and talking out of character almost fairly regularly, and they've got a great grasp of their muse.

@chevalier-de-la-fleurs​

Similarly there are a number of great Loras's out there. That said, this particular Loras writer has always been the easiest for me to talk to. I don't know them well, but they're friendly, and a great writer, and I've really enjoyed writing with them.

Precious Ones

These are people I love writing with. Maybe they aren't in Margaery's squad (at least yet), but she definitely enjoys her time with them, and is prepared to fight for them.

@outlawerofbeets​

NORA IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SUNSHINE SPOT IN THE FANDOM. We mostly scream head canons about Margaery and her smol King Husband back and forth at each other, but we have threaded. It's always a treat, and it usually tugs at my heart strings. For instance, once upon a time, Margaery found herself romantic with a Tywin. And she started to apologize to Tommen and explain she didn't think it was wise if they married, because she'd fallen in love with another. When she revealed who, Nora's Tommen's response was the most precious, purest things ever. "But he's old!" Also they've got an older Tommen/Arya ship that's to die for.

@agirlofwinterfell​

This is the first time Margaery has really connected to an Arya. And, like most of the older people Arya meets, she would kill for this murder inclined child. We've already got one AU for my Olen verse, where both Arya and Margaery are at the wall pretending to be boys.

@a-maimed-man-and-bitter​

So far we've got one thread; but ya know, it's been great watching Margaery and Jaime interact. This is furthered by the fact that their grasp of Jaime hurts my heart.

@mombeavty​

Margaery is so happy to finally connect to her twice sister by law. And honestly, I've never quite grokked full book or show canon, as I personally favor blended-so I really like what the mun has done with their muse.

The Greatest Ladies GRRM Inspired

I have a mad love for original characters. While writing a pre-established character takes talent, original characters express one's love and passion for a fandom. That fandom has inspired a whole character. Side note, I honestly love original character relations to canon characters. (If you couldn't tell). I don't see role play as needing to follow canon, as long as everyone acts in character. So, the more the merrier.

@thelittlestrcse​

Margaery didn't know how much she wanted a real sister until Trysta appeared. I'm a bit slow to respond to my threads with them, but this isn't commentary on my appreciation for mun or muse.

@lilliyxn​

A newer lovely muse, one can never have enough Blackwaters. Where GRRM stopped with Bronn, they decided he needed a sister.

@meryllfrey​

Honestly this is an original character that's managed to stick around, and that's saying something. Writing an OC can be extremely discouraging, with minimal interaction, almost no chance at shipping. But Lady Grey's Meryll Frey is a testament of creativity and determination.

Shout Outs

These are people I've talked to but for whatever reason haven't written with yet. For some of them, this is strictly on the standard of Margaery wouldn't interact with them, or I haven't cooked up anything yet.

@truetargaryen​

This is a super sweet muse running a book based Danaerys Targaryean. While I favor blended canon myself, book canon is nuanced, so pulling it off is an impressive ability. And pull it off, they do.

@exilekniight​

I first ran into them on one of my OC blogs, and honestly, I love them. Other then a previous absence of Jorah Mormonts in the fandom, well, let me quote them "Jorah Mormont FUCKS". This highlights their delightful attitude.

@longmayshereignxcersei

For obvious reasons, Margaery and Cersei will never be best buddies. That said, this is still my personal favorite Cersei-and not just because they put up with my originals. They're lovely as a person, and a very talented writer with some brilliant insight about their muse.

@foreignaccent​

This is another monument of the fandom. I've been dabbling between different muses since Season 3, and I can usually find that URL around. A fandom treasure, and a nice person

@potterstillstinks​

In talks with them, I fleshed out Margaery's wizarding world verse. They also put up with me because we were in the middle of discussion when I found myself in the ER due to a negative medication reaction. Even checked in. So, if you've got an HP verse, I strongly suggest following this Draco Malfoy.

Shameless Self Promo For Other Blogs of Mine You Should Check Out:

Did you know the Hightower's - Margaery's Mother's Family - are actually really interesting? They have a Valyrian blade called Vigilance. Their house is one of the oldest, they man a Lighthouse, and their words are "We Light the Way". OH and more notably, they're rumored to dabble in alchemy, necromancy, and other magic. So Margaery has two side Blogs: One for her mother, and one for one of her Aunts.

@vigilantalerie

Alerie Hightower is probably the mother of your favorite Tyrell. Olenna was born a Redwyne, she doesn't count. That's right-this is Mace Tyrell's wife, mother of Willas, Garlan, Loras, Margaery-and Trysta too!

@madmaidmalora

First of all, consider that that's not just a clever url. That's literally what she's called-the Mad Maid, rumored to dabble in spells, last seen locked away with her father looking for a method to stop the Greyjoy Incursion.

Next up I have a pair of OC Families. The Wildcrows, completely Original Content, and House Ferren-mostly original content.

@thewildcrows

Technically Alyssa and Baelor Wildcrow had different names when I first conceptualized them. But those original concepts were AU's for characters whose face claims already existed in Game of Thrones-and characters I'm actually plugging in original works. As I result, I created these two. Lys and Bael Wildcrow are Sellswords born of a Night's watch Deserter and a Wildling. Their father may have been a Blackfyre, but they have no idea what that means-nor would either of them care. If I'm not bothering with giving them a claim, why bother making them Blackfyres? One: I wanted to give them purple eyes. Two: Fire invulnerability neither of them realizes they have, as they grew up isolated. I find this could make for excellent hijinks.

@ladyferren

See, I love ferrets. Probably my favorite animal. So when a canon house was revealed called Ferren with two silver ferrets on its banner, I was desperate to know more. Except there wasn't much. They existed. Banner House of House Lannister. So I got a little carried away creating a history of a House and occupants to inhabit it. While the primary character is Seiran-the sudden Lady of her house after her father's sudden death-I also have the whole damn house hold available for interactions.

Finally, just a pair of fandomless girls I think you might just like:

@trixboomblast

Beatrix is a favorite creation of mine. She's a fandomless original character with explosive tendencies, behaviors, and habits.

@wikipediawoman

This is a side blog of Beatrix. Deia was inspired by Deadpool-what with the ability to poke the Fourth Wall and know way more then she should about pre-established character. I'm winging her as well somewhere between a Time Agent from Doctor Who and a member of the Temps Commision from Netflix's Umbrella Academy Adapttion.

[emthesinger]

An Unlikely Lover

Chapter 6

I wake up, with Luka next to me. But I’m still a little tired. He’s already awake, and he starts kissing my neck.

“Good morning.” I mumble, still with my eyes closed. Then I realize that he’s kissing my neck and décolletage, so I open my eyes all the way.

Oh my god. Luka is a freak. What else did he do when I was sleeping?

“Morning.” He says, running his fingers through his hair.

He then gets on top of me, and gives me kisses everywhere. All I can do is laugh like a little girl.

“Stop, that tickles.” I managed to say in between laughs.

But I flip over, so I’m on top of him.

“Even when you just wake up, you still look divine.” He tells me.

“Aww.”

His lips meet mine, a short but passionate kiss. I feel like if we kept going, we’d end up having sex again.

I pull away, and he whines.

“No, keep kissing me.”

His fingers rub my temples, and I close my eyes and sigh.

“But I have to go back to my room. I brought my best friend.”

“She can wait. I want you.”

“Luka, I have to go. I’m sorry babe.”

I get off of him and off the bed.

Even from last night’s shower, after the sex, my hair is still a little damp. So it doesn’t look too good.

I’m putting on my t-shirt and jeans from last night.

He’s in his boxers, standing behind me, holding me tight so I can’t walk away.

This man is too cute.

“Stay! Please!”

“I have a meeting with my best friend and your team’s organization.”

I attempt to take a couple steps forward, but he’s really strong. This isn’t bothering me, it’s just that I didn’t want to be late. I turn around to face Luka, and kiss the top of his nose. He smiles shyly and I run out of the room.

“Hey!” I hear him say.

My phone has a ton of calls and messages from Rachel.

Shit.

As quickly as I could, I get my shared room with her in the level above. I open the door and walk in.

“Where the hell were you last night and this morning?” She asks.

“I was just taking care of something.”

I don’t think she believes me.

“Yeah. Sure. Tell me the actual truth.”

“Fine! I was with Luka.” I say, with a small smile. When I think about last night, all I can do is blush like crazy.

“Doing what?! You left me alone.”

“I’m sorry. I kinda slept over in his suite.”

“Oh.” A smirk is on her lips.

“What?” I ask.

“YOU GUYS FUCKED?!” She yells and I cover her mouth with my hand.

“Shh, I didn’t say that.” I reply.

“Yes you did. Oh my gosh, you totally did!”

I roll my eyes and look into my suitcase for some clothes.

To change the subject, I ask her about my outfit.

“What should I wear?”

“I don’t know, something cute for Luka. Duh!” She teases.

“And what’s that?”

“This!”

She hands me a yellow plaid tight fitting dress with spaghetti straps.

“No. I’m too fat.”

She walks up to me and touches my stomach.

“Nope, I just feel abs. Stop whining and change.”

“Fine!” I say and walk into the bathroom.

When I walk out, Rachel is wearing a black tight dress, showing some of her cleavage.

“What do you think?” She asks, posing around.

“Perfect. Can we go now?”

The two of us are wearing our black converse for shoes, so we’re comfortable. We don’t know how long this meeting will go for.

Rachel looks super pretty, way prettier than me. She has light brown hair, green eyes and a stunning physique. I’m just your average mixed girl. The long black hair, black eyes, sharp jawline, the “thick” body and weird accent.

“I’m tired.” I complain in the elevator.

“Well no one said you had to go fuck Luka a couple times last night.”

“Oh my god, Rachel, what the actual fuck! What’s wrong with you?”

“You know I’m right.” She winks at me.

~

We’re stuck in the meeting, which isn’t taking very long. They’re explaining many rules and things we’re supposed to do as apart of the Croatian National football team association. Many people from FIFA are there as well. They give us many guidelines, and tell us exactly what we’re supposed to do.

My job is to write articles about the games, players, and everything that has to do with their team. I can interview them as well. Rachel is the photographer. She has to take pictures at practices, friendly games, the fans, the team, and the actual matches.

We have to do this for a month and a half in Russia. Of course, we have little breaks and things like that, but they are being pretty serious about this. They give us VIP passes to get first row seats to all the games. Think of it like a backstage pass as well.

“Do your best. Have fun, and represent Croatia with your talent in journalism and photography; Ms. León and Ms. Urdenta.”

Rachel and I nod in unison. They give us warm smiles and tell us that it’s ok for us to leave now.

“Oh my god, I felt like I was in the principal’s office.” Rachel comments, when we walk out of the huge board room.

I can’t help but laugh.

“You’re too crazy, Rae.” I say.

“What? I didn’t know.”

As we walk out of the building, we encounter the players. The team has practice today.

“The guys have practice.” 

“Oh my god, where is Ivan Rakitić?” Rachel whispers frantically. 

“Next to Ivan Perisić, do you not see?”

“He’s even cuter in real life.” She replies.

“Wait, I think we’re supposed to go to their practice.” I tell Rachel. 

“Okay, then, what are we waiting for?”

~

We’re in the stadium, where the team is practicing. Rachel is taking pictures, but mostly of Ivan R. I’m typing on my laptop, updating my website. My blog is obviously about the team. And my website is where I practice my journalism. Rachel went to college in England for photography, while I went to the US for my classes in journalism. I’m doing my best to avoid Luka, as much as I like him and have feelings for him. The organization strictly states that we cannot have anything other than a professional working relationship with the players. One of the reasons being: they want the players to focus on the World Cup. The other reason is that if Rachel or me are in relationships with any of the players, our articles and opinions on the team would look biased. If they find out anything involving being more than friends with the players, they’ll send us back home and basically fire us. And this is really important to me as a journalist. So I  have to let him go. Sadly, that’s just the way it is.

“Why are you not drooling over Luka?” Rae asks me, before taking a picture of the team doing pushups. 

“Did you not hear what they told us at the meeting?” I said, and continued typing.

“They don’t need to know that you two are a thing. It could be a secret.” 

“I can’t take that risk. The two of us are getting paid to do what we love.”

“You’re right, but he is definitely worth dating.”

I sighed, and kept updating my blog. Just thinking about being away from Luka, makes me upset. And obviously, I am still upset about my stepfather’s death,  my dad never coming back and so much more. I am just a mad person I guess.

Out of the cut, a soccer ball lands and hits me in the shoulder. My first instinct is to curse in Spanish.

“Alagranputa! Vete a la verga!” I yelled. (What the fuck, die motherfucking bitch)

The second I say that, I mentally slap myself. Maybe a little too vulgar?

I grab the ball and throw it. It hits Mario in the back. Dejan was next to him and he turns around and raises his hands. 

Shit. Someone kill me already.

And as you all know, Mario is literally Super Mario.

“You’re gonna die. He will strangle you, and probably Dejan too.” Rae tells me, frightened. I reply with a nod, in fear for my life. 

Luka turns around from doing jumping jacks and looks at me. He understood what I said, because he knows Spanish. 

“Jebote.” Mario says to me. (Fuck you)

“Jebem ti mater u pičku!” Dejan yells. (I fuck your mother in the cunt)

Out of pure anger, and annoyance of literally everything in life, I reply, in English since they understand that.

“Why don’t you curse at me in English?” I yell back, and shut my laptop. 

Šime looks shocked as to what is happening. Dejan and Mario cursing to me in Croatian, and me replying ten times meaner. Good thing the coach wasn't there to see this. 

“Okay, then, what is your damn problem?” Dejan asks me.

“I don’t have one.” 

Luka then gets involved in this stupid argument. 

“Guys, stop this.” He says. 

I roll my eyes and leave to go to the bathroom. Rachel follows me. 

“Hey, are you okay? What’s wrong? You can tell anything.”

“I miss him okay. I miss my stepdad. If I had a bad day or wasn’t feeling well, he was the first to call. Other than you. Now he’s not here. I can never talk to him again. EVER.”

I cannot believe I am going to have a breakdown here, right now. All I can do is cry and feel angry.

Rachel, being her amazing self, and my best friend; calms me down. 

We go back to the seats in front of the field where they are practicing, and sit down. They only had a couple minutes left until the practice was over. 

The minutes pass, and Rachel runs after Ivan to “take pictures of him.”

Luka walks over to me, and I’m putting all my stuff away. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks and his hands grab my ass. I mean, I do not blame him, this is a tight dress. 

The Croat is all sweaty but I don’t care. He’s hot either way. 

‘Just let anger get the best of me. I’m okay now.”

“Good.”

He’s standing behind me, kissing the back of my neck. My arm wraps around him and I sigh. This just feels right, but in my head, all I can think about is the meeting. 

[930club]

9:30 Interviews Captain Scott Kelly

Recently, we happened upon the (insanely rad) opportunity to talk a true American hero – astronaut Captain Scott Kelly, who spent a year aboard the International Space Station from March 2015 – March 2016. Given our status as a music venue/blog, we tried to angle our questions more towards music and its affect on Captain Kelly throughout his journeys. His NASA career and other amazing life adventures (including flying the likes of F-14 Tomcats and the Space Shuttle) are chronicled in his recent memoir, Endurance, which can be purchased anywhere fine books are sold.

Kezer: Before we get into music, I wanted to first start by saying that I recently also read Alfred Lansing’s Endurance, which you frequently reference in your book. Obviously there are parallels that have to do with venturing into the great unknown and isolation in potentially hazardous situations. I was wondering if maybe you’d like to expound a little more about what Shackleton’s journey means to you and how it informed the writing of your book.

Kelly: Well, I took that book with me the first time I flew, because I felt like if the conditions had ever gotten so bad on the Space Station, where I felt like it was too challenging, I would just look in Shackleton’s book and realize, “Hey I got it pretty good up here.” I kind of took it as a somewhat of an insurance policy against hardship in space. Fortunately, I didn’t need it. I mean, living in space for a long time is hard, but, nothing, I think, like what those guys endured.

And then, I don’t have many mentors or personal heroes, but Shackleton – understanding his life story and the type of person he was – having his book and using the title of the book as it related to my time in space and just my life in general - I thought it was a good thing.

Another book you reference heavily is Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff, which served as a launching point for your ultimate life goal and eventually led you to space. I’m curious if there has been any sort of musical work (be it an album, a piece of composed music, a single song, etc.) that has served as a catalyst in your life, if even a small catalyst.

So, I have a very broad range of musical tastes - classical music to hip-hop and just about everything in between. You know, I always thought Coldplay’s “Speed of Sound” talked to me a little bit about flying in space.

I noticed that it was on your Spotify “Songs of a Year in Space” playlist.

Yeah, a lot of those songs on that Spotify list were important to me for different reasons. It was not very specific, but I tried to order those songs as if they were somewhat related to my mission from beginning to end.

It’s kind of hard to explain. Like, if you were to listen to it, you might think, “What is he thinking to put that there?” But, at the time in space, when I put that together, it made sense to me. I haven’t listened to it in awhile, but I listen to those songs, because I like them - but I don’t listen to that specific Spotify playlist.

The prelaunch playlist for the Soyuz [rocket/spacecraft that took Kelly and two Russian cosmonauts into space] in which McCartney, Roberta Flack, Springsteen are played and which leads to the Russian pop song “Aviator,” is that something that you put together on your own? Or, is there a group that determines your music while you’re waiting for launch?

All three of us do, and the songs that were mine on the playlist were the Bruce Springsteen song… we all provide songs, and the Roberta Flack one [“Killing Me Softly”], even though I love that song, was not my choice. I didn’t really think it was appropriate. [laughs] The Paul McCartney song was mine. The Sarah Brightman song – I may or may not have put that on there. That might have been the Russians.

So when you’re sitting there in the Soyuz capsule, is the playlist merely an occupation of time?

Yeah, it’s just strictly entertainment to kill time. There’s a lot of time in the launch countdown where the Russians pipe in music. NASA uses music, too, like for the Shuttle missions – we would have wake-up music. “Wake Up Songs,” – every morning they would play that to wake the crew up. Typically, the crew would be up anyway, but each crewmember’s family would pick one or two songs.

On the Space Station, we don’t use wake-up music, because you wouldn’t want Control Center blasting you with music every morning to wake you up. And, you know, people get up at different times.

But, in general, music on the Space Station is very important. I spent nearly a year up there and would often have music playing in different modules. You would listen to music in your crew quarters while exercising at night. Often, on weekends, while people were still sleeping, I would go into the cupola, which is a module of windows [that look down on Earth], and listen to classical music. I would stay there for 90-minutes sometimes, watching the Earth go by. It was very peaceful.

In regards the Russians, I know a lot of the book focuses on the differences between the American/European/Russian space programs. I’m just curious as to how they absorb music – I know you wrote that they LOVE Depeche Mode. I’m just curious if they absorb music differently than the American/European astronauts, and if you have any general impressions about that.

Well, certainly, Western artists are much more important to them, than Russian musicians are important to us. Now, having said that, I do have one Russian pop star that I listen to in Russian, and her name is Alsu. She’s got a great album, it’s called Solo. Even though she’s Russian, she spent a lot of time in the U.K., so she sings in perfect English.

There are certain bands that the Russians find very popular. Like, Paul McCartney with the Beatles and “Back in the USSR.” Depeche Mode is hugely popular. In fact, we’ve seen them in Russia. I would say, that in terms of music, and, I just realized it – certain things I do in spaceflight – it’s somewhat similar to when you see professional athletes getting off the bus with headphones on. It psyches you up for what you’re about to do.

Getting away from Space for a second – I know you’ve had an insane schedule for the past couple of decades, but do you get a chance to take in live music?

Yeah! Sometimes – I saw Elton John in Las Vegas recently, who was great. I saw him at Madison Square Garden in the mid-‘80s, when he was wearing the duck costume. I saw the Dead this past summer. I’m trying to think of who else I’ve seen recently. I saw Fleetwood Mac – so yeah, I go to concerts, you know, when I have the opportunity.

I went to this blues bar in Chicago – that place was frickin’ awesome. It was my first time going to a blues club in Chicago, which was great. It was called Blue Chicago.

We’ve seen Hamilton a couple of times – that was excellent.

As far as your hearing – did they do any tests after your year on the ISS and were there any changes?

So, I have high-frequency hearing loss. But it seems like it comes – it kinda started when I became an astronaut in 1996.  And, even though I’ve been exposed to a lot of noise, my hearing hasn’t really changed significantly. So I’ve been really good at protecting my hearing. And I think the high-frequency hearing loss was based on the Navy, flying airplanes.

To wrap things up – I know there is emphasis in your book about bringing humanity together for the purpose of accomplishing great things, especially for something like going to Mars. I was curious as to your thoughts of how music may or may not play a part in something like that, if even a small part.

Yeah – you know, it’s a large part of people’s lives and it definitely translates out into space. I’m pretty sure that the Voyager spacecraft contains music. And it’s outside of our Solar System. It’s very important.

Thanks for taking the time to talk to us today, Captain Kelly. We know you’re very busy and we appreciate it. And, thanks for taking us all on a fun journey with your book. It was great.

Alright – thanks!

---

You can keep up with Captain Kelly’s happenings at ScottKelly.com, on Twitter at @StationCDRKelly, and on Facebook at facebook.com/StationCDRKelly - Dave Kezer

[emo-rejects-archive]

Muse list has been updated!

Patch Notes:

Oleana and Olivia from Pokémon have been added as due to request from anons. Nurse Joy and Officer Jenny have also been added.

Catwoman and Batgirl from D.C Comics have been added. Keep in mind that these characters are strictly based of their comic canons and not any sort of live action actor portrayal.

Chika Fujiwari from Kaguya-Sama: Love Is War has been added. Go give that show a watch, it’s good.

Mirajane Strauss from Fairy Tail has been added as per request of a generous follower.

Marle, Lucca, and Ayla from Chrono Trigger have been added.

Ashoka, Padmé, and Ventress from Star Wars. Please keep in mind that Padmé will strictly follow Clone Wars and comic continuity, and not any sort of live action actor portrayal.

Ryuko, Satsuki, Manko, and Ragūyō from Kill La Kill have been added.

Have a suggestion for the muse list? Don’t be afraid to send it in!